There was the longest pause. Just as I was wondering what possible use a single convert could be, two more giants stepped forward to join him.
The next pause was shorter. Half a dozen giants clambered to their feet, wincing at muscles stiffened by disuse, and moved to join their companions.
After that, it was a steady stream. Once more than half the giants had declared their allegiance, the rest fairly bounded up, as though released from under a weight that had pinned them all this time.
The old chief was the last to step forward. But he did.
It was as if a spell had been broken. Perhaps in a way it had. Moaradrid had subdued the giants with chains more sturdy than any iron — bonds of ritual, loyalty and guilt. Now, it was as though they were waking from an ages-long sleep, or transforming from stone back into living things. I turned my attention to Saltlick. He was staring, jaw slack, eyes glazed, as if mesmerised by the crowd before him.
There was no time for niceties. I punched him on the thigh.
He glanced at me with vague surprise. A single fat tear was working its way down his cheek, apparently unnoticed.
"Get them moving," I said. "Now. Before they change their minds. We'll head for Altapasaeda and work from there."
The tear lost its purchase, splashed into the grass between us. Saltlick, too, seemed to waken. "Damasco," he said, softly. "Friend to giants."
I slapped him on the knee. "Damn right. The best friend you've got, and don't ever forget it. Now get going! I'll follow in a minute."
Saltlick nodded. Then he called three words in giantish and started towards the road. My heart lurched when the other giants fell in behind him, one by one. Watching them go, I couldn't but note how painfully thin they still were, how they laboured against limbs rigid from neglect. They had a long way to go yet. Nevertheless, in that moment, watching that stream of monstrous figures wade across the landscape, I felt happier than I could ever remember feeling.
Eventually, I had to turn away. There was one more loose end to tie before I could leave this tragedystained hillside behind.
I started towards Alvantes, where he was still minding the horses near the riverbank. I was halfway there when Huero caught up with me. He was flushed with excitement, and his voice fairly bubbled as he said, "We have a new king, eh?"
"I'm not sure it's entirely constitutional," I said. "Still, it couldn't hurt if you all keep playing along a little longer."
"I think we can manage that."
"Good. Do you think you could feed them on the march? I think it's better if they put this place behind them as soon as possible."
"Absolutely. You're coming with us though?"
"I'll catch you up."
I bid Huero farewell and covered the last distance to where Alvantes stood. Glancing up, he waved his hand dismissively, as though dashing away an insect. "Come to gloat? So keep the crown, Damasco. It's no business of mine if you want to make a mockery of everything it stands for."
"If it gets the giants home, that's more good than it's done anyone lately. But that's not what I wanted to talk about."
"Oh?"
Steeling myself, I reached into my pack, drew forth the thing I'd been keeping there for so long now, almost forgotten alongside its other more precious cargo, and proffered it to him. "I seem to remember you saying your father gave you this. He probably wouldn't have wanted you to lose it."
It was a moment before Alvantes recognised the telescope for what it was. "How did you…? No, of course. You stole it when you stole the crown. Am I supposed to thank you?"
Given how difficult I'd found giving it up, given how rare and correspondingly valuable it was, I had to bite my tongue to keep down the obvious, honest answer. Because there was something else I needed to say, or that I thought Alvantes had to hear, or perhaps both. "Look, I know we're not friends. We never will be, and I wouldn't have it any other way. But how your father died… that was a terrible thing, Alvantes. I'm sorry it happened."
He focused on me properly then, for the first time. "A terrible thing? You talk as if it was an accident."
"No. It was a vicious murder."
"It was a punishment. And it was my fault."
Only then did I realise that, on some level, I'd known all along that was how he felt. Of course he would blame himself. He was Alvantes. "It really wasn't," I told him. "It was the King's fault, and it was the fault of those bastards Stick and Stone. But it wasn't yours. You did what you thought was right — just like your father did. And even if he'd known what was coming, I expect he'd have done the same. From what I saw of him, you two were a lot alike."
"He probably would have, at that. Stubborn old man."
Despite the words, and for the first time since we'd left Pasaeda, there was no harshness in Alvantes's voice. I could only hope that meant he was ready to hear what else I had to say.
"Here's the thing, though, Alvantes. Terrible as it was, that doesn't mean you're allowed to quit."
His head jarred up, as though I'd slapped him. "Is that really what you think I've done?"
What surprised me wasn't the response but the note of genuine questioning in his voice. "I'm not sure," I said. "Is it?"
Alvantes looked away. "Honestly? I'm not sure either."
"Well, maybe you should give it some thought. Come with us to Muena Palaiya; see how Estrada's getting on. Then maybe we can see if there's anything we can do about that slug Mounteban."
"I'm done pretending to be a hero," he declared, with sudden vehemence.
"Is that what you've been doing? You certainly fooled enough people."
"I'll come with you to Altapasaeda," Alvantes said. "I have to know Marina's safe."
"Fine. Let's saddle up then. There's a flock of giants near here that could do with a couple more shepherds."
We must have made a truly astonishing sight.
From where I rode at the centre of the convoy, the parade of giants seemed to stretch from horizon to horizon. Like an honour guard, the villagers trooped to either side. A few rode in pony and ox carts, some on horses or donkeys; most had no choice but to keep the pace on foot.
As the day drew towards its midpoint, the villagers trailed off in clumps, heading back to their homes and fields. Their reactions to the giants' departure seemed to range between relief and mild sadness. A few of the women were even mopping at their eyes as they waved goodbye. It cheered me to see that a few of the giants waved shyly back.
A little later, Huero drew his wagon up beside me. "We've been thinking," he said, without preamble. "They've got a long way to go. They'll need to eat." He glanced over at his wife.
"So," Dura took over. "We've been discussing. What would you say to us travelling with you for a few days? We'd feel better for knowing they're safe."
"I'd be glad to have you," I told them, trying to control the grin that seemed determined to stretch across my face. "They might not say much about it, but I'm sure the giants will be too."
Huero peeled off at a turning to stock his cart for the journey, promising to catch us as soon as he could. By then, the last of the villagers were calling their goodbyes and straggling away. I found it strange to think that tomorrow, the giants and the bizarre events of this day would be nothing more than a memory for them, an anecdote to bring out on cold evenings.
Soon after, we met the incline of the Hunch. We were making good time; even emaciated and out of shape, the giants were more than a match for our horses. I'd already decided it would make sense to spend the night in Reb Panza. They were used to the sight of giants, and given the terms of our parting, they might be more tolerant of our presence than other villages in our path.
That was how I rationalised it, anyway. If pressed, I'd have been forced to admit I was curious to see the fruits of my absurd generosity. Given the basic condition of Reb Panza, it wouldn't have taken an entire gold piece to make it as good and better as it had been before Moaradrid's arson. Surely there'd have been a little left over for some token of their appreciation? I was hoping for a statue, but given how difficult my roguish good looks might be to capture, I'd settle for a tastefully done plaque.