I spun around, but at first I couldn’t see anyone – until a woman stepped out from behind the privies, her long black leather coat etched with a ship on the right breast. Quillata, the King’s Sail. The Seventh Cantor of the Greatcoats and once one of my closest friends.
‘Hello, Quil,’ Brasti said, taking a step towards her and bringing his stolen sword into guard. ‘Goodbye, Quil.’
‘Please,’ she snorted, looking at his blade, ‘don’t embarrass yourself, Goodbow.’
‘You know, I might have to kill you with this stupid metal stick just to get people to stop mocking my fencing skills,’ he said.
Quillata ignored him. ‘The All Hail the King won’t work, Falcio. These people aren’t stupid. They don’t panic just because of a little noise and fire.’
I kept my own weapon light in my hand, measuring the distance between us. Quil was a ferocious fighter and I didn’t particularly want to test myself against her if I had any other choice. ‘Don’t suppose you have any suggestions?’
She looked at me for a long while, as if weighing her own options. ‘How about a Trusted Friend?’
There’s no tactic in the Greatcoats’ repertoire called a ‘Trusted Friend’.
‘Haven’t had one of those in a long time, Quil,’ I said.
‘Do you wonder why?’ The look she gave Trin suggested she was seriously considering murdering her on the spot. ‘Allying yourself with Patriana’s daughter? The King would be ashamed.’
‘He surely would be,’ I said evenly.
That set her off. ‘Don’t! Don’t you dare for even one second to play the martyr with me, val Mond! You’re not the one who had to watch Bellow get his legs sawed off by Viscount Croisard’s soldiers. You weren’t there when six of my own Greatcoats were hung by the neck, the knots left just loose enough to make them dangle for a good long time before they finally died. You weren’t—’ She held up a hand, as if stopping herself. ‘No. I won’t do this with you.’
I let my hand grip the hilt of my sword a little tighter. ‘Then what are you planning to do, Quil?’
She sighed. ‘I’m going to go and create a second distraction by telling the guards I’ve just spotted you going over the western wall.’ She pointed to a small building across the compound. ‘Get yourself over to that maintenance shed. There’s a ladder hanging on the outside; it’s long enough to get you over the wall. On the other side I’ve left three horses for you. You’ll have to double up on two of them, so you’ll need to swap riders regularly. That’s the best I could do.’
I felt something like relief seep into me, just for a moment. Sometimes you need to fool yourself that your world hasn’t actually been turned upside down just for the sake of getting air into your lungs. ‘Come with us,’ I said.
She shook her head. ‘No, Falcio. You and I are done. The others are done with you as well. And you can stop calling yourself “First Cantor” from here on out.’
‘Why?’ I asked, straining to keep the pleading out of my voice, trying instead to focus on the sounds of men running through the compound, of the imminent threat, of the need to escape. ‘Just tell me why, Quil.’
‘Because Morn’s right, Falcio. If you’d just listen to his plan, take the time to hear about the numbers of lives that could be saved, you might finally let go of this insane obsession with the King’s last wishes and realise that this is the only way to save our country.’
‘Then why give us the horses?’ Kest asked. ‘Why not try to make us stay?’
She stood there a moment longer, the cold breeze lifting her dark hair. She looked sad, and tired. ‘Because even after all the stupid things the three of you have done these past years, I can’t stand to watch any more Greatcoats die.’
CHAPTER FORTY
The Lovelorn Sacrifice
The horses Quillata had left for us were heavy beasts, well-chosen for riding long distances in cold weather. They wouldn’t be very fast, but endurance would soon become more important than speed. I was pleased to see the saddlebags were well supplied too.
‘And here I forgot to bring her anything,’ Brasti said, examining the bow hung from a strap on his horse’s saddle before putting a foot into the stirrup.
‘Oh, I don’t think that’s true,’ Trin said, reaching down a hand to help Filian mount up behind her. ‘Apparently you’ve brought her and the other Trattari quite a bit of misery.’
I took the reins of one of the shaggy creatures. ‘We’d better go. There’ll be plenty of time for you to mock us after we’ve saved your worthless life.’
We raced for the thick forest running between Avares and Tristia. Going east might have got us out of the country faster, but that would have meant taking the mountain passes again and I doubted anyone was going to let us use their platforms and pulleys to get down the sheer cliffs. Instead, we’d have to go the long way round, easing our way down to the border with Pertine, where we could finally leave this damned country where everything turned to ice in one way or another.
We rode hard and fast, the horses falling into a steady pace – though not one they particularly enjoyed. Despite the effort, mine was particularly responsive and well-behaved, which, oddly enough, made me miss Arsehole. I guess I’m just used to horses that don’t obey me. I hope you found that butterfly, you great big idiot.
Two hours into our journey, I began to believe we might have managed the impossible and escaped – until my horse reared up suddenly, tipping me unceremoniously into the snow as a figure appeared from the trees in front of us.
‘I’ve got the son of a bitch,’ Brasti said from behind me, his words accompanied by the creak of a bow.
Kest had already dismounted far more gracefully than I had and I could see him approaching from the corner of my eye.
The figure before us shook off his covering of snow, revealing a long coat made from heavy wool, trimmed in fur as white as the landscape all around us. A hunting knife, the blade a good ten inches long, gleamed in his hand. ‘It is a trap,’ he said in a thick Avarean accent.
‘Yes, we know it’s a trap,’ Brasti observed. ‘That’s why I’m about to shoot you.’
‘It is a trap,’ our apparent ambusher repeated, as if he weren’t sure we’d understood him the first time. He pointed in the direction we were headed. ‘Ten miles ahead, they have a camp. They wait for you.’
‘Who waits for us?’ I asked.
Anger stirred on the young man’s features. ‘The traitor’s soldiers – twenty, perhaps a few more. They have nets and danfangsten – you would call them . . . man-catchers.’