'Rooms have been assigned to you,' continued the official. 'The Prince wishes you a joyous day and anticipates the further delight of your company.'
He bowed once more, turned and disappeared through the curtain into the throne room.
Taking this as a signal, our guards led the way through an arch behind us. Five bewildering minutes of wandering the palace's passageways and chambers brought us out at a long corridor with covered porticos spaced along both sides. An intricate mosaic of amber and lapis lazuli crawled up the walls and onto the ceiling, where it burst into bright flowers of pattern. Diamonds of white and grey tiles spread across the floor, and the curtains covering each doorway were a shimmering duck egg blue. We were wordlessly assigned to rooms, and ushered inside with such stark efficiency that we hadn't even time to say our goodbyes.
That was a relief. I had no desire to speak to anyone. I couldn't have felt more raw if every syllable from Moaradrid's mouth had been a physical lash, and I was grateful for the cool silence inside the room. I gazed vaguely around, took in nothing, and collapsed onto the bed.
It was a wonderful bed.
It seemed about as large as Captain Anterio's boat. In every other way, it was the opposite of that miserable craft: soft as moss, smelling faintly of lilac and patchouli, and cut off from the outside world not by reeking river water but by a silken canopy. I decided that if I died right there then my life wouldn't have been wasted. I'd sleep until Moaradrid's assassins came for me, and that would be the end of that.
'Damasco.'
Estrada's voice. I ignored it.
'Damasco, we have to talk.' She sounded unsteady, even afraid. That was novel, but not interesting enough to drag my head away from those luscious pillows.
'Damasco!'
I opened my eyes, against all my better judgement. 'Get out, Estrada. If we're going to die then I'm getting some sleep in first.'
She sat with a soft thud at the end of the bed. 'It won't come to that.'
'It already has. When will you admit you've lost? Why don't you go right now and give Moaradrid that cursed stone? Perhaps then one of us might at least survive the night.'
'Damasco, I know things seem bad. You just have to trust me a little longer.'
There was something plaintive in her tone that I found infuriating. 'Estrada, I've never trusted you. You were just the best of a bad bunch of options. Now you're not even that.'
She leaped up as if I'd set fire to the bed sheets. 'You… all right. What I came to say — you'll go to the meal tonight, and you'll stay out of trouble. If you don't, I'll revoke my protection quicker than you can blink. After that, Panchetto and Moaradrid can fight over your carcass for all I care.'
I was so taken aback that by the time I was ready to tell her what I thought, she'd gone.
I felt numb with anger for a while, and with other sensations too, fear high amongst them. I lay amidst plush cushions and glossy sheets, staring at the wall, bobbing like a coracle on a sea of vague but powerful emotions. All I could think was that I'd been betrayed. Moaradrid had caught up with us and, in this most crucial instant, Estrada had turned on me.
I was on my own now.
The whirlwind of thought settled slowly, leaving a few scattered certainties in its wake. Estrada had led us into a trap, and was too much the fool to admit her mistake. I'd tried to warn her and she'd threatened to abandon me, after everything I'd done for her and her absurd cause. So that was how it was.
No. That was how it had always been.
I tried to consider the positives. I might live another day, at least. It seemed the Prince had used 'great friend' as little more than an honorific when he'd introduced Moaradrid. After seeing them together, I couldn't imagine two men in the whole of the Castoval less likely to be friends. That said, Panchetto had more in common with the warlord than he had with Saltlick or me. They were bound by northern blood — presumably, what Panchetto had meant by 'brother' — and both were rulers of a sort. That would likely tip the scales. If it didn't, if he didn't clap us back into irons and toss us to our enemy as a parting gift, it was perfectly possible that Moaradrid would try to storm the city.
I'd need a way out of Altapasaeda. I'd need funds enough to make sure I could never be found again, not by Moaradrid, Estrada or anyone else. I'd need help too, at least while I was within the city boundaries. Most of all, I'd have to move quickly.
A plan was forming in the deeper depths of my brain, like an itch I didn't dare scratch. I lay back and let it grow.
An hour had passed before I felt sure enough of my course to move. Granted, the delay had as much to do with the glorious paradise that was the bed. While a small part of my brain plotted, the remainder napped. Noises occasionally roused me from the fog of half-sleep — raised voices, and at one point a loud crash from nearby — but I managed to ignore them. Still, the urge to get moving nagged at me, more and more as my plan crystallised. It dragged me steadily away from the surrender of sleep and finally, mercilessly, drove me to my feet.
I explored the room before I left. It was probably simple and homely by the standards of the palace, with no furniture besides the magnificent bed and a marble sink filled with fresh water, but to me it seemed the height of sumptuousness. Near the door was a curtained aperture containing a fresh suit of clothes, grey trousers and a pale green shirt sequined in twin lines down the front and cut in the severe northern style. I decided to steal them, and then realised they'd probably been left for me anyway.
It occurred to me half way through changing that I should probably wash first. Only then did I discover how phenomenally dirty I was. Muck caked every inch of my body, and my hair was like the nest of some filth-loving bird.
With the grime cleaned away, it was as though I'd woken up in a new skin. The clothes turned out to be a perfect fit, and softer than any fabric I'd known. Unsoiled and stylishly dressed, I felt more optimistic. Here stood a new Easie Damasco, one fit to move in the highest strata of Castovalian society and to confound the plans of malevolent dictators and do-gooder exmayors alike.
Saltlick's room was at the far end of the corridor, with Estrada's in between. I realised as I tiptoed past that she was speaking to someone. She was talking softly, and the door hanging did a surprisingly good job of muffling her voice. I couldn't separate words when a man replied, but I recognised the speaker.
What was Guard-Captain Alvantes doing in Estrada's room?
Then again, perhaps it wasn't so strange. Alvantes would know about the conflict wracking the Castoval, however oblivious the Prince might be. He'd be equally aware of Estrada's part in it. It would have occurred to him that Moaradrid would move against her if things didn't rapidly go his way. As much as I hated the man, there was no denying that in his blinkered, black-and-white way he understood the Castoval better than most Altapasaedans. Anyway, he was probably doing me a favour. As long as he was bothering Estrada, neither of them was bothering me. If they spent the day arguing then all the better.
Another surprise awaited me when I reached Saltlick's room. Pinned to the curtain was a precisely written note that read: The giant has been moved to the stables. A peek through the curtain told me why. As comfortable as the beds might be, they weren't built to take a giant's weight. The grand four-poster was shattered down the middle and the two halves had collapsed in on each other. That explained the crash I'd heard. I couldn't help laughing at the image of Panchetto's servants discovering Saltlick amidst the wreckage. No wonder they'd decided the stables were a safer place for him.
I spent the next five minutes wandering aimlessly through the warren of the palace. I'd just decided that if I ever became a prince my first commandment would be to have maps placed at regular intervals around my home, when I stumbled over a serving girl carrying a basket of linen nearly as large as herself.
'Hey there, can you point me to the stables?'
She stared at me as if I'd asked for directions to the Prince's underwear closet. I suddenly remembered the ring I'd been given. I held my hand in front of her face and said, 'I'm a guest. Can you tell me how I get to the stables?'
She dropped the basket to point down the passage, and stammered, 'Down there, third arch on the right, down the stairs, turn left, turn right and keep going all the way to the end, take the next left through the courtyard and they're right ahead.'
I thanked her and followed her outstretched finger, glad of my good memory for directions. The stairs she'd
