David Tallerman
Crown Thief
CHAPTER ONE
'Things are looking up for Easie Damasco.'
'Hrm?' Saltlick stared down at me questioningly. That, at least, was how I interpreted the expression smeared across the giant's lumpish features. In truth, it could have been anything between mild annoyance and indigestion.
'My luck is on the turn,' I explained. 'Yours too. Take my word for it.'
Saltlick's face broke into a grin, and he nodded enthusiastically.
Ahead, the small militia we travelled with — half amateur soldiers gathered from around the Castoval, half guardsmen from nearby Altapasaeda — chose that moment to break into song. Or rather, songs, for the minute the Castovalians struck up a bawdy tavern ballad, the Altapasaedans countered with a clamorous northern marching chant.
It was an amiable enough competition. Here were men who'd helped defeat the despotic Moaradrid, foiled his plans for the Castoval, and now were heading home as heroes; those all seemed good enough reasons for high spirits.
I shared the soldiers' cheerfulness, if not their musical inclinations. My belly was full, so was my purse, and no one was trying to kill me. Together, those facts made for a vast improvement on my recent circumstances. Saltlick, too, trudged along with a slight but steady smile. While it took a lot to disturb his natural contentment, for once even he had his reasons to be happy. Moaradrid's plot to enslave his people had ended conclusively with the warlord's death. Now it was only a matter of uniting his tribe and returning home, and I'd seen enough of the giants' idyllic mountain enclave to appreciate how appealing that prospect must be.
Only Alvantes and Marina Estrada, riding just ahead of us, were exempt from the general good cheer. Alvantes had hardly spoken since we'd set out yesterday. I'd noticed time and again how Estrada watched him, obviously wanting to penetrate his gloom but not quite daring. She'd pressed her horse closer to his on a dozen occasions, only to fall back when he failed to so much as notice her presence.
Now, however, she seemed finally to have steeled herself. Encouraging her mount to a trot, Estrada pulled a little ahead of Alvantes. 'They don't mean to be callous,' she said softly. 'They haven't forgotten the friends they've buried.'
Alvantes reined in sharply, almost forcing the entire procession to a halt. 'You think I don't know that? It isn't a soldier's way to wail and weep over death.' Then, plaintively, 'Marina… I'm sorry. That was inexcusable.'
'No, it wasn't. But I wish you could talk to me. Is it…' She finished the sentence with her eyes, which lingered for a moment on Alvantes's bandaged wrist, now resting uselessly across his horse's neck. The hand that should have been there was buried behind us, amidst the grave plots of his fallen guardsmen — one more notch on Moaradrid's sword.
'It hurts constantly,' he admitted. 'It itches, too, which is almost worse. But no, it's not that either.'
'Then what?'
'Honestly… Marina, if I knew, I'd tell you. I suppose I can't help wondering what my life means now. Am I still guard-captain of Altapasaeda? Can I rebuild the guard, with so many of them gone? Will the King even allow it after we failed to protect the Prince?'
Estrada reached to touch his arm, let her fingers hang there for a moment. 'Maybe you're expecting too much of yourself. You've been through a lot, Lunto.'
'Maybe if I'd expected more of myself,' he said, 'it wouldn't have come to this. Maybe if I'd done my job I wouldn't need to go and tell the King his son has been murdered.'
'And if you hadn't intervened, Moaradrid might have murdered the King himself by now. You saved the Crown.'
Alvantes started at that, as though she'd struck an unexpected nerve.
'You did everything you could,' Estrada went on, apparently not noticing. 'Even the King has to understand that. As for the rest… just give it time, will you? Let yourself heal.'
'Of course. Thank you, Marina.' Alvantes made an effort to sound like he meant it. If it didn't fool me, it certainly wouldn't fool Estrada. Nevertheless, she let her mount fall back, leaving him to his despondency.
Poor, stubborn Alvantes. Of all of us, save perhaps Saltlick, he'd suffered most from Moaradrid's brief, bloody visit to the Castoval. Now the man was too damn noble to realise he'd won. I didn't know whether I felt more like slapping him or giving him a manly hug.
If I attempted either, he'd undoubtedly break my arm, so I settled for the third option of trying my best to ignore him. My plan to travel on with him to notify the King of his son's death was already beginning to seem absurd. Why subject myself to Alvantes's dismal company when my world was so full of options? With most of its leadership dead in the battle against Moaradrid, the Castoval would be in chaos for months. I doubted anyone would be too concerned with my past indiscretions. For the first time since I'd learned to walk upright, I had a clean slate.
'No more being told what to do for either of us,' I said, picking up my conversation with Saltlick where I'd left it. 'Especially not you. You can rescue your friends and go home the conquering hero.' I glanced once more at Alvantes and Estrada. 'Women go crazy for heroes. You can find yourself a pretty giantess and settle down. There are pretty giantesses, right?'
Saltlick nodded bashfully.
'Hey, don't look like that! You should have more confidence.' I studied his features for some compliment- worthy trait. The general impression was of a knobbly, milk-white turnip. The best I could say was that it was basically proportional, and I wasn't convinced that would do much to bolster his self-esteem. 'You have a good heart,' I finished weakly. 'Women like that too.'
It was enough to bring back his smile, at any rate.
My stock of compliments exhausted, I finished with an amiable pat to Saltlick's wrist — the only part of his arm I could comfortably reach — and returned my attention to the rambunctious troops. The Irregulars had moved onto a song I knew, 'The Farmer's Other Donkey,' while the Altapasaedans were countering with another deafening march. Singing over each other at the tops of their voices, all but blocking the road, they were quite a spectacle.
The thought reminded me of something that had troubled me vaguely since we'd started back towards Altapasaeda. This was the less commonly used route to the south-eastern Castoval, relegated to a back road by the grand stone bridge known as the Sabre that the Altapasaedans had constructed. Even taking that fact into account, I'd have expected more traffic than we'd seen. Not a soul had passed us. No one had stopped to gawp at the column of armed men blocking the road from verge to verge.
Even for a back road, that was curious. More, I couldn't deny that it made me a touch uneasy. With Moaradrid dead and his surviving troops scattered, shouldn't everything be returning to normal?
A black-edged cloud drifted over the sun. I cursed beneath my breath.
'Things were looking up for Easie Damasco,' I muttered.
At that moment, the road crested a low rise, and for the first time our objective revealed herself: Altapasaeda, greatest and only city of the Castoval, lay across the northward horizon like a drunken hussy sprawled on her divan.
Altapasaeda, grandiose marvel of needlessly baroque architecture and frivolous design. In theory, it was the one real intrusion of court-controlled Pasaeda into the Castoval, the bastion of our Ans Pasaedan oppressors from beyond the northern border. However, under Panchetto, there'd never been much in the way of oppression. The Prince had held little interest in anything that wasn't edible or quaffable, and had mostly concentrated on ensuring his life remained a never-ending party — at least until Moaradrid ended both party and life. In the meantime, his spell on the throne had cost his subjects little besides the infrequently levied taxes that funded his
