Giant Thief (19 page)

  I glanced at Estrada, who replied with a nod. Then, her eyes apparently sharper than mine, she pointed out a brown smudge bobbing near the dock. I concentrated, and decided that she was right: it was a single-masted skiff, just what we were after.

  "I think we can reach it. If we come in from the north we'll be out of sight of the camp."

  We began our descent, heading not so much towards Casta Canto as to a point a half mile above it. A dry streambed took us much of the way down, and made the travelling easier than it had been. Still, it was sluggish work. It seemed at times like some surreal game, as we picked our way from rock to copse and copse to shaded hollow, trying to find a route that kept Saltlick's bulk invisible. Even where the cover allowed Estrada and me to move freely, he mostly had to crawl on hands and knees. By the time we were drawing near the river, he'd fallen far behind, and my patience was wearing thin.

  It must have shown. Just as I was about to lose my temper altogether, Estrada whispered, "Do you remember what you said earlier?"

  "'Earlier' when? I've been saying things for most of my life."

  "You said you don't scheme, or manipulate people, or pretend to value anyone you don't care about."

  "I remember."

  "That wasn't exactly true, was it?"

  I thought about it. "Perhaps not entirely. It's possible I was exaggerating for offence."

  Estrada threw a significant glance towards Saltlick, who was currently trying to hide behind a shrub that rose to about a third of his height. "You've manipulated him. You used him, and then tried to abandon him. When that didn't work you lied to him some more, telling him you'd help protect his family."

  "I never said that." Then I remembered. I
had
said something along those lines, in the cave after our rescue – and before that as well, in Moaradrid's camp. I cursed beneath my breath. "That's hardly the same thing."

  "Oh? Because he's a giant?"

  "Because he's an idiot."

  Estrada nodded, one of those characteristic halfsmiles shaping her mouth. "You've never really tried talking to him, have you?"

  "I haven't had a full day free since we met."

  "I think he does well, considering that he's selftaught, and that he's only been learning our language for a couple of weeks."

  That stopped me in my tracks. It had never crossed my mind that Saltlick was anything but an oversized dolt. What must it have been like to be taken from his home, thrust into a world where everything down to the simplest word was incomprehensible?

  Saltlick chose that moment to catch up, and looked at us bemusedly.

  Estrada whispered, "I'm not trying to pick another fight, Damasco. I'm just asking you to have a little more patience." Aloud she said, "Not much further."

  She was right. We'd practically reached the base of the hill. A labyrinth of pines stretched around us, with Casta Canto just visible to the south, carved into slivers by the trunks. We continued to skirt around the town, keeping our distance. The noise of the river was loud enough to drown our voices by the time it came into view, a torrent of muddy grey and foaming white. We clambered to the narrow strip of gravel beach that ran beside it and then, with the shoreline embankment concealing us from observers above, started towards the town.

  As we crept nearer, so did the ferry, skulking spider-like along its chains. It was largely empty of human cargo: two men, presumably merchants, stood at the front, lazing against the barrier and smoking pipes. All the remaining space was taken up with horses, which stared with panic-shot eyes at the water and whickered piteously. There wasn't even need for a pilot, since pulleys and half a dozen hard-working ponies in the shore station propelled the craft. The system was impressive in everything but speed. That tended to provoke amusement more than admiration, or frustration for anyone in the slightest hurry. The idling merchants evidently weren't in that category. Nor, thankfully, were they inclined to look in our direction.

  Their presence did highlight a flaw in our plan though. We might be well hidden from Casta Canto and the encampment outside it, but from the river and the far bank, we'd stand out like belly dancers at a funeral. Estrada signalled a halt as the ferry limped the last stretch into port. We were close enough to make out the merchants' voices over the racket of their horses. One had propped up the gate bar while the other struggled to manoeuvre the traumatised animals, which were determined to find a way off that didn't involve going near the river or each other. Though it looked as if it must all end in disaster, the merchants knew their business. Their charges stumbled one by one onto the dock and milled about, grumbling in high-pitched whinnies.

