Prince Thief (25 page)

Then the fear vanished, composure returned, and Ludovoco ran his sword clean through Mounteban’s stomach.

Mounteban let go of his sword, watched vaguely as it tumbled earthward. His gaze drifted on, to note the blade run cleanly through his prodigious gut. Still clutching the hilt, Ludovoco made no effort to withdraw his weapon; only held his enemy’s eyes and smiled. This time, however, there was relief mingled with his usual cruel glee – and I tried to take some slight comfort from that. Mounteban might have thrown his life away and all of ours with it, but at least, for a moment, he had made the bastard doubt himself.

Then, rather than try to pull away, Mounteban threw his arm around Ludovoco. He drew the other man close.

“What...?” asked Ludovoco, in horrified surprise. He was already struggling to get free, but Mounteban was a great deal bigger than him, surely twice his weight, and there was barely a thing Ludovoco could do. Mounteban reached with his free hand inside the folds of his cloak and then flung that arm too around Ludovoco’s back, dragging the Pasaedan even more fiercely into his embrace.

Ludovoco’s eyes went wide. He tried once more to force his way free, twisted in Mounteban’s arms – but without any great enthusiasm this time. Like drunken dancers, the two turned before us. I saw Mounteban’s left hand first, tight-clenched, pressed against Ludovoco’s back. Then his fingers opened, his hand dropped away.

Where it had been, amidst a spreading stain just visible against the black of Ludovoco’s cloak, there stood out a hilt and a finger’s breadth of blade.

In width, the knife was little more than a needle. But I had no doubt of where it had come from, or what it was doing right then to Ludovoco’s insides. I knew enough to recognise one of Franco’s speciality knives, a weapon for an assassin or a street brawler rather than any duellist. It would have cut through mail and meat like a hot axe through butter.

Mounteban let go of Ludovoco then and slid backwards, flopped into the mud with a sigh. Ludovoco, for his part, looked round at us with vague disgust. He reached for the hilt protruding from his back, but rather than try to remove it, he merely patted around it with his fingers, as if curious. Then, his eyes still holding us, still showing nothing but contempt, he crumpled face down in the mire.

By then, Mounteban was lying on his back, knees hunched. He too was looking in our direction – or rather, I realised, at Estrada. He tried to mouth something, coughed, and flecks of blood sputtered from between his lips.

Estrada ran to him, slid to her knees. “It’s all right,” she said. “It’s all right, Castilio. Hold on, will you?”

“Marina,” he said – and her name brought with it another splash of crimson.

“Shush. It can wait.”

Mounteban tried to shake his head, found the effort too much. “Listen...”

“I
am
listening,” murmured Estrada. “But
you
have to stop talking.”

“For you. It was.”

“You stupid, stupid man. Lay still, Castilio.”

“Forgive...” he tried again.

But the sentence would have to stay unfinished; for there was no more blood seeping from between his lips, nothing behind his eyes. And perhaps it was a small kindness, because it meant he would never have to hear Estrada’s reply. “Oh, I wish I could,” she whispered.

Yet, despite what she’d said, she was the only one who seemed concerned by Mounteban’s passing, perhaps the only one besides me who’d even noticed. Excepting Kalyxis, the remainder of our number were clustered around Alvantes; at that precise moment, Navare was striving ineffectually to convince his captain that he shouldn’t be trying to stand.

“It’s not over yet,” Alvantes was saying. “Don’t waste time with me.” His voice was a growl, barely audible. Yet, despite the fact that half his blood must have leaked out by then, his gaze was clear and fixed ahead.

I looked to see what had so preoccupied him, when by all rights he should have passed out a dozen times, and understood immediately. It
wasn’t
over; the fury in the faces of the Pasaedan front line was ample testament to that. That barrier of armed men was moving, not towards us exactly, but swelling and shifting like water tugging at a shore. From all around there came a mounting blare of raised and outraged voices.

Was it only that their commander was dead? Or was it worse that he’d been cut down in so underhand a way? It occurred to me that Mounteban had died imagining he’d saved us, when in all likelihood he’d achieved nothing but to have us torn apart by an angry mob. Even if that rabble might be convinced to honour Ludovoco’s word, they had other officers, and what possible reason would any of them have to let us go? The noise from all around was a rising tide – and I had no doubt that at any moment it would drown us.

