Prince Thief by David Tallerman Page B

slanging match I might conceivably come out the worse from.
    I should have realised Estrada was too much the busybody to leave the decision in my hands.
    It was late in the third evening, the waters fading from the colour of dried blood to the purple of stale wine. Sick to death of our resident cook’s culinary efforts, which had yet to extend much beyond hard biscuit, dried olives and salt meat, I’d ended up leaving a good proportion of my meal, for all that my stomach was growling. In frustration, I pushed my bowl away and it tipped over, spilling its miserable contents.
    I pondered trying to clean the mess, decided it hardly warranted the effort. When I looked up, Estrada was standing over me, swaying in time with the boat’s motion. “What’s wrong with you Damasco?” she said. “I’ve never seen you turn away food unless you were actually poisoned.”
    I glowered at my overturned bowl. “Whatever I’m turning away, I’d hardly call it food.”
    “You’re eating just as well as anyone aboard, and doing less work for it than most.” Estrada sighed, ran a hand through tangled hair. “I know you didn’t want to come along, but...”
    “But what?” I cut her off. “You had no right to drag me into this mess!”
    “Well if you’d kept your fingers to yourself,” she said, “we wouldn’t have had half the Palace Guard after us, and perhaps we could have cleared a way into the barracks for you.”
    “And if you had minded your own damn business,” I spat, “the Castoval wouldn’t be about to be wiped off the map by its own king.”
    Her eyes went wide – with shock, resentment or both. “That’s absurd, Damasco. Is that really the best you can do?”
    I’d already said more than I meant to; what was there to do now but press on? “You know, Estrada,” I said, “since you decided to make nice with Mounteban, I’ve been thinking over something he told us. I never took it seriously at the time, and I never took it seriously when we were trying to kick him out of Altapasaeda, but now that we’re all the best of friends I’ve been giving it a little more consideration. Just why did you feel the need to start a fight with Moaradrid anyway? It was Panchessa he wanted a war with, not us.”
    Whatever I thought I’d seen in her expression, the anger had altogether burned it away now. “You think I should have left Moaradrid to make a bloodbath of Ans Pasaeda? Hurt more innocent people and then, sooner or later, come back and do the same to the entire Castoval? You think I should have let him make murdering slaves of the giants?”
    I jabbed a finger towards Saltlick. “And you’re so much better? Remind me why Saltlick isn’t leading his people home right now, like you promised him he would be. What I think is, you started a war you don’t know how to finish. I think we wouldn’t be worrying about the King hanging us in the streets if you’d just let Moaradrid do what needed to be done.”
    Her hand came up at that, and I thought for a moment she’d strike me. Then she let it drop, and her voice was quiet as she said, “What’s this about, Damasco? I mean, really? What is it you think I’ve done to you?”
    It was the last question I wanted to answer just then, and I fought to think of a way out of it. Yet even as it did, the words were frothing inside me, bubbling up like a geyser, and there was nothing I could do to keep them down. “What did you do? I trusted you, damn it! You and Alvantes... the great and noble heroes of the Castoval! I thought... I was actually starting to believe it might mean something. We topple Mounteban, peace is restored, everyone’s happy. Now look at this mess! Even if we survive, what good’s ever going to come out of any of this?”
    I felt a hand on my shoulder and looked round to see Navare behind me. “Step down, Damasco,” he said, calm but firm.
    I shook him off roughly. It wasn’t that he was ordering me around; it was the pity in his voice as