Maybe it was an empty promise after all.
Later, as the sun was beginning to set, a man and woman arrived to feed to the giants. I was disappointed to see it wasn't Huero and Dura. This couple were elderly in comparison, and looked at me curi ously. We shared a brief greeting when they came to feed Saltlick, but I wasn't in the mood for conversation with strangers. I did notice that the portions had become a little more generous though, even stretching to a handful of what I took for chopped turnips — one more sign that my coin hadn't gone to waste.
A small comfort. The money would run out. When it did, the food would follow soon after. The shelters wouldn't survive a single hard storm, never mind an entire winter. Gold had put off the problem, but it hadn't changed it. If the giants couldn't be persuaded to move, they'd die, and Saltlick with them.
Yet later, as night began to draw down, Alvantes returned with the horses in tow and a small bundle of deadwood crooked in his abbreviated arm. He made a fire and produced three fish from inside his cloak, which he proceeded to spit over the blaze. I didn't want to wonder about how he'd caught fish with one hand and no weapons, but I was glad enough to take the share he offered.
We ate in leaden silence, with Saltlick close by in the darkness. The air of hopelessness hanging over the three of us was thick enough that I could feel it on my skin, a stifling blanket wrapped close and barely out of sight.
As we finished eating, Saltlick pointed to his shelter. "Sleep," he said.
"We can't take your house, Saltlick."
He lay back in the grass where he'd been sitting. "Sleep."
I had no rejoinder to so concise an argument. "Thank you, Saltlick," I said. "Sleep well."
Alvantes set himself up against one wall of the shelter, which — having been designed with one giant in mind — was more than ample for the two of us. I curled up at the other side and tried to make myself comfortable.
I resisted the temptation to take my cloak from my pack. The risk of Alvantes seeing the crown was too great. Reasoning that it was a mild night and that the shelter did a surprisingly good job of keeping the wind out, even for someone not giant-scaled, I tucked the pack beneath my head instead and hoped it would make an adequate pillow.
It worked well enough at first. I even flirted with sleep. But the cold, little by little, crept into my flesh, finding its way through every slight gap in my clothing. It teased around my collar and sleeves, sneaked up round my ankles. My makeshift pillow was no better. Just as I was sure I'd found a comfortable position, an edge of crown found a way to press against my ear. Fidgeting to rearrange it exposed some new part of me to the cold. Tucking my shirt to cover that chilled spot of skin somehow rearranged my pack by the fractional degree needed for the crown to push against my cheek.
I tried to assure myself I could take my cloak out now, when Alvantes must undoubtedly be asleep. Except what if he woke? What if he was feigning? Given his recent state of mind, maybe he no longer slept at all. Then I thought about simply shoving my pack aside, doing my best with the thick grass. But I couldn't escape the fear that in the morning Alvantes would see it, observe a peculiar bulge, decide to investigate and happen upon my treasure.
Would losing the crown be so terrible? As the night wore on, as the cold settled into the ruts of my spine, I wondered what good it had done me. What good, in fact, had it done anyone? It hadn't helped Panchetto keep his head. It hadn't done Alvantes any favours. All right, it had allowed me to distract Synza, not to mention its brief success as an improvised weapon, but I doubted a similar situation would arise any time soon.
The truth was, I'd stolen the crown from my magpie instinct towards anything shiny and valuable-looking. There was little real hope of anyone giving me money for it, not with the state of affairs in Altapasaeda. The only ones who might take it off my hands would be more likely to do it with horrendous violence than the exchange of coin.
The crown was a useless hunk of metal and stone. Panchetto's ridiculous ornament was every bit as worthless as the giant-stone had been. Once again, I'd managed to steal something without the slightest practical value. Once again, I'd made off with an empty, worthless symbol.
A symbol. Empty, worthless.
Like the giant-stone.
My heart missed a beat. Another. A shudder ran through me that had nothing to do with the cold.
I had an idea. I had my answer.
The rest of the night passed with mocking slowness. I knew I'd have only the briefest window in which to put my plan into action. I drifted through brief fits of sleep, waking each time convinced I'd missed my opportunity. On the fourth occasion, I was startled into wide-awakeness by the realisation that I almost had. The hillside round about had lightened to a deep, formless grey. At any moment, the first flush of morning would break above the eastern mountains.
Quiet as I could manage, I goaded icy muscles into life, stifled a groan, and crept from the shelter. I kept one eye fixed on Alvantes, but he didn't stir. Neither did Saltlick as I tiptoed by.
Careful not to miss my footing in the near blackness, I found a space away from either of them where I could prepare.
Between uncomfortable bouts of half sleep, I'd been grappling with the practicalities of my idea. Of the components I needed, one was readily at hand. I'd agonised over a way to produce the other. With a knife, it would have been easy. Without one, it seemed more or less impossible.
In the end, with much effort and the aid of a sharp stone, I managed to hack three strips from the lining of my cloak. Tied together and rolled twice over, they made a long, thin pad of cloth that would just about fit my purposes.
I crept over to Saltlick. I knew he slept soundly, and despite his exposure to the raw elements, it appeared this morning was no different; he lay on his side, head lying upon one arm, his snores sending trembles through the grass. If he woke, the plan would be up. Never in a million lifetimes would he agree to what I had in mind. Which was why I had to make the decision for him — for his own good.
I manoeuvred into position behind Saltlick's head. In the pre-morning stillness, his shuddering snorts were deafening. Nevertheless, now that I'd come to it, I doubted how I could possibly succeed without him stirring.
I was right to worry. Surely no philosopher was ever perplexed by a greater test of ingenuity, no swindler faced with such a trial of legerdemain. The minutes wore upon each other, and most of them I spent frozen in place, as some slight stirring or subtle change in the rhythm of his snores convinced me Saltlick would wake at any instant. When I dared risk motion, it was so slow that even I couldn't be certain I was really moving. It was as though time had ceased to beat and left me paralysed in the middle of my absurd task, doomed for all eternity.
There came an end at last. I'd tied and double-tied the last knot, sufficiently tight that Saltlick would struggle to remove it but loose enough that he hadn't woken from strangulation. I shuffled back, until I judged the distance adequate for me to let go the vast sigh of tension I'd been holding.
Ironically, I now found myself waiting for Saltlick to stir. Already moths of doubt were starting to flit around my stomach. It didn't help that hunger combined with a sleepless night was beginning to make me feel lightheaded. My scheme was stupid, doomed to failure — and perhaps worse. The best thing I could do would be to undo my handiwork while I still had time.
Saltlick stretched, gave a humongous yawn and rolled over. He shook himself, smacked his lips, half opened his eyes. Not quite awake, he groped with one huge hand, slapped at the thing about his throat. His fingers found the rolled strip of cloth, continued to the metal circlet knotted at its front.