“Because it’s not my war,” he muttered, through a thick mouthful of gruel.
“I’m sure most of the people who’ll die in it could say the same,” I said. “But I doubt anyone will listen to them.” Suddenly remembering, I added, “It certainly wasn’t Saltlick’s war, and that didn’t do him any good.”
Malekrin looked up again at that. “The monster?” he asked — and I was surprised by the note of genuine concern in his voice.
“He tried to stop the fighting,” I said, “and got cut down in the street for his troubles. Come to think of it, maybe he isn’t such a good argument for peace-brokering after all.”
Malekrin dropped his gaze once more; but this time he didn’t go back to eating. I’d almost given up expecting a response when he said, “I won’t pretend to be something I’m not.”
“I can see how that wouldn’t appeal,” I agreed.
“I never wanted any of this,” Malekrin continued, as though he hadn’t heard. “My father, my grandmother… it’s always been about what they wanted. A unified Shoan. No more tithes to the King. But what does any of it have to do with me?”
I picked up my spoon, ran it around the rim of my bowl and looked regretfully at my now-cooling, untouched porridge. “Tell you the truth, Mal, I know how you feel. After all, I’ve been through exactly the same these last weeks. It’s all, ‘Damasco do this’, ‘Damasco do that’, ‘Damasco, why aren’t you behaving more like a hero and less like the gutter thief you are?’… but whatever I do, however hard or often I try, it’s never enough. I saved Altapasaeda, I’ve hardly stolen a thing in days, and still they treat me like something stinking and sticky they trod in.”
Now there was clear confusion on Malekrin’s face. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying, maybe you’re right. You should look after yourself, and damn the rest. They’d do the same to you if you gave them half a chance. In fact, they already have.”
Malekrin put down his own spoon. He was aiming for the patch of table beside his bowl, but he misjudged, and the utensil slipped from the table’s edge and clunked onto the tiles. Though Malekrin considered it with puzzlement, he made no effort to retrieve it. “Is this how you try and convince me to come back?” he asked. “Are you really the best they could send?”
“Well that’s just it, isn’t it? I’m all they could spare. Apparently, stopping the King and his army smashing their way into Altapasaeda and burning everyone in their beds is more important that wandering around the countryside looking for you. I tell you, they couldn’t value either of us much less if they tried.”
Malekrin knotted the fingers of his right hand in his dark hair and propped his elbow on the table, nearly tipping the bowl and the last dregs of his wine. Despite the much-needed meal, he was looking distinctly queasy. “If I go back,” he said, “Grandmother will force me to lead her stupid army to their deaths; or else, your people will hand me over to the King. Either way, I end up dead.”
“You probably will. In fact, there’s no reason either of us should go back to that sewer of a city. I know we haven’t exactly seen eye to eye so far, Mal, but if you’d tolerate a little company then I’m about ready to walk away from this whole damn mess.”
Malekrin fixed his gaze on me, though he was wavering slightly on his crooked arm. “You know,” he said, “you’re terrible at this. No one could have done a worse job of trying to convince me.”
I grinned. “You’re Malekrin, son of Moaradrid and grandson of Kalyxis and King Panchessa. You’ve just run the length of three countries to avoid doing what other people thought you should do. I doubt anyone’s ever going to talk you into anything you don’t want, are they?”
Hesitantly, Malekrin returned a thin smile. “All right,” he said. “I’ll come with you. I’ll try to stop this stupid war. But I’m not going back to my grandmother.”
“I don’t blame you,” I said. “Frankly, the woman’s terrifying.”
“That’s right. Terfiriying.” Malekrin stared intently at the table’s surface, like a baby entranced by the dance of motes in a sunbeam. “You know, Dasmacco, it’s been… been…” His chin jolted forward on his fist, and with an effort he drew it back. “Whu… when?” he whispered, even as his eyes began to glaze.
“The sleeping draught? When I swapped the bowls,” I explained conversationally. “Frankly, I’m surprised it took this long to kick in; you must have the constitution of a bull. I’m sorry, Mal, but I didn’t want to rely on my powers of persuasion or your good nature. Well, who would?”
“I was… I was going to… come back…”
“I know that now,” I agreed, as he toppled face first into the remains of his porridge, with a definite splash that showered gobs of grey across the table top. “However, as I just pointed out, I didn’t want to take any chances. I hate to be the one to say it, but this thing’s bigger than you and I — and I’ve a friend in Altapasaeda I promised I’d be back for.”
To judge by the spluttering snores issuing from his porridge bowl, Malekrin wasn’t paying me much attention anymore. I walked round and hauled him up by the shoulders, then wiped the worst of the gruel mess from his chin using the hood of his cloak.
If I remembered rightly, Franco’s number twelve knock-out drops lasted for something in the region of six hours. Given Malekrin’s youth and constitution, that might be reduced by an hour or so. Still, I had a fair while yet.
I sat gratefully back in my chair. If there was no hurry, I at least might as well finish my breakfast.
Having made the most of my cold porridge, I set out into Midendo. It soon became apparent that the chances of finding a second horse for purchase were up there with those of being offered a giant, saddle-trained rabbit; an hour’s questioning, however, did lead me to an ancient cobbler willing to part with his equally venerable ass.
“He’ll be dead soon enough,” he pointed out, “and I will be too. At least now I can afford a proper pyre.”
I handed over an onyx, hardly thinking about how grossly I was overpaying or how little I had left; having squandered a fortune, what difference could one more coin make? The ass was vicious and curmudgeonly, but since it would be Malekrin he’d be carrying rather than me, that seemed both appropriate and fair.
Back at the Nine Lights, it was frustrating to realise that all drugging Malekrin had left me with was an unconscious barbarian prince to transport back to Altapasaeda. Had I been able to trust him to make the right decision on his own I’d have saved myself the effort of hauling him onto the protesting beast and tying him in place.
At least Marga, who seemed to have more or less accepted my story that all this strange behaviour was in some way serving the Altapasaedan City Guard, came out to help me. “Who is he anyway?” she asked, as I pulled the last knot tight. “He certainly has funny clothes on under that cloak. Not one of that fiend Moaradrid’s lot, is he?”
I was a little impressed that she’d even heard of Moaradrid all the way out there. “He’s his son, in fact. Malekrin, the bastard Prince of Shoan, one possibly true heir to the thrones of the Castoval and Ans Pasaeda.”
She glared at me. “All right,” she said, “You could have just told me it was none of my business.”
I gave her my most courteous bow. “Thank you, madam, for your kind hospitality, and for the excellent porridge. If I’m ever back this way, I’ll be sure to call again.”
“If you’re ever back this way,” Marga said, “you can sleep in the stables.” And before I could even consider a suitable retort, she’d marched back inside and slammed the door on me.
Malekrin woke some three hours later; perhaps three hours of being jolted on an uneven road while his extremities went steadily more numb had somehow accelerated the effect of Franco’s soporific. When he began to struggle and curse, I was glad I’d taken the time to tie his knots tightly.
“Calm down,” I told him. “I’ll let you up once you stop thrashing. The ropes are only to stop you falling off. After all, you did say you were willing to come with me, didn’t you?”