Mounteban's sword slipped from his fingers, to ring upon the cobbles. He looked inexpressibly weary. 'I did what I thought was right.'
'Is that your answer?'
'I'll do what you ask. Whatever you want.' His eyes drifted to Estrada, almost hesitantly. 'But I won't do it for you.'
And he meant it. I couldn't say how, but I knew; perhaps it was just that I'd never seen anyone look so beaten. Whatever he'd been trying to achieve, whatever twisted motives he'd had, it had all burned to the ground today — and in his gaze was nothing except the ashes of that mad dream.
Estrada and Alvantes recognised it too. I caught a fraction of the glance they shared, saw the sure knowledge that somehow, against impossible odds, they'd pulled this city back from the precipice Moun teban had almost led it over. Soon Altapasaeda would be free again. Soon the Castoval could return to normal, putting Moaradrid's brief, terrible intrusion behind it once and for all.
But there were other things in that brief current of intimacy that made me look away as quickly as I could. It was the look of two people realising that now, perhaps, with duties done, responsibilities played out, the time might be close when they could embrace their own needs for a change.
They weren't the only ones. Now, finally, I could disentangle myself from their wars, their politics, their frantic life-and-death struggles for the fate of the Castoval. I could take the time to figure out a way of life that didn't involve routinely falling off cliffs and buildings, where no one chased me or tried to kill me, or made me break into anywhere I didn't want to break into.
Meanwhile, in the short term — and just like Estrada and Alvantes, like Saltlick and his fellow giants — I could indulge the wants I'd been neglecting for far too long. I could eat a proper meal; wash it down with decent wine. I could find a real bed and sleep a sound night's sleep… sleep for a week if I wanted! If I was appalled by how small my aspirations had become, I was nearly delirious to think how close within my grasp they were.
Moreover, if word spread as quickly as I hoped, it wouldn't be long before every man, child and, more to the point, every woman in Altapasaeda knew that the name Damasco was synonymous with their deliverance. Perhaps I'd find that heroes didn't need to pay for food and wine; perhaps saving the entire land would buy enough goodwill that the bed could be put to more use than mere sleeping.
The thought had barely had time to leave my mind when I saw him.
He was riding from the north-west, the same direction that so recently had produced Mounteban's routed forces and the giants. Though I recognised him, he was someone I'd never expected to see again — outside of the occasional nightmare, at any rate. All eyes widened at the sight of his uniform, matched for sheer blackness by his travel cloak and even the horse he rode. I heard Alvantes's breath catch, even as mine did. For the last time we'd seen this man, he'd been herding us into a prison cell.
Commander Ludovoco of the Crown Guard made no attempt to pick his way round the clustered giants. He seemed to assume they'd move aside of their own accord, and he was right; though he did nothing, said nothing, they shifted hurriedly to clear a path. It was as though he travelled in a bubble that nothing could touch, a bubble of his own indomitable will.
He ignored the guardsmen, Estrada and me. When his gaze settled on Alvantes, the corner of his mouth twitched, just slightly.
'Alvantes,' Ludovoco said. He managed somehow to pronounce a silence where the words 'Guard-Captain' should have been. 'I hadn't expected to find you here.'
'Nor I you.'
That was apparently all the small talk we could expect. What Ludovoco said next was even more unexpected than his incomprehensible appearance. 'I'm seeking Castilio Mounteban.'
Unhindered by the guardsmen around him, who — recognising Ludovoco's uniform, if not the man himself — looked more bewildered than anyone by this latest turn of events, Mounteban stepped forward. 'I'm he.'
Ludovoco reached inside his travelling cloak, drew forth a tight scroll of parchment and handed it down. 'Then this is for you.'
Mounteban removed the silver ring that bound the material and unfurled it with a flick of the wrist. His eyes danced over its surface. His expression remained inscrutable.
When it was clear he'd finished, Ludovoco asked, 'Will you confirm receipt?'
'Yes.' Mounteban's tone was no more readable than his face. 'I confirm receipt.'
'You have seven days. Be ready.' Ludovoco wheeled his horse, clipped his heels against its sides and rode back the way he'd come.
He was almost out of sight before anyone reacted. Then it was only Alvantes, reaching to pluck the scroll from Mounteban's hands. Mounteban made no attempt to stop him. In fact, in the instant the manuscript vanished from his view, I thought he actually looked relieved.
Alvantes too read over the document, and then again, more slowly. Even when it was obvious he'd finished, he continued to stare at the yellowed parchment.
In the end, it was Estrada who asked the question — the one, perhaps, that we all sensed might be better unasked. 'What is it?'
Slowly, cautiously, as if the words were something dangerous he was letting loose, Alvantes replied, 'The King is coming.'
'He decided to send help after all?' She laughed, a little nervously. 'Trust Panchessa to join the fight the minute it's all over.'
'Help? No. Not help.'
He looked up then — and as he turned the scroll to face us, I saw with utter disbelief that Alvantes was afraid.
'This… this is a declaration of war.'
