“Oh, you know. Porridge, a sleeping draught, a few pots and pans… the usual. Also, and I know how absurd this sounds, but I think the boy actually wants to do the right thing.”
“There’s never been a better time for it,” replied Estrada, with feeling.
“How have things been?” I asked. “With the war, I mean?”
“Truthfully, better than I’d dared hope. I don’t think anyone really believed we could hold Panchessa out for even a day.”
“But you have,” I observed, redundantly.
“Half of Altapasaeda’s up in arms now. After the first attack, they finally realised what was in store for them; our numbers had tripled by the second day. I think Panchessa had been expecting to just walk in by then, and it shook him when just the opposite happened. So far as I know, there’s been no significant fighting since.”
“Which means a siege,” I suggested, a little irritated by her optimism.
“Not yet,” she said, “So far, Panchessa’s keeping his forces to the north wall. But if he can’t win in a straight fight, there’s every chance he’ll try to starve us out.”
I had no answer for that. It seemed self-evident to me that whether our ends came at the point of Ans Pasaedan blades or by slow starvation, we were every bit as doomed.
Then, as if countering an argument I hadn’t bothered to make, Estrada continued, “I think Kalyxis and her Shoanish could be persuaded to join us, especially now that Malekrin’s back. Either way, I can’t shake the feeling that she’s up to something. If I’m right and it involves Panchessa, there’s a chance it might work to our benefit.”
“That’s wonderful,” I said. “How can we lose with that mad witch on our side?”
Estrada gave me a look that, though it was difficult to read in the darkness, almost certainly meant keep your voice down. I darted a glance back at Malekrin, but he didn’t seem to paying us any notice; all his concentration was on dragging the clamorous ass.
Obnoxious as he unquestionably was, it occurred to me that he was being remarkably rational for someone who had Kalyxis for a grandmother and Moaradrid for a father. Taking that lineage of evil and insanity into account, it was to his credit that he could even hold a conversation without frothing at the mouth. Perhaps there was an argument for cutting him more slack than I had so far.
Then again, he really was obnoxious.
Despite the lightless streets, I had a fair idea where we were. I knew we were drawing close to the Dancing Cat and I couldn’t escape the sense, like a cord tightening around my neck, that whatever happened in the next few minutes would decide all of our fates. What would happen when Malekrin rebuffed Kalyxis? How would she react, and what would Mounteban do about it? Perhaps it might have been better for Altapasaeda if I’d left Malekrin wandering in the wilderness.
Rounding a corner, I saw a building not only lit up but bright amidst the surrounding blackness, as though its very existence was a remonstration with the night-shrouded city. Not only was torchlight seeping from every gap, a dozen lamps had been hung outside from ornate hooks that jutted from its beams.
On impulse, I dropped back to where Malekrin was trailing behind us. “We’re nearly there,” I said. “Are you ready?”
His only reply was a terse nod. Beneath the Dancing Cat’s extravagant lighting, I could see that his mouth was set in a tight line, that his eyes were narrowed, like wounds cut into the dark skin. How long had Malekrin been preparing what he was about to say to Kalyxis?
Inevitably, there were armed men on the door of the Cat. They were quick to recognise Estrada, and made no argument when she asked them to take our mounts round to the stables. I gave my horse a goodbye pat, and Malekrin and his ill-tempered ass parted with a look of mutual disgust.
As Estrada led the way inside, we were met by a rush of warm air, turbid with smoke and redolent with the odour of cooking food. The majority of the furnishings had been drawn together into one long table, which reached the length of the room. Around its far end, sat before heaps of maps and charts, were a great many people I recognised. There was Mounteban and a few of his hangers-on, Kalyxis and a couple of her Shoanish, and Alvantes, along with his sub-captains Gueverro and Navare.
All eyes turned at the creak of the door — and as Malekrin entered behind me, Kalyxis rose to her feet, though not hurriedly. “Malekrin,” she said. From the indifference with which she spoke his name, no one could ever have guessed that she was reuniting with a lost relative she’d had every reason to fear she’d never see again.
“Grandmother,” replied Malekrin. If anything, there was even less affection in his lifeless monotone.
“It’s good that you’re back,” she said. “I don’t know why you ran away and I don’t care, so long as it never happens again.”
“Grandmother,” said Malekrin once more.
“What matters,” Kalyxis went on, “is that you saw reason; that you realised your responsibility to your people is something you can’t outrun.”
“Grandmother…” repeated Malekrin yet again, and this time there was definite heat in his voice — though no one but me and perhaps Estrada appeared to notice. I realised I was holding my breath, for there was something in Malekrin’s face that made me think of a storm that had been building for far too long.
Then there came a hammering upon the tavern door, and I started so violently that I nearly tumbled over a nearby chair. My held breath flooded out in a great whoosh.
“What is it?” roared Mounteban.
The door sprung open, and one of the men who’d been on guard outside hurried in. “Sir, you said you weren’t to be disturbed once these three arrived-.”
“And yet here you are,” said Mounteban, “clearly disturbing us.”
The guard blanched, nodded. “Only,” he said, “there’s a runner out here from the barricade on the Sabre. The bridge…”
“What about the bridge?” Mounteban asked. This time there was genuine enquiry in his voice.
“Sir,” said the guard, “I think this is something you’ll want to see. Some men have arrived over the Sabre, and they’re asking for Captains Ondeges and Alvantes.”
I couldn’t but be impressed by the fortifications prepared for the great river-spanning arch of the Sabre. With no gate to protect it, the bridge was theoretically a weak point in the city’s defences; though in truth its narrow, unsheltered span favoured its defenders over any attacker. Now, however, it was every bit as impenetrable as the city walls — for a barricade had been built along its Altapasaedan edge, not only of thick timbers but of great stone blocks, piled higher than a man’s height in places.
It had probably never occurred to anyone to expect visitors from that direction. As we drew near, I could see — by the light of torches set upon tripods — that the men there were only just now drawing close to clearing an entrance for the mysterious arrivals.
Since everyone had been curious to accompany Alvantes, since Mounteban had insisted on bringing ample security in case this was some underhand attack, and since the swelling of our numbers had required him to requisition every nearby coach and horse, we made quite a convoy as we approached along the upper dockside. Our arrival had apparently spurred on the barricade-dismantling party, and by the time I climbed from the coach I’d managed to hitch a lift on, they were just levering a last beam out of the way. Even as I watched, one signalled towards the gap, and a man rode into the crescent of flickering torchlight.
Though he was elderly, it was clear that whatever vexations of age he’d suffered had been amply cushioned by wealth and the comforts of high living. He rode stiff-backed, with his chin tilted back, as though intent on something occurring just above our heads. Ignoring the traveller’s usual discretion, his riding cloak was of a bright crocus yellow that seemed almost luminous beneath the amber light; the four companions following behind him, burly types with swords conspicuous at their sides, wore a similar though less dazzling shade.