“Could this be a trap?” asked Mounteban.
Gailus shook his head. “I don’t believe so. I’m convinced Panchessa is earnest in his desire to bring this matter to a peaceable conclusion, or I’d never have returned. He’s sworn you safe passage, and in front of his generals. It would go badly for him if he were to break his word. However, his highness did impose conditions.” Gailus glanced in my direction then, but I quickly realised he was looking past me. “Foremost among them, that the boy Malekrin also be present.”
I looked back, was alarmed to see Kalyxis standing close behind me. I assumed she’d refuse or argue, for if it was obvious to me that regardless of Gailus’s opinion this could easily be a trap, it must be doubly clear to her. Yet she hardly hesitated in answering: “I will accompany my grandson,” she said.
I glanced at Malekrin, where he stood a pace behind his grandmother, once again expecting some words of protest. Now that he had his opportunity to try and win peace, would he really have the nerve to go through with it? Perhaps I’d seen a different side of him recently, but it was hard to believe he’d put his neck on the line with so little to gain.
Yet, as surprising as noble self-sacrifice would have been, it was something a little different that Malekrin had in mind. “I’ll go,” he said, “if Damasco comes with me.”
“What? Are you insane?” Then, realising that might not be the appropriate tone to take, I added, “What I mean to say is, given my… shall we say, spotted history… and considering that the last time I saw the King he was ordering my death… well, I’m not sure it would be entirely appropriate.”
Malekrin glowered at me. “It’s your fault I’m here, isn’t it? Then I don’t see why you should get to avoid this.”
Of course not. Why would there be a danger under the Castovalian skies that Easie Damasco should avoid being dragged into? No matter than it was none of my business, no matter that it made as much sense as asking a fox to a chicken market. Well, not this time. Prince or no, Malekrin was the only person I knew whose opinion counted for less than mine; for once, I wasn’t obliged to be led by the nose into certain peril.
“I agree,” said Kalyxis. “The thief should come with us.”
Oh no was what I thought. What I actually said, sounding only marginally more aggrieved than I felt, was, “The thief?”
Kalyxis looked at me, with eyes like shards of black ice. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Is that not your job title?”
I’d have liked to argue, but I supposed she had a point. “All right. But I don’t see what I have to offer in such esteemed company. You don’t really want me to steal from the King, do you?” I’d meant it to sound jovial, but just then nothing would have surprised me.
“You will accompany my grandson,” Kalyxis said, “and advise him on local customs he might, through ignorance of this beleaguered backwater, fail to comprehend.”
Ah, so I was to be the wet-nurse. I looked to Estrada for support, but she chose not to catch my eye; no one else there even seemed worth the effort of trying. “Well,” I replied, “I’m sure that if the royal conversation should turn to matters of drinking, card play or larceny, I’ll prove an invaluable asset.”
The instructions Gailus conveyed were clear: No horses; no carriages; an escort allowed, but numbering no more than fifty; we could keep our swords, except in the royal presence, but could carry no bows. Sensible precautions all — but whether for a conference or an ambush, who could say?
Thus it was that I found myself in the front line of a great throng of men and women packed before the northwestern gate. Behind us were a mixed crowd of Alvantes’s hardier guardsmen, Kalyxis’s bodyguards and a number of Altapasaedan soldiers, in their new and yet already well-worn uniforms. As the last remnants of the barricades were dragged away, as the gates began to part and I found myself edged forward by a sudden press of bodies from behind, I tried to imagine what a real army would look like by comparison.
The gates opened wider, the pressure against my back increased — and suddenly I was stumbling into the gloom of the gatehouse. I was vaguely aware of Malekrin to my left, and another man — Alvantes? — to my right.
Then we were through, into the light, into the slum known as the Suburbs — and into the territory that was now our enemy’s.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
It had been one thing to know that an army was camped on the city’s doorstep, that nothing but stones and mortar separated me from thousands of bloodthirsty enemies. It was another thing entirely to see that horde with my own eyes.
The Suburbs had been evacuated days before: at first according to personal discretion, as its inhabitants came to realise that being between the King and the city had the potential to be bad for their health; then later, in the case of those too foolhardy or desperate to reach the obvious conclusion, with the encouragement of Mounteban’s soldiers. Some refugees had been allowed into the city, on the condition that they earned their keep by aiding in its defence. Others had decamped for who knew where, fleeing into the hills, or across the river in their shabby rowboats and coracles.
By the time the King had arrived, there would have been no one left but a few stragglers and strays: the mad, the lost and the severely unlucky. I didn’t want to think about what might have happened to them — for the Suburbs as I’d known it was no more.
Faced with the question of how to camp an army in the middle of a slum, the King and his generals had come to the obvious conclusion: use what they could and obliterate whatever they couldn’t. The buildings nearest the walls had been left alone, for they provided good cover. Beyond the reach of bowshot, however, the flimsy structures were simply gone, as though some monumental storm had swept through and carried its debris with it.
At first we’d marched through the remnants of the Suburbs, and aside from the sentries watching our passage from each shadowed doorway and alley, it had almost been possible to pretend the place was as it always had been. Then we came to the end of a crooked street between ramshackle walls and, abrupt as if a line had been carved into the ground, the remnants of the Suburbs ended and the camp of our enemy began.
Beyond that point, there was nothing to see but tents and fighting men. Everyone had come out to see the ambassadors of their foes, and to mock, perhaps, at how paltry our strength was; or else, more likely, the King’s first gambit was to show us how hopelessly outmatched we were, how badly a failure at the discussion table would cost us. For entering the enemy’s territory was like stepping into a sea: no sooner had the last of our number passed the edge of the camp then their lines closed around us and we were submerged.
Those around me, however, were showing no signs of fear: not Estrada, not Malekrin, and certainly not Alvantes or Mounteban. It was as though they were unaware of the hostile soldiery clustered so close to either side. And I was surprised to find that there was something infectious about their bravery; that despite my terror I was keeping my head up, my eyes fixed stubbornly ahead.
It helped that our destination was both clear and magnificent; it almost made it easy to focus upon that instead of the walls of meat and metal hemming us in. The King’s tent, dominating the centre of the camp, could only be described as palatial. It was impossible to conceive that it had been brought here and erected; for though its walls were of cloth, it looked as though it could only have been constructed through the months-long labour of architects and builders. It had wings. It had towers. Pennants flew from a dozen poles. Many a lord or lady in the South Bank would have traded their mansion for it without a second thought.
There were six guards on the entrance, an outstretched pavilion itself as large as a good-sized cottage, and as we approached they hoisted their pikes to their shoulders, in what might as easily have been a threat or a salute. “You’ll leave your escort here,” one said, “and your weapons too.”