Yet we hadn't stopped — not for all the ringing steel, the shouts and screams, the wild swerves that threatened to overturn us. In fact, the noise of battle was receding. The plunk of arrows was less frequent. Seconds later, it dried up altogether. The shouting faded. We slowed a fraction, to a merely terrifying speed.
I dared a glance out of the nearest quarter light. I could make out the shapes of buildings through the darkness. They were too high for shops; the ghostly white facades made me think we were passing through the poorer residential district south of the market. I gritted my teeth, reached over Panchetto's sprawled remains, and drew the curtain from the slit window in the rear.
I was so relieved to see Saltlick there, thundering along in our wake, that I nearly cried out. His new clothes hung raggedly around the arrow flights protruding through them, he was favouring one leg and his left arm hung limp at his side — but he was alive. Two guards flanked him, one to either side. Both were wounded, hanging on doggedly to their mounts. There was no sign of pursuit.
The fact that we'd survived did nothing to dispel my guilt. I could feel the Prince's glazed eyes on me, frozen in annoyed bewilderment. I owed him something, didn't I? Him, Estrada, Saltlick, even that boor Alvantes. Moaradrid had hurt us all. He'd hunted me for the length and breadth of the Castoval, and harmed better people than either of us in the process. I had to try to stop him, if it wasn't already too late.
The many-storeyed buildings of the poor district gave way to the grand houses of the Altapasaedan rich. Our carriage slowed further, so that when we turned into the temple district we hardly tipped at all. The palace loomed ahead. The meagre moonlight reduced its bright towers and minarets to awkward grey shapes. Its elegant stained windows gaped blankly. It looked sad and uninviting, as though the building itself already mourned its fallen prince.
We hurtled through the square surrounding the palace and slowed to turn in. I caught a brief glimpse of astonished guards as we passed through the gates, the same two I'd encountered on the way out. They couldn't fail to recognise the royal carriage. It must be quite a sight, with its bristling coat of arrows and battered, bloody attendants. Rumour spread quickly in Altapasaeda. Panchetto's death would be common knowledge before dawn.
We turned left, the opposite direction to the one Saltlick and I had come from earlier. We trundled around the southeast corner, to a coach yard at the rear. The whole vehicle shuddered and groaned when we pulled up, like a sick man gasping his last breath.
I wanted urgently to get out into the fresh air, away from the stink of death. There was a strong chance, though, that Alvantes had only rescued me out of a warped sense of justice. If he'd let Moaradrid have me, he wouldn't get to see me executed in the proper manner. As long as I stayed where I was, I could delay that possibility at least.
The decision was taken from my hands. The door flew open and Alvantes snarled, 'Out.'
It seemed a safe bet he was talking to me. I clambered past and stepped quickly back to a safer distance. Two of the household staff were already carrying the coach-driver — who had apparently performed his daredevil escape with an arrow jutting from his stomach — away on a stretcher. Two burly servants disappeared into the carriage, with a second stretcher and a black drape. When they climbed out, their sombre burden rose to an incongruous mound about its middle. Even in death, Panchetto managed to be ridiculous.
Other servants were helping Alvantes's guards inside. The battle had reduced the original dozen to the pair I'd seen from the back window. One of them was clutching a ghastly slash in his chest; he'd be lucky to last the night. Saltlick stood away to one side. As ever, he seemed oblivious to his wounds. None of the staff were making any attempt to aid him. I walked over. When he didn't look up, I said, 'Saltlick…'
He ignored me.
'Saltlick, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have made you help me.'
I couldn't help noticing how his coat was torn to shreds. The clothier's prediction had proven more than accurate, though I doubted he'd anticipated an armed assault. My treasure was gone, strewn over the streets of Altapasaeda as an unexpected gift for the early-rising citizenry.
Saltlick, as if he sensed my thoughts, reached inside the tattered folds, fumbled around, and drew out a small bag. He dropped it at my feet and turned his back on me.
I wanted to leave it, I truly did. I could feel his contempt radiating like heat from an open oven. My mind told my body to turn away and preserve this one sliver of dignity. But it was habit that won out — that and a voice saying, you never know when you'll need it. I didn't have to be poor to be repentant, did I?
My fingers closed around the bag and felt the endlessly comforting heft of coin.
'Damasco.'
I crammed the bag into a pocket and span round, trying not to look guilty. Alvantes was glaring at me with unconcealed loathing.
'I'd kill you now and never lose a second's sleep, if it was up to me.'
That, of course, implied it wasn't. Which meant… 'Estrada?'
'Marina feels some loyalty or pity towards you. Whatever it is, she's asked me to overlook your seemingly endless history of misdeeds. That, of course, was before you poisoned her. Perhaps when she's recovered I can persuade her to change her mind.'
'Perhaps.'
'In the meantime, Damasco, do what I tell you, when I tell you, without question or argument. Or so help me, not Marina Estrada or anyone else will keep your neck out of the noose.'
'I understand.'
Alvantes glared at me steadily. 'I tried to persuade him to take more guards, to not expose himself. He was a good man at heart. He couldn't understand evil, even when he was face to face with it. So I can't honestly blame you for his death. Yet somehow, I still do.'
He turned and marched away.
Part of me wanted to call after him that I did too. The rest of me knew Alvantes wouldn't believe one word of it. Anyway, he might be right but he was still a sanctimonious boor, and I'd be damned before I let him think I agreed with one word that came out of his mouth. If I'd made mistakes, there were some depths to which I'd never stoop.
I turned my attention to the hustle and bustle filling the yard. Coachmen had led away the Prince's carriage and brought out another in its place, a coach-and-four of more subdued design. A fresh group of a dozen guards had gathered to replace the wounded.
That was my first thought, anyway. Their livery wasn't that of the royal court; they were dressed instead in dark green, with a serpentine blue emblem on their chests that I recognised as belonging to one of the richer local families. What were they doing here? They were taking orders from Alvantes, odd behaviour for private retainers. I was even more baffled when another mob of guards came out dressed in full cloaks and leading a wagon filled with hay. Moaradrid was still at large, and Alvantes's response was to have his men play dress-up?
Alvantes muttered something to one of the liveried guardsmen, who strode over to me and said, 'The captain says get in the coach.'
I tried to remember my vow of good behaviour, bit my tongue and marched over, with him close on my heels. I opened the door, and stumbled back. My first thought was that the figure propped in the far corner was Panchetto, and I was doomed to ride for eternity with his pitiful, headless corpse. Gathering my senses, I realised the bundled shape was nothing like the Prince's: slim, of medium height and, most significantly, female.
'Captain says you're not to do anything to upset the lady Estrada,' the soldier observed from behind me. 'She's still groggy, what with you poisoning her. Captain says if you do anything to upset her he'll upset you worse.'
'I'll try to remember.' I stepped up and took the seat opposite. Only once he'd slammed the door did I add, 'Anyway, I only drugged her.'
Perhaps I had overdone it, though. Estrada was still snoring loud enough to wake the dead. I looked to the windows, which in contrast to the Prince's carriage were glassless openings covered with cheap damask. The curtains were half-drawn on both sides. On our left, the majority of the two groups of guards — or hired swords, whatever they were — were mounting up. On the right, two of the cloaked guardsmen were ushering Saltlick towards the cart. Saltlick clambered onto the back, and after some muted discussion back and forth, lay down amidst the hay. The men then spent a minute arranging it over him, until there was no trace that the vehicle contained anything but straw.
