the blanket inside, the contents of the bag shifted, and the sides moved correspondingly — except for the lowest segment, a finger's length in depth. That bottom portion always stayed perfectly rigid.
I mightn't have noticed it if Alvantes hadn't asked his cryptic question and borrowed my needle and thread. Laying there though, barely awake, I nevertheless felt certain beyond doubt: Alvantes had hidden something in the base of his saddlebag.
He cursed, strapped the bag clumsily shut over the offending blanket, and turned around. Seeing me, he started almost guiltily. 'You're awake. Let's get moving.'
Saltlick was already up too, and had stripped one tree nearly bare for his breakfast. I had time for a brief snack of my own before we were on the road again. Within an hour, we'd left the narrow highway for the Hunch- proper, the great tableland that spread from the east mountains to where the Casto Mara sliced a gully through its western edge, leaving the plateau's end a rocky wedge on the far bank. Though there were a few large farms and many villages scratching out a living, the Hunch was barren compared with the valley floor. It was a region of dry red soil and juts of stone, desiccated brush and the occasional skewed cactus, and it only grew more desolate as we followed the dirt road north-west towards its farther corner.
As usual, Alvantes was marginally less conversational than my horse. I started when out of the blue he said, 'We won't reach Saltlick's tribe today.'
Numbed by boredom, I'd hardly considered the next stop on our itinerary. I'd only been vaguely aware that all this while I'd been retracing my route, from that fateful day I'd somehow imagined stealing from Moaradrid to be a sane and sensible idea.
That meant we were close to where Saltlick and I had last seen the captive giants — though as Alvantes had said, not so close that we'd arrive today. In the meantime, we'd need somewhere to pass another night. Memories of the last time I'd crossed the Hunch, and the frantic flight from Moaradrid's riders I'd made carried on Saltlick's shoulder, pried their way into my mind. With them came another image I'd sooner have forgotten: the sight of Reb Panza burning on the horizon.
'I know a village,' I said. 'If it's still here, that is. I'm not sure how pleased they'll be to see me, but I'd like to go there.'
'If we have to find a village where they're pleased to see you, we'll be up all night.'
'Ha! There's that famous, lightning humour again. No wonder they call you the Jester of Altapasaeda.'
'No one calls me that.'
'Not to your face.'
Alvantes snorted. 'Very well then. We'll go to this village of yours, and see if they can tolerate your company any more than I can.'
After that, I was grateful for his stubborn silence. We kept a steady pace upon the rough road and the day wore on by slow degrees, as tedious as the landscape we passed through and Alvantes and Saltlick's taciturn company.
The sun was setting before we drew near Reb Panza. The horses were growing weary, and even the usually indefatigable Saltlick was starting to slow. I could sense Alvantes was on the verge of suggesting we find somewhere else to stop. I dreaded having to explain the significance of this one particular village — how Moaradrid's thugs had set it afire soon after we'd left, and how in all likelihood it had been my fault.
Then we rounded a corner and Reb Panza came into view, a tiny cluster of miserable buildings gathered round a well and a square, its few cracked paving stones the only sign the village had ever enjoyed a heyday.
At least it was still there. That was more than I'd feared.
We drew nearer. Reb Panza was still there, all right — but there was no question it had burned. The adobe walls, once pinkish-white, were charred in dirty streaks. The wattle animal stalls were gone altogether. The roofs had been clumsily rethatched, or else left with gaping holes and patches singed to blackness. Even the cobbles of the square were scorched towards the outer edge.
Closer still and I could discern a figure sat upon a bench before one of the houses. I recognised the ancient village patriarch I'd encountered on my previous visit by his absurdly long and well-maintained moustaches, which hung in striking contrast to his general shabbiness.
Unfortunately, it seemed he recognised me too.
His tiny eyes widened. His mouth lolled open. He leaped to his feet, with surprising agility. Just as swiftly, he grabbed a pitchfork from a nearby mound of grass and hurried towards me, the fork levelled before him like a spear.
Alvantes looked at me more with amusement than concern. 'And this is where you want to spend the night? Is there anywhere in the Castoval people don't want to kill you on sight?'
'Not lately, it seems,' I admitted.
Just then, the Patriarch, who had struggled to keep up his pace and was now huffing badly, lurched to a halt before us. 'You,' he wheezed. 'Thief! Monster!' He took a moment to catch his breath, propping himself with the pitchfork. 'Enemy of all that's good! Have you come to laugh at the harm you brought to our door?'
Bad as I felt about what had happened, it was hard to say Reb Panza looked that much worse than when I'd last seen it. Still, I did my best to play along. 'I swear I had no idea Moaradrid would do that. Will you tell me what happened?'
The Patriarch's face contorted, while he struggled to judge whether this was some fresh trick or mockery. 'All right,' he said eventually, 'I'll tell you what you wrought upon us.' At the memory, though, he seemed to shrink into himself — and his voice was faint as he said, 'The northerner warlord was furious. He ranted about a stone. When I handed over that accursed gem you forced on me, it just made him angrier. He told his men to teach us a lesson. A lesson in taking what wasn't ours.'
The gem had been part of the trove I'd stolen from Moaradrid. It had been the giant-stone he was really after, of course, but I doubted that detail would make the Patriarch feel any better. 'Was anyone inside?' I asked. 'Did anyone…'
'He rounded us up in the square. He made us watch.' Much of the anger flushed back into the Patriarch's tone as he added, 'He said he was being merciful.'
'But you saved the village.'
'We saved the buildings. With water from the well. Likely, Reb Panza won't last the winter, for we've neither money nor goods to replace what's lost.' At that, his brows wrinkled. 'Lest we forget,' he added, 'you still owe us three onyxes. They'll hardly compensate for the food you stole, and won't begin to cover the repairs your deception left us with. Nevertheless, pay up, you fiend, or… or…'
I watched as he struggled for an appropriate threat. In the end, he settled on thrusting the pitchfork towards me. The effect was more hopeful than intimidating.
'You're right,' I said. 'That's only reasonable.'
He squinted with fierce suspicion, and gave the pitchfork another hesitant shake.
'We'll also require shelter for the night and an evening meal. Saltlick, as you'll no doubt remember, will be content with a generous portion of hay or grain.'
The Patriarch gaped in astonishment. 'You?' he asked. 'You, who brought disaster… burning of our village… you… shelter?'
'For the night. And food.'
Mastering himself with considerable effort, the Patriarch looked me in the eye. 'Payment up front,' he said. 'In full.'
'Of course.'
It only occurred to me then that this was what I'd come here for. A very small part of me, a part that for want of a better name I called my conscience — negligible, erratic and easily ignored as it generally was — had been nagging since the night I'd seen Reb Panza burn. It wasn't a problem I'd even suffered from before and I didn't like it one bit. Whatever the future might hold, I certainly didn't want a nagging conscience to be part of it.
I drew out my coin bag. At no point had I actually bothered to calculate exactly how much was in there. The reason was simple: two of the coins, half the size again of the infinitely more common onyxes, were of solid gold, and together they outvalued all the rest.
Moving quickly enough that I couldn't consider what I was about to do, I took one out and pressed it into his palm.
He felt the weight before he looked at it. I could see him about to complain. Then his eyes flickered down and
