When he was done, when all that remained was a nest of torn rope, shattered chains, scraps of leather and splintered wood, Saltlick climbed shakily to his feet and trudged over to me. He reached behind my back and fumbled with the straps there. I heard a tearing sound, another, and with that I could move my wrists and ankles once more.
Unfortunately, since my appendages were utterly numb by then, I had no choice but to flop onto my side and lie like a beached fish while my circulation returned. Once I had a little feeling back I rubbed my hands together, despite the throb of pins and needles, and when they were usable again began to massage life back into my feet.
All the while, Saltlick watched me steadily. His skin was beaded everywhere with tracks of blood, where ropes and chains had nicked the flesh. He looked inexpressibly weary. It occurred to me then that even if I did have a plan, I would have no idea how to incorporate him into it. Even if I had a chance at escape, even assuming escape might achieve some useful end, I could hardly drag Saltlick around town without someone noticing.
A noise came from behind me. It was so subtle, like the sough of wind through grass, that I hardly registered it at first. By the time I recognised it for what it was, a blade slicing through the thick hide of the tent wall, and by the time I’d turned around, there was already an almost man-sized opening there — not to mention the almost man-sized figure crouched in the gap.
In the half-light, it took me a moment to recognise the sullen youth from earlier; he was the one who’d sat beside Kalyxis, the one I’d figured for the Bastard Prince. That moment was exactly as long as it took him to cross the short distance between us and bring his knife up.
The knife was a piddling thing compared to the one I’d had recently at my throat, not much longer than my hand, and I struggled to find either it or him intimidating. “You should put that down,” I said, “before someone gets hurt. Someone, of course, meaning you. It wouldn’t be very princely to accidentally chop your own thumb off, would it?”
“You know who I am,” he said, ignoring my advice. “So are you a spy then? Like my grandmother thinks?”
Was that really the conclusion Kalyxis had come to? She was even more paranoid than I’d imagined — or else the standard for royal spies was uncommonly low these days. “Everything I told her was true,” I said. “We need her help.”
The youth scrunched his face into an even denser scowl. “Well, I don’t care either way. I need your help, and you’re going to give me it. I heard you can command that thing?”
It took me a moment to understand what he meant. “That thing has a name. He’s called Saltlick.”
“That’s no name,” he observed with disdain.
I considered explaining that the blame for that lay with his father’s idiot thugs and their inability to pronounce Saltlick’s true, giantish name; however, the information was neither politic nor pertinent just then, and I had bigger questions on my mind. “He’ll do what I ask him, so long as he agrees with it. But why would you need our help? Aren’t you supposed to be royalty around here?”
“Pah!” The youth spat into the dirt. “A prisoner more like. The only one anybody listens to round here is my grandmother. Do you know what it’s like to grow up with everyone thinking you’re going to be some sort of legendary hero?” He looked me up and down. “Of course you don’t. Anyway, they can all go rot in the cold hells. I’m getting out of here. And you and your monster are going to help me.”
“What’s in it for us?” I asked, for no real reason other than that I was finding him intensely irritating.
“Are you an idiot? You get out of here.” He waved the knife in my direction. “And I don’t make that stupid-looking face look any stupider.”
I’d never been a fighter. I’d never truly cared for knives. I’d always preferred to talk my way out of danger, or run my way out on those not infrequent occasions when talking failed to do the trick.
But you couldn’t live a life of crime for as long as I had without picking up the odd thing along the way. And I knew without doubt that this Bastard Prince was standing too close; he was holding the knife too far across his own body.
I ducked forward and sideways, caught his wrist with my right hand and grasped his shoulder with my left. Then I shoved hard. I stopped when he let go and before his arm popped out of joint — but only barely. I let him get out one brief whimper before I kicked him hard in the arse; while he stumbled forward, I picked up the knife.
“So have you even got a plan?” I asked. “Or are we just walking out?”
“You…”
“Manners,” I suggested, tapping the blade against my open palm. “Because if we’re leaving, it’s on my terms.”
Not that I actually had terms. But surely a prince, especially this prince, must be a useful card to have up my sleeve. Might the palace soldiers trade him for the lives of Estrada and the others? After all, the King must surely be itching to meet his unruly grandson.
When, rather than answer, the youth merely stood glowering at me, I racked my memory until it coughed up what I was looking for and said, “Look… Malekrin, that’s your name, isn’t it? You don’t want to be here. I certainly don’t want to be here, and neither does Saltlick. Since that’s the one thing we all have in common, what say we concentrate on it?”
“Everyone calls me Mal,” the boy said sulkily — and in a way that made me suspect that absolutely no one called him that, however much he might like them to.
Still, it couldn’t hurt to try to get on his good side, assuming he had any such thing. “Mal, is it? Fine. Care to share your escape plan, Mal?”
To my amusement, he did perk up a little at that. “There’s a boat I use,” he said. “It should be big enough, even for… that creature, whatever you call it.”
“Saltlick,” I reminded him. “And I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but he tends to draw attention.”
“Hardly anyone’s awake at this hour,” Malekrin said. “And those that are won’t be looking in our direction.”
He spoke that last with confidence. Did he know something I didn’t? If so then every minute I spent stood questioning him was a minute wasted. Coming to a swift decision, I said, “Hurry up, Saltlick; we’re getting out of here.”
“Plan?” Saltlick asked. As usual he spoke volumes with a single word — for there was a powerful note of doubt underlying that one syllable.
“Yes. This is the plan. Trust me, all right?”
Saltlick nodded. He did trust me, the poor, lumbering fool, and I’d never felt worse about the fact. Even I could see this was no sort of plan, and the odds of it helping the others were practically non-existent. Yet this opportunity had fallen into our laps, and I couldn’t imagine a better one coming along any time soon.
Malekrin had already ducked back under the improvised flap he’d made, and I hurried to follow. Saltlick made a brief effort to squeeze through the existing gap and then, realising its hopelessness, reached with both hands and tore the thick hide almost to its highest point. I winced at the noise; but no one called out the alert, no one appeared from the darkness.
As Saltlick hauled himself through the widened breach, I couldn’t but notice how badly he was limping. He could hardly put any weight on his wounded leg. He wouldn’t slow us down, his height would compensate for that, but I hated to see how he was suffering — and all for nothing.
As Malekrin led us past a gap between two tents, something even more arresting than Saltlick’s plight drew my attention. In the distance, an orange glow hung over the camp town, as though the sun were just beginning to rise there. Then a tongue of brilliant yellow licked into sight, followed by a pale gust of smoke. Something was burning, and burning fast; even as I’d watched, the fire must have doubled in size.