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.
Once again, I'd picked the worst possible time to ally myself with the forces of right and justice. They were clearly led by a lunatic.
We jolted into motion, heading back the way we'd come. The household retainers, with their caparisoned mounts and rich tunics, fell in to flank us. I could see the wagon behind once we'd pulled into the streets, similarly escorted by the cloaked guards. They were keeping a discreet distance from us.
This kind of subterfuge was hardly Alvantes's style. Could he really be so afraid to go up against Moaradrid and his band of ruffians?
Only when we passed through the southwestern gate, the one called the Henge, did I understand the sense in Alvantes's elaborate precautions. Perhaps I should have guessed. It wasn't the warlord Alvantes feared, it was the army he'd camped on Altapasaeda's doorstep.
I stared through the gaps in the curtains, trying vainly to gauge the numbers gathered to either side. This force far outnumbered the one I'd encountered outside Muena Palaiya, and probably this was only half of it, since they'd certainly have blocked the northward gates as well.
Though "blocked" was perhaps too strong a word. "Blocked" would have meant an unmistakeable declaration of war, and if Moaradrid had intended that, he wouldn't have wasted time with anything as tiresome as diplomacy. Three separate encampments had formed, one for each gate, but far enough from the road to discourage an impression of blatant hostility. Still, I could see sentries posted, for all that they were trying not to look like sentries. They would be watching for me, Estrada and Saltlick, and assuming they weren't aware of his murder, for Panchetto, and any attempt to escape to Pasaeda to alert the king.
A throng of peasants travelling together into the farmlands around Altapasaeda, or a wealthy but over-cautious family out on a daytrip, however, were things they might overlook. They'd be suspicious. They might report it back to Moaradrid. They probably wouldn't stop us. Under my breath, I said, "It looks like we'll make it."