For the briefest instant I felt proud to be the target of so much effort and conniving. That was quickly replaced by terror. My best hope now was to spend the rest of my life in prison, and that was a slim chance at best. More likely, the Prince would throw me to Moaradrid as a party favour.
Alvantes waved to one of his riders, and the man wheeled his mount towards the loading ramps at the far end of the harbour. He was back less than a minute later, this time at the head of a small convoy: he'd acquired a coach from somewhere, and another halfdozen horsemen. I thought they were reinforcements, perhaps to subdue Saltlick, until I recognised the figure at their head.
I'd been right, no cosy imprisonment for me. Moaradrid rode behind the guardsman, changed now into his usual attire, and I recognised Panchetto's arms on the door of the coach. Once it had drawn completely to a halt, the Prince himself stepped out, wrapped from ankles to ears in a huge fur-lined robe.
'I might possibly have forgiven you for stealing from my guests, Damasco, but to ruin a good dinner party is positively depraved. And giant, you seemed such a sensible sort. Shame on you!'
Saltlick hung his head.
'Now perhaps you'll return your recent acquisitions and we can all go to our nice warm beds?'
Moaradrid drove his mount forward. 'Enough games, Panchetto. The thief has shown his true colours. His immunity is insupportable now. Give him to me.'
Panchetto looked genuinely shocked. 'There's evidently some misunderstanding. I paid you the courtesy of notifying you about tonight's endeavour and allowed you to accompany us. There can be no question of handing an Altapasaedan criminal into your custody. This is a matter for our authorities.'
'I won't allow him to escape me again.'
'I'm afraid you won't have very much choice.'
The Prince's tone was almost as icy as the warlord's was. Yet though there was annoyance on his plump features, it was nothing to Moaradrid's barelychecked fury.
When he spoke, it was in hardly more than a whisper. 'You've had every chance and warning. Give me this man.'
'I'll do no such thing.'
'Very well.'
The motion was so quick I could hardly follow it, or register what was happening. Panchetto couldn't have known. Moaradrid's hand moved to his belt, and then drew back. There was the briefest streak of silver, like the tail of a falling star, and a sound as sharp and clear as glass breaking.
Panchetto's body struck the cobbles.
An instant later, his head followed.
CHAPTER 19
Moaradrid's scimitar hung poised, glistening wetly in the torchlight. Nothing moved except the blood pooling on the cobbles. It seemed to pump unendingly from Panchetto's corpse. His head was an island amidst the crimson lake, scowling at us with the faintest hint of surprise. His lips hung open, as though even in death he had more to say.
It was Alvantes who broke the spell. He leaped from barge to harbour-side and, without pausing, scooped Panchetto's corpse into his arms. His men reacted instantly: the semicircle of riders closed around their leader and their murdered prince.
Yet no one moved against Moaradrid. He was falling back with his own men to a safer distance. I couldn't say I'd liked Panchetto, but to see him struck down with such casual disdain had appalled me. Why didn't Alvantes take this chance to avenge him?
Because unlike the Prince, unlike me, he wasn't fool enough to underestimate Moaradrid. A line of dark figures had materialised along the railing of the higher tier. They were likely more hired thugs, and they had the stairs blocked. When an arrow cracked against the cobbles, I realised that was the least of our worries.
Alvantes bundled Panchetto's corpse into the carriage and swung up beside the driver, who was struggling to bring his vehicle round while the riders manoeuvred to cover it. A couple already had arrows jutting from extremities. If they were Alvantes's handpicked men, it would take more than that to slow them.
Only Saltlick and I were doing nothing. On the edge of the docks, we were just out of range of the archers. It was a temporary escape at best. I could see Moaradrid motioning towards me. I still couldn't bring myself to move. Where could I go? Onto Anterio's boat, perhaps, but even if I managed to cast off I wouldn't get far. My only other choice was towards the coach. Alvantes was hardly less likely to kill me than Moaradrid, though. Even if he didn't, the thought of crossing that glistening red pool rooted me in place.
Just as the driver managed to head his coach around, one of the guardsmen gave a gurgling cry and lurched sideways. He struck the cobbles with a nauseating crunch.
'You two — come on!'
It took me a moment to realise Alvantes meant us.
'And bring that.'
I saw to my horror that he was pointing at Panchetto's head.
Another guard cried out and wavered, then managed to regain his balance, despite the arrow jutting from both sides of shoulder. The coach was starting to resemble a pincushion. It struck me with sudden clarity that these men, brave and stupid enough to risk their lives from a sense of duty, would keep dying until I moved. I might have had trouble living with that, after what had just happened.
I started running.
I had no intention of picking up Panchetto's head. Let Alvantes do it himself if he was so damn bothered. Then halfway to the coach, I saw his expression, the mingled grief and fury. If he couldn't lay hands on Moaradrid then who was there to blame but me? It wasn't the time for defiance.
Of all the things I've done to save my skin, that was the worst. Eyes half shut, I tried to pretend I was reaching for anything but what really lay there. Any illusions dissolved in the instant my fingers closed on blood- slicked hair. I held the thing outstretched behind me, gulped down bile and ran.
The coach door hung open and I leaped inside, drawing it shut behind me. I'd forgotten the carriage was already occupied. Panchetto's corpse was draped over the back seats, one arm dangling to the floor, legs levered up to fit the cramped space. The reek of fresh blood mingled weirdly with smells of leather and wood. Dim lights in glass sconces cast unpleasant shadows.
I'd have climbed out again, arrows or no. But before I could do more than consider it, the carriage juddered into motion. I dropped Panchetto's head and scrambled onto the free seat, trying to press myself as far from my fellow passenger as possible.
We quickly picked up speed. That struck me as strange, since we were on a quayside with nowhere to go. Just as the coach's rattle grew loud enough to drown out the thud of arrows against its roof, the driver threw us hard into a turn. Nearly hurled onto the opposite seats, I hung on until I thought my fingers would snap. The horses screamed, as did our wheels against the cobbles. We tipped. For a moment, we seemed to hang lopsided in thin air.
Then we were round, and on a steep incline. It could only be the loading ramp joining the two levels of dockside. All I could see through the windows, halfveiled by thrashing curtains, was darkness broken into abstract shapes. A rider dashed by. I couldn't tell if he was one of our guards or Moaradrid's thugs. The medley of noise — shouts, cries, the din of steel on steel and rattle of hooves — suggested fighting, but told me no more than that. Were we escaping? Were our guards being slaughtered to a man? In that ruddy light, beset by sounds of violence, I imagined the worst.
And it was all my fault.
I'd had a chance to do the right thing. Instead, I'd turned on my friends, chosen to steal and scheme, in short to do exactly what everyone expected of me. Because of that, Panchetto — ridiculous, childlike Panchetto — and any number of guardsmen who'd done nothing except be in the wrong place at the wrong time had met their deaths. Because of me. Because of the choice I'd made.
Now here I was, hurtling to my doom in this funereal carriage. It seemed both right and fair.