  "Here's our chance," I said. "Even if we're seen there's no way past that lot."

  Estrada nodded, and we hurried the last distance to the dock. A set of crude steps connected the ramshackle platform to the beach. I went up first, and peered towards Casta Canto. The air was heavy with the tang of sweating horse. A road led up beyond the harbour and a small, timbered plaza, towards the main part of town. There were large drying sheds on both sides, and all the space between was a heaving sea of equine bodies.

  The scene was a mass of confusion. There seemed far too many horses to have departed the ferry.

  I realised why.

  There were other horses, almost as many as had just crossed the river, and these with riders, coming towards us from the far side of town. The two parties had met and ground to a halt against each other, with much raising of voices and waving of arms.

  It was fortunate for us, because otherwise Moaradrid's men would have been on us in seconds.

  "Run!"

  I took my own advice, not looking to see if Estrada and Saltlick followed. The boat we'd picked out was the last on the docks. It crossed my mind that we might be better to hide, but I'd no idea whether they'd seen us. Even if they'd missed Estrada and me, could they have failed to notice Saltlick? And there was another worry. The closer I got, the more I doubted the fragile craft could take his weight.

  I realised, when we arrived panting at the far end of the pier, that we had an even more immediate problem. Just getting Saltlick into the boat was going to be a tribulation. A glance told me Moaradrid's party had made it through the opposing traffic. There were a dozen of them, and they were too engaged to pay us any attention. They'd dismounted to lead their mounts onto the ferry, and were having as much difficulty as the merchants had had performing the exercise in reverse.

  Our luck couldn't hold much longer.

  "Saltlick, you go first."

  If he was going to capsize our vessel, it was better to find out now. As he made tentative motions toward the craft, it looked as though that was exactly what would happen. It bucked alarmingly when he put the least weight on it. Water sloshed in every direction. He tried one foot then the other, first standing then crouching. I could see his mounting panic. Each attempt sunk our one hope of escape a little further.

  Despite my anxiety, I remembered Estrada's lecture. I actually felt a little sorry watching him, for all that his clumsiness was about to cost our lives.

  Therefore, to everyone's surprise, it was Estrada who settled the predicament. "Damn it, Saltlick, get in!"

  No physical blow could have brought so drastic a reaction. Saltlick fell with a crash into the boat, which lurched up almost end on end, before his mass drove it down with a colossal splash. It seesawed back and forth, each time taking on more water, each time looking as though it must inevitably be sucked under the waves. Saltlick bailed furiously all the while, with cupped hands as big as a bucket. I couldn't tell if he was helping or making things worse.

  It was a minute at least before the conflict was played out. Saltlick sat drenched, in a hand's span of water. But the boat was right side up on the river. Estrada and I hurried to clamber in. I was sure we'd be the final straw. Yet somehow, the beleaguered vessel stayed afloat, with a hair's breadth of waterline.

  I hazarded a glance behind. Moaradrid's troops had made it aboard the ferry and it was now perhaps a quarter of the way to the far shore, struggling along with its usual lethargy. They had clustered at the front, where there was less risk of being mangled by a stray hoof.

  "I don't think they've seen us," I said – just as one pointed in our direction. "Oh shit," I corrected. "We're safe as long as they don't have…"

  The first arrow plunked through the surface beside us.

  "Saltlick!" cried Estrada, thrusting the oars at him.

  He stared at the shafts, as though she'd handed him a pair of live snakes. An arrow rebounded from our stern and shattered, spinning past us in pieces.

  "Row!"

  Estrada was becoming frantic. Saltlick, though he looked just as distraught, didn't move so much as a finger. A third missile carved splinters from the mast just above our heads. I gazed at Saltlick's hands, clutching the oars like skewered ham hocks.

  I remembered what Estrada had told me.

  How often did giants row boats?