Someone broke ranks then, and he’d taken a dozen steps before I convinced my panicked brain that his advance wasn’t the beginning of a massacre. For the man approaching us was Ondeges, and his appearance set my heart on edge between hope and fresh trepidation. From what Gailus had said, Ondeges was an ally, sympathetic to Altapasaeda’s cause, but he was also Ludovoco’s second, and if he chose to pursue his fellow officer’s cause against Alvantes, it would be a short fight indeed.

Ondeges came to a smart halt before our ravaged group. His steady gaze took in us all and settled upon Estrada. Loud enough that the Pasaedan soldiers at his back could hear every bit as well as we could, he said, “The duel is over. One man is dead. The other lives.” He paused to weather a ripple of protest from his own lines and then raised his voice to continue. “By the terms agreed by Commander Ludovoco and as his second, I declare you free to go.”

Estrada hurried towards him, paused only when she saw Ondeges’s look of warning. “Commander,” she said softly, “
thank you
.”

“Leave now,” replied Ondeges, matching his volume to hers. “I’d find a stretcher for Alvantes, but if you wait I fear it would do him no good anyway. I’ll make sure your dead are brought to the gates before nightfall. Hurry, before they realise how little they care for my word.”

“Captain Ondeges,” Estrada said, “this is...”

“Nothing!” Ondeges hissed. Then, more gently he added, “A gesture... nothing more.” He looked inexpressibly weary. Though his uniform was fresh, unstained by battle, he seemed every bit as exhausted as the most haggard of our party.

And suddenly, I understood. Everything I could have wanted to know about Ondeges was written clear upon his face. I knew how he’d worked for peace, how he’d challenged Ludovoco and even the King himself; I knew he’d risked his own life in doing so. For a moment, his gaze fell upon Kalyxis, and the rage I saw there was the bitter hatred of a man whose every plan had been brought crashing down, without sense or reason.

Then Ondeges looked back to Estrada and said, with perfect calm, “Nothing will make Panchessa change his mind now. Go while you can, pass the night as well as you’re able... because tomorrow this army will be inside your walls, and there won’t be a damn thing you or I can do about it.”

We trooped back through the suburbs of Altapasaeda, less than twenty men and women passing where fifty had set out less than three hours before. There was myself and Estrada, Kalyxis and Malekrin; the remaining few, survivors of our fighting escort, were led by Navare, and bore Alvantes in a sling made hastily from their cloaks. He had slipped from awareness as we left the battlefield, and now his soft, unconscious groans were the only sound anyone made beside the slap of boots in mud.

As for the giants, they kept their distance, Saltlick leading and the remaining four carrying their fallen brother hefted upon their shoulders. Moving together like that, faces void of expression, armoured legs rising and falling in step, they none of them looked alive. I was reminded of a mechanism, like the cranes upon the docks of Altapasaeda, its parts blank and smooth. When they paused, I could only think of some great table rock made formless by the passing of centuries.

We’d survived – a few of us. Ludovoco, foremost of our enemies besides the King himself, was dead. Yet so was Mounteban, who for all my hatred I couldn’t deny had fought staunchly for the city these last days; so, perhaps, would Alvantes be before the day was done. Gueverro had been cut down, along with many of our best fighting men. Not to mention a giant – a creature out of history, out of myth, with no right even to be on a Castovalian battlefield.

I’d lived to see another dawn. But, as the gates of Altapasaeda came finally into view, all I could feel was despair. Thanks to Panchessa and Kalyxis and their decades-old hatred, our last chance of peace was lost.

All that was left, all tomorrow could bring, was war. And as Ondeges had been so good as to point out, it was a war we stood no hope of winning.

Within the city we were met by a small crowd, blank-faced folk of various trades who watched as we struggled through a narrow opening in the northwestern gates. They didn’t react to our arrival, nor did they attempt to question us – and no one, not even Estrada, tried to meet their gaze. As the last wounded man was helped inside, they broke up and began to mill away.

They’d waited to see if there was any hope for Altapasaeda. Now they had their answer.

I might not have fought in any meaningful sense, but I didn’t believe I could have been any wearier if I had. It felt as if someone had removed each of my bones and replaced them with bars of lead. Free of the Suburbs, back in the relative safety of Altapasaeda, my fear was dulling to torpor. We’d tried and we’d failed; now, for all I stood to gain, I might as well lie down in the street and steal a few blessed hours of sleep before the end came.

