It was grief. It was the grief of loss.
There was no way I could have known what to expect. Yet when I looked round and saw them, I felt only a sick sense of inevitability. Stick and Stone, the King's chequered jester-assassins, had come to a halt just ahead of Alvantes's father. They looked absurd, dressed up like that in the middle of the street, all the more so because their horses were piebald — one black but splashed with white and the other white with stains of black. That absurdity did nothing to make them less terrifying. If anything, the opposite was true.
Though they were too distant for me to catch individual words, it was clear Alvantes Senior was protesting. It was hard to imagine any complaint penetrating that grim, clownish exterior, and yet they seemed to be waiting patiently enough.
Or so I thought.
As far as I saw, neither one moved. When Alvantes's father jerked backward, it seemed purely of his own accord. He kept his balance a moment, reaching with one hand to his chest. He might have been struck by indigestion. Then he slid backwards, sideways.
The crunch as he struck the cobbles was loud even where we were.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
'Alvantes…'
I meant to say Let's go. I meant to say There's nothing you can do. But the sounds just wouldn't come.
It hardly mattered. Even if I'd managed to get the words out, I might as well have pleaded with a wall. Alvantes held himself so utterly still that it was hard to believe he'd ever move again.
The jester-assassins waltzed their steeds delicately round his father's body, as though its presence on the cobbles was in questionable taste. They showed no sense of urgency. They were hardly even looking in our direction. Every nerve in my body ached to flee, yet I couldn't. Not alone. Because the prospect of being alone and hunted through Pasaeda by those freaks was more than I dared imagine.
I racked my brain for words that might rouse Alvantes. All the while, the distance narrowed. It certainly wasn't fear that had frozen him, I knew that much. He was waiting. He was letting them come. My tongue felt thick and infinitely heavy in my mouth. My thoughts swirled uselessly, like water down a drain. When they flung up something half-coherent, I grasped it without question.
'You can't ignore the last order he gave you,' I hissed.
Alvantes tore his gaze from his father's killers, looked in my direction. There was confusion in the depths behind his eyes, and fathomless hatred. I didn't know if the latter was meant for them or me. Nor did I care — because I could see something else there too. What I'd told him had done the trick.
Alvantes wheeled his horse and kicked it savagely. The steed shot forth like a stone from a sling, as though it had been waiting for such a signal. With the slightest encouragement, my own followed its lead. Clearly, they both had sense enough to realise what was bearing down on us.
I caught one glimpse of Stick and Stone as we shot off. They were bent low, coaxing their horses to match our speed. As far as I could judge from body language alone, they didn't look at all upset that we'd run.
All I could think was, I bet they don't get off the leash too often.
I shuddered, turned my attention to the road. We were coming up hard on an avenue running beneath the walls. Alvantes swerved in a tight arc that took him within touching distance of the brickwork. I did my best to emulate him — but I wasn't half so good a horseman. White stone crashed by, seemingly flush against my nose.
Then we were clattering up the road, already far behind Alvantes, who'd cleared half the distance to the vast gatehouse ahead.
Despite what Alvantes's father had claimed, I hadn't believed the gate would be open. That it was definitely had to count as good news. Nor had I expected it to be busy at this hour. Yet an endless-seeming caravan of wagons was streaming through the entrance and on up the road ahead. And there was the bad news. Because there was no way past. We were trapped.
If Alvantes had noticed, it wasn't slowing him. If anything, he was accelerating. His only concession had been to guide his mount to the farther side of the road. Assuming he must have some plan, I followed his lead. Only when it was too late did it occur to me that maybe he had no plan at all. He'd just watched his father die. What kind of planning could I really expect?
Not much, it seemed. Now that he was close, he'd adjusted his angle once more, was drifting back across the road towards the gatehouse opening. If his course didn't smash him through a wagon, he'd mash himself to jelly across the walls.
Then I saw what he'd seen. It was the slightest of gaps. One wagon had paused in the gatehouse while a guard interrogated its driver, the next was pressing on into the city. Conceivably, there was just room for Alvantes to squeeze through, and then — if his riding was exemplary beyond measure — to turn at speed within the gatehouse and slip through.
As quick as I spotted it, the guard waved the first driver on. The driver, not having seen Alvantes bearing down on him, yanked the reins. His cart trundled forward. The already negligible gap began to close.
It was far too late for Alvantes to turn aside. Something told me he wouldn't have anyway. Recklessness might be a new approach for him, but he was certainly making it his own.
The driver, surely stressed by his interrogation, managed to ignore what was happening until the last moment. Had he glanced up a second later, Alvantes's horse and his would have grown violently acquainted. As it was, he reined in so hard he nearly tumbled backward into his cart's load. Alvantes flew through the breach, slammed his poor horse into a turn so sharp it must have nearly snapped its spine, and was swallowed by the dark of the gatehouse.
Meanwhile, shocked by its master's sudden violence and another animal whipping past its nostrils, the wagoner's great carthorse reared. Jerked sideways by the abrupt movement, the vehicle began to list. At first, the driver clung to the reins. It took one wheel shivering into chunks for realisation to dawn.
Left with no choice, the driver half leaped, half fell to one side — just as the second wheel cracked behind him, tipping the wagon further. The wagon tipped completely, heaving its cargo of long-necked amphorae into the street. Amidst shards of exploding pottery, a wave of oil flooded the debris round the petrified wagoner.
While he strove to crawl away, his horse — still caught in its twisted harness — somehow managed to maintain its balance. Mad with fear and in defiance of gravity, it reared, its forelegs pawing the air.
All of that had occurred in moments. I'd had no time to adjust my course, even had there been anywhere to go. With Stick and Stone gaining behind me, it hadn't even crossed my mind to slow down. Which meant I was still charging towards the wagon — or more precisely, the panicking animal at its front.
My choice was simple. I could turn, hit a wagon and die. I could keep going, probably have my head knocked clean off by a hoof and die.
It was a choice that made itself before I'd had the barest instant to consider. Straight on or nothing. That didn't mean I had to see it coming. Terrible horseman that I was, we were no more likely to make it through for my involvement. I slid down, flattened across my horse, crushed my face into his mane.
For a moment, there was only darkness, scent of sweat and spilled oil, a cacophony of sound cut through with equine terror.
Then came the pain.
It was so piercing, so abrupt, that I almost let go. All my held breath was torn clean away. Slipping down my horse's withers, I just barely clung on.
That agony could only have been a hoof dashing against my shoulder. It felt as if my right arm was shattered like glass.
It was only the beginning. This new pain was a flood cascading through all parts of my body at once — though no less excruciating for that. On some level, I understood that we'd passed the ruined cart and careened into the inner wall of the gatehouse. The knowledge was no help. Even if I could have persuaded a part of me to work, I doubted my horse had the faintest interest in anything I wanted.
He proved me right the moment he set off again. Travelling straight ahead surely made perfect sense to a