  "Like this," I called, mimicking the motion back and forth. More arrows splashed around us, and he gazed at me, baffled. Then understanding dawned. His first stroke nearly tore both oars from their rowlocks, and we leaped forward almost our own length. The second was a fraction more controlled. By the third, Saltlick was starting to compensate for his own strength.

  "They're still too near," moaned Estrada.

  She was right. Our sudden motion had thrown off their aim, but it wouldn't take them long to correct. We were too overladen, too low in the water. We'd never get up enough speed, for all Saltlick's strength.

  So why was no one shooting?

  I dared another glance. I was rewarded by a sight so unexpected that I had to turn around, risk of sinking be damned. The ferry was in chaos. At one end, the horses had kicked the barrier into toothpicks, and a couple were already thrashing in the river. At the front, less than half of Moaradrid's men had managed to stay aboard. The others were swimming with the horses, or clutching the rails to stay afloat.

  I couldn't tell what had brought such commotion, until I noticed how the chain was sagging, the raft dragging against it into the flow. I followed its length and saw the smoke, a black column seething from behind the harbour buildings. I remembered the wooden tower that housed the ferry's mechanism. A tremendous crash reached us in the same moment, and the smoke cloud redoubled. The chain drooped drastically, and then flopped into the water. Freed from servitude, the ferry chose the path of least resistance. It lurched away with the river, heading northward, moving ten times faster than it ever had before. Its few remaining passengers, human and equine, decided that swimming for the near shore was by far the safest option.

  It was over in a less than a minute. By the time I'd taken it all in, the chain was at the bottom of the river, and the ferry had disappeared around a curve. The only evidence was the smoke still climbing thickly into the still air, and the bewildered figures dog-paddling towards the bank. What had happened? Surely it couldn't have been an accident.

  I saw the riders, and understood. They were a halfdozen, streaming in single file up the waterfront towards us, heads down, weapons drawn. They veered into the trees at the point where Casta Canto gave way to the forest, hardly slowing. A moment later, the last had been consumed by the deep arboreal shadows.

  They'd been travelling at speed, a good distance away. I wouldn't have recognised them but for one detail. For the briefest instant, their leader had glanced in our direction – and there was no mistaking that florid, eye-patched face.

  Castilio Mounteban had saved our lives again.

 
 
 

Though the day was still cold, the water was glassy and calm beyond Casta Canto. Willows dredged their leaves from the banks. Waterfowl steered around the leafy curtains and each other in complex, aimless patterns. Sometimes a boat would pass, usually a scow moving cargo to or from distant Altapasaeda. The sight of two people in a nine-tenths-sunk skiff being clumsily rowed by a giant drew questions, jeers or, most often, stares of speechless alarm.

  When we had the river to ourselves, there was nothing to hear except the sough of wind in the trees and our oars slapping rhythmically through the surface. No one had much to say after the incident with the ferry, and it made for a strange sort of silence, tense and uncomfortable.

  Saltlick appeared to be rapt in his newfound occupation, though perhaps his look of absorption had as much to do with trying not to upset our beleaguered craft. He couldn't have stared more intently into the distance if he'd been powering the boat by sheer force of will. Estrada had been gazing at the forest since Mounteban and his companions had vanished, as though she expected them suddenly to burst forth again. Mounteban had confused the issue of his betrayal by rescuing us, and probably she found the whole matter very puzzling and significant.

  It had occupied my own thoughts for all of about two minutes. It was clear that he'd waited near Casto Canto, assuming we'd be too lost and disorganised to deviate from the plan. It was equally obvious that his motive for such a preposterous and melodramatic deed was his obsession with Estrada. The only question in my mind was whether he'd try to follow us further. If he did, he'd have little luck now that the width of the Casto Mara was between us.

  With that cleared up, I'd decided I still couldn't give a donkey's arse about the fat old crook. It wasn't me or Saltlick he'd saved. He probably wouldn't piss on me if I was on fire and he had a bladder infection. We would likely have escaped anyway, and without so much carnage or needless spectacle. All told, it was easy for me to put aside the whole shameful incident.