Every hint of softness was gone from her face. I realised then, really understood for the first time, how she'd been allowed to run a town and even to lead men into battle. In that moment, I found her no less frightening than Moaradrid.
Much to my own surprise, fear made me brave — or at least pragmatic. 'I could get to him, perhaps, maybe even untie him. But the two of us sneaking out together? Possibly you haven't noticed, but Saltlick isn't exactly built for subterfuge.'
Her features relaxed into the barest hint of a smile.
'Oh, don't worry about that, Damasco. We'll be ready when the time comes.'
If that cryptic reply was supposed to comfort me then it failed miserably. Either way, it was clear that pleasantry or even discussion was off the menu for the remainder of the night. I was actually a little glad. The more I prevaricated, the more I'd consider what I was about to do. If I really had no choice, it was probably best I think about it as little as possible.
Still, there remained certain practical considerations. 'So how do I get down there? Is flight amongst the miracles you're expecting from me?'
Estrada, by way of answer, motioned to her right. A thick wooden beam jutted from the rock wall near the passage mouth, extending out into space. A line of rope lay on the outcrop close to the overhanging end, and fed up through a simple pulley mechanism to a coil near the cliff. It was probably another relic from the mining days, or from the smugglers. Either group would have been glad of a way to move goods rapidly up and down the cliff face.
Of course, no sane person would have considered people amongst those goods. 'You're joking.'
'Do you have a better suggestion? No? Then start tying that rope around your waist.'
I shrugged and did as instructed, reminding myself that a quick death on the ground below would be preferable to a slow, elaborate one at the hands of Moaradrid. I didn't hurry though, and by the time I'd finished, a dozen sturdy knots bulged around my waist. Estrada took up the main length, curved it round her body, drew it tight and braced. 'I've got you. You can step off now.'
I'd understood in theory that this moment was coming. Now that it was a reality, I still found myself staring at her as though she were speaking some incomprehensible language known only to the congenitally mad.
'Damasco, step off! I can take your weight, believe me.'
Rationally, I knew this was probably true. The pulley would do most of the work, and in any case, here was a woman who could wield a sword in battle, which was more than I could honestly say about myself. It takes a lot of trust to put your life in someone's hands, however, regardless of what sense tells you.
I shifted closer to the edge, looked down. Darkness masked the base of the precipice, with nothing visible except vague shapes that must be bushes. I could see the cliff face clearly, though, and the sight of it sheering away beneath me made my guts melt.
I glanced back at Estrada. She was glaring impatiently. When she saw my expression, her own relaxed a little. 'You'll be all right,' she told me. 'If you've proved anything over the last two days it's that you're a survivor.'
I couldn't help but laugh — a slightly hysterical bark that came out too loud.
'I never looked at it that way,' I said, and stepped out into nothingness.
For a hideous moment, I fell. Then the cord jerked taut.
Estrada called from above, 'Look for the package!'
I had no idea what she meant, and didn't much care, because my downward momentum had turned into rapid spinning that swung me dangerously close to the mountainside. I was starting to get used to that when I began to drop again — in abrupt steps at first as Estrada got used to my weight, and then in a steady slide. Meanwhile, the spinning continued, stone and sky rotating round my head with nauseating speed. My sense of space buckled. I seemed to be plunging in every direction at once.
I was just beginning to right myself when I struck the ground, with a yelp more of shock than pain. It took me a minute to establish that I was lying on my back, with my limbs dangling and my head mostly in a bush. The rope was still taut, leaving my waist suspended above the grass. It only occurred to me then that I had no way to cut myself free, and that no slack meant no hope of loosening the knots. Estrada might realise eventually, or grow bored. In the meantime, my extremities were starting to go numb.
I began to panic, and stared into the blue-limned gloom, hoping for a jagged rock, a sharp stick, or anything I could use to try to rescue myself. I discovered instead the package that Estrada had warned me about. If I hadn't been confused and dangling, I'd have seen it immediately. It was large enough, and wrapped in vividly coloured cloth.
It took some manoeuvring to get hold of it and more to open it, but I was glad of the effort when the first thing to fall out was a long curved knife. It proved wickedly sharp. A couple of strokes were enough to free me, and left me panting flat on my back in the damp grass.
I struggled upright and inspected the package's other contents. The outer wrapping turned out to be a cloak. It was coloured Moaradrid's bruise red, though so dirty and faded that it wasn't obvious at first. Inside was a jacket of studded leather, with a ragged tear in the seam. It could only be meant as a disguise. The ill-kept armour wouldn't be out of place in Moaradrid's ragtag army, and the knife had probably been looted from a Northerner's corpse.
Was this Estrada's plan? I wander into Moaradrid's camp dressed not unlike one of his men, wave hello to the guards, cut Saltlick loose and march back out, with no one any the wiser? I'd come up with worse in my time, but only with the excuse of copious amounts of alcohol. It had audacity on its side, and the fact that the guards were expecting a full-blown attack, not a lone and woefully ill-prepared thief. That was about it.
On the other hand, I didn't have any better ideas. With a little improvisation, it might prove marginally less suicidal than simply throwing myself from the cliff would have been.
I spent a few minutes in preparation. The cloak was warmer than the one I'd acquired the day before, at least. I wore it open, to display the battered armour and the dagger stuck into my belt. I looked as much like a northern soldier when I'd finished as Costas and his idiot fishermen had done. I hoped that would be enough.
It took me a while to pick my way through the bushes and trees in the dark. When I broke out on the other side, I made sure to make myself as visible as possible. There was a shallow slope to the road, and I was half way down it when the challenge came: 'Stop there!'
I did as instructed.
'Who are you?'
'Damn it, who are you? A man goes to relieve himself out of anyone's way, and not only does he find strange garments hung in trees, he can't come back into camp without an uproar.'
A figure stepped from the blackness around the nearest tree. I could only make out the barest outline, at first. Then his sword became visible as moonlight caught the flat.
'Strange garments?'
'This cloak,' I said, holding out my old one, 'was hung from a branch. Not only that, someone has cut a mark into the back.' This was true; I'd carved a ragged cross there before I set out. 'It's suspicious, if you ask me.'
He came closer. The sword point dipped. 'Let me see.'
I held it out. 'What do you think it means? Some signal?'
Needing both hands to take it from me, he tucked his sword into his belt.
'It's filthy. Torn too. It probably belonged to some vagabond.' He sounded uncertain.
A gruff voice called from deeper within the camp: 'Shut up, dog-lovers. Get back to your bloody posts!'
My interrogator, looking suddenly nervous, called into the darkness, 'Sorry, Captain.' To me he said, 'Get on. Stay inside the boundaries. Next time it might be an arrow not a challenge.' He handed me back the bedraggled cloak.
'Watch out,' I told him. 'It's fishy, I tell you.'
I strode past with all the bluff confidence I could muster, and he drifted back towards the inky environs of his tree. I was terrified that the mysterious captain would come out to question me. He hadn't sounded the type to be so easily fooled.
No one appeared. Nothing moved. There were only the tents, in a loose circle, and between them campfires with prone bodies scattered nearby. Apart from the occasional snore or grunt, it was deathly quiet. Rain had fallen while I'd been in the caves, and the air smelled fresh, with only the slightest intermingled odour of unwashed