I didn’t imagine anyone would have cared if I had. Yet, though every step was like hefting a sledgehammer, I kept the pace. On some level I knew it was the right thing, the only thing left to do. Those of us who remained had been through something that would be burned into my thoughts for whatever remained of my life. If I closed my eyes I saw blood and filth and the bodies of the dead and dying. It would be a disservice to their memory to collapse now, when there was so much worse still to come.

I didn’t notice at first when Saltlick and his giants broke from our pathetic column. Though they could easily have outpaced us, they’d been trailing behind, keeping what for them must have been the slowest of paces. Some sound or instinct made me glance sluggishly over my shoulder and I realised Saltlick had already vanished, that the last two giants were trailing into a side street. Given everything that we’d seen and endured over the last hour, I was surprised by how much it stung me that he’d left without any goodbye.

Just then, however, it was only another dull pain amongst others, a drop in a brimming lake; I was quick enough to put it from my mind. I felt as if I was trudging through thick fog, a miasma that hung just on the edge of vision. I took nothing in, paid no attention to the buildings I could dimly discern to either side. I had no idea or interest in where we were going. It was impossible to imagine a reason it would matter, so why concern myself?

Thus, it came as a surprise when I looked up and discovered that Estrada had led us back to the Dancing Cat. As always, there were men on the door, two of Castilio Mounteban’s prized thugs. One eyed us sceptically while the other stepped to block our way.

“Mounteban?” the first asked.

Estrada shook her head.

He looked as if he wanted to say something more – his mouth half formed around it. Instead, he caught his companion roughly by the shoulder and drew him aside, indicating by the barest tilt of his head that we could go inside if we so chose.

Inside, the taproom was almost as desolate as the streets had been. There were a couple more of Mounteban’s heavies in there, and a small cluster of men near the fire dressed in Altapasaedan uniform. They looked up as we entered and then, seeing our wounded, hurried to help. One of them swept a table clear – sending day-old plates and half empty tankards to the floor with a clatter that cut briefly through the murk in my head – and together they laid Alvantes there. He didn’t stir; I’d have taken him for dead if it weren’t for the faint moan that trickled from his closed lips.

Our other wounded lowered themselves or were helped onto benches. To one of the group who’d been there when we arrived, Estrada said, “Will you heat some water and bring it in here? There should be fresh bandages and ointments in my room upstairs... it’s the second on the left.”

Once she was satisfied that her orders would be followed, she hurried to Alvantes’s side. Two of the men had successfully removed his brigandine and one of them was now trying to hack through the shirt beneath with a stubby knife.

“Let me,” Estrada said, holding her hand out.

The man looked at her curiously, took in her expression. He flipped the knife and placed it hilt first in her palm. “Of course, ma’am,” he said.

“If you want to be useful,” she told him, “find a surgeon. Make certain they understand who their patient is.”

The man snapped a salute, was out of the door in a flash. I heard his running feet thrashing the cobbles outside.

Estrada finished cutting Alvantes’s blood-stiffened shirt free, working with a speed and deftness that the soldier had entirely lacked. In moments, she’d pared a patch of the wine-dark cloth. She peeled it away and let it drop with a moist smack to the floor.

I only caught a glimpse of Alvantes’s wound – but it was enough. I threw out a hand to hold myself against the wall and let out a strangled gasp. Perhaps it was strange after all I’d witnessed that day, perhaps it was just one horror piled upon too many others, but it took all my strength of will not to vomit.

When I managed to straighten, I realised Estrada was standing beside me, her hand on my shoulder. “Get out of here, Easie,” she told me. “Go rest. You can use my room for a while if you like.”

I looked at her uncertainly. “
I
should rest?” Her face was waxen; her clothes were spattered with blood, some of it surely hers. “Estrada...”

“I’m all right,” she said. “With Mounteban...” She paused, breathed deep. “With Mounteban gone and Alvantes hurt, I’m needed more than ever. I’ll sleep when I can.”

“You should at least have a bath,” I mumbled. “You smell like a week-old corpse.”

Estrada managed the faint ghost of a smile. “Thank you, Easie,” she said, “I’ll bear that in mind.”

I nodded, tried to return the smile, realised my face had contorted into some sort of painful grimace and gave up. Hunting for something sympathetic to say, I tried, “Good luck with Alvantes. I hope... well, you know...”

“I know. Go, Easie.”

There was an edge to her voice that time, and I realised that from her point of view, I was wasting both time and space. I turned away without another word, tramped up the stairs, pushed open Estrada’s door – and was a little impressed with myself that I managed to make it all the way to the bed before I fell over.