One other thing, too, went some way to assuaging my fears: Saltlick’s eyes were open, and though his lids were heavy and drooping, he was looking at me. I bent down, bringing my head as close to his as I could manage. He smelled of straw and stale sweat, and very strongly of dried blood, a metal tang that I could taste on the roof of my mouth. “Saltlick? Can you hear me?”
After a pause so long that I’d all but given up on an answer, he nodded his head, just slightly.
“Stay still,” I said. “It’s all right. I just wanted to be sure you were really awake.”
Saltlick tried to move his head once more, and this time I realised he meant to shake it.
“What? You’re not awake?”
He made a noise, low in his throat. I felt sure it was meant to be a word, though whether in my own tongue or giantish, or nothing but nonsense, I couldn’t tell.
“Stop it!” I said. “Saltlick, you’re supposed to be resting.”
Again he shook his head, and the effort made the ropes of muscle in his neck twitch and jump.
My visit wasn’t going at all how I’d intended. Desperate to make him stay still, I shifted even closer, so that my head was tilted alongside his. “What is it?” I asked. “What are you trying to tell me?”
I felt his warm breath on my ear. Then he made another sound I couldn’t understand. Perhaps he was just groaning; perhaps these noises were only broken-off fragments of whatever pains he was enduring. Then, just as I thought he must be delirious, I recognised the next whisper for a word — and the next, and the next. Three words: words I’d heard him say often enough, three words, indeed, that had made up the first full sentence he’d ever spoken to me.
No. More. Fight.
I knew he wasn’t talking about himself; not even Mounteban would try and cajole him into violence in his current state. No, this time, I understood without doubt, Saltlick was asking for something far more than his own welfare.
“Saltlick, that’s…” I was about to say, too much responsibility. I was about to explain that I was just one lowly, more or less former thief, that no one listened to me at the best of times and these were far from those, that there was probably no one in Altapasaeda less capable of influencing the giants’ destiny than me. But before one more word could issue from my lips, I was brought up short by a hand upon my shoulder. Imagining that one of one of the wounded had risen from their deathbed to hiss some final vision in my ear, I choked off a scream and did my best not to tumble onto Saltlick.
“Calm down, Damasco! It’s only me.”
I span round, still not quite convinced that I wouldn’t find myself face to face with some ghastly apparition. “Estrada? What are you doing here?”
Despite the faint amusement in her eyes, Estrada looked gaunt and weary; an expression not unlike those of the bustling surgeons and priests. “The guards on the western gate sent word that you’d entered the city,” she said. “Mounteban is fuming, and Kalyxis is already claiming this was all some plot on his behalf. I told them I’d find you and bring you in.”
“Oh,” I said. The news was neither interesting nor surprising; probably it was only through the gate guards’ negligence that Malekrin and I had stayed free for so long.
“I thought I might find you here,” Estrada went on. “Anyway, it’s been a few hours since I checked in on Saltlick.”
Irritable for being treated like a downed hare to be dragged back and dumped at Mounteban’s feet, I almost made some sharp reply. But even I could see that there was no way the desperately busy attendants had expended so much effort on Saltlick. It was surely Estrada I had to thank for the fact that he was alive and recuperating, and perhaps my anger was better saved for someone who deserved it.
“Fine,” I said, “I’d hate for poor Mounteban to be worrying.”
The crack of a sharp throat-clearing drew my attention, as it did Estrada’s. Malekrin was observing us both with what I’d come to think of as his characteristic scowl. “Am I likely to be included in this conversation?” he asked, with what he probably intended as dignity.
“Prince Malekrin,” said Estrada, “it’s good to see you again. I hope you’ve found the Castoval to your liking?”
“The wilds of the Castoval are a hideous place compared to the flowing plains of Shoan,” Malekrin said, “and their people uncouth and ignorant. I’d thought nothing could be worse until I came to this ugly, reeking city.”
“You may find it grows on you,” replied Estrada, her smile forced. “And I apologise if I excluded you. Was I wrong to assume you’re here to reunite with your grandmother?”
“You were very wrong,” said Malekrin. “I won’t go anywhere with her. What I’m here to do, if you’ll let me, is to help negotiate a peace.” Malekrin glanced around the dark room then, and his eyes narrowed. “I think it would be a good alternative to this, don’t you?”
“There’s nothing I’d rather see you do than help stop this needless war,” said Estrada, looking impressed almost despite herself. “And I promise you won’t be made to do anything you don’t want to.”
Ah, Estrada, never one to shy away from a promise she had no means of keeping. Still, her earnestness seemed to satisfy Malekrin, and I was grateful for that — for just then I was finding his nobility almost as insufferable as his sulking.
“We should go now,” Estrada added, speaking to me once more. “Delaying will only make a bad situation worse.”
It struck me that I was more than ready to leave the grim confines of the hospital, even if it meant facing Mounteban and Kalyxis again. I glanced at Saltlick, thinking of our interrupted reunion for the first time since Estrada had arrived. His eyes were still open, and he was watching us. No, he was watching me — and while it was impossible to read anything from those glazed orbs, I couldn’t but feel a sense of reproach. He’d asked for my help and I’d given him no assurance in return. After everything he’d done for me, all the times he’d saved my life, I hadn’t even promised to try and help his people.
Yet what could I do? What promise could I make that wouldn’t be empty? I had little enough idea how I was going to save myself, let alone an entire populace of giants trapped in a war-ravaged city. No, to say nothing would be less cruel in the long term than a comforting lie.
I tore my eyes from Saltlick’s, with a feeling equal parts guilt and relief. “Let’s go,” I said, striving to keep both emotions from my voice. “If we hurry, the two of you might have this war settled before dinner.”
Outside in the streets, night had fallen in earnest. Beyond the faint glow edging round the doors and shutters of the hospital, we were in thick darkness.
Ironic given her talk of haste, Estrada had arrived on foot, leaving Malekrin and I forced to lead our mounts; yet another irritation, given the aches I’d accumulated throughout the day. Malekrin, meanwhile, seemed grateful for the chance to preserve a little dignity, for he looked considerably less absurd leading the ass than riding it. Apparently the beast was determined to spend what life it had left in humiliating its new master, however, for we hadn’t gone far before it began to protest in rasping brays.
I assumed it was that raucous noise that made Estrada hurry ahead, just as I had; but once she saw that we’d gained a few paces, she leaned closer and said, “It’s good to see you back, Easie.”
Still frustrated to be walking when I might be riding, I decided Estrada must be referring to the fact that she hadn’t expected me to return. “Astonishing isn’t it?” I said. “Who’d have guessed Mounteban wasn’t the only lowlife who could sacrifice himself in the service of the Castoval.”
Estrada ignored the jibe. “How did you convince him?” she asked, with a nod behind us.