The Race of Thieves
It was a long journey to Ceren and they made it at breakneck speed.
Nobody slept more than a few hours at a time, or ate sitting down – but the last stages were thrilling.
The island came in sight on the second day in the warm light of late afternoon: Christopher stood at the tiller, and Anya leaned over the edge, cheering, her new floor-length hair flying like a flag, both swords at her back.
‘Land ahead!’ she called, just as Jacques came fluttering up from the cabin. The dragon was, it was clear from thirty paces, furious.
‘The impudence!’
‘What?’
‘That … creature!’
Christopher followed the dragon’s look. An identical Jacques was perched on the railing, laughing.
‘The leshoki!’ said Christopher. ‘It must have stowed away!’
Anya grinned. ‘It doesn’t take up much room, Jacques, to be fair.’
‘That is not my complaint! It … it turned itself into me, and then it … but I cannot say what it did!’
‘What did it do?’ said Anya instantly.
‘It farted! In my face! To fart in one’s own face! To witness one’s own sphincter at such close quarters! Unthinkable!’
They were saved from replying, much to Christopher’s relief – the struggle not to laugh was considerable – by a cry from Ratwin. ‘Comings-up in to docks! There’s a crowd-horde!’
‘Christopher,’ said Anya in a low voice. ‘I’ve just thought – how will the Astorians know where to come to get the apple?’
‘We’ll have to take the mirror out again.’
Anya ran down into the boat and came back with the mirror, handling it like it might explode.
Christopher held it up, sweeping it around the dock as they sailed into the bustling, thronging port.
Then he laid it flat in the prow of the boat.
‘I’m going to ride in the Race of Thieves,’ he said to the mirror.
‘And he’s going to win,’ said Anya.
There was an orange-and-black flicker in the corner of the mirror, as if a tail had whipped out of sight.
Dozens of boats were heading into the quay. Ratwin expertly navigated them in among the sails, guided by a sharp-faced boy who hurried to take the mooring rope. He offered his hand as they stepped ashore, bowing low.
‘Welcome, travellers, to Cenia, capital of Ceren, on this fabulous day – the Race of Thieves!’ The boy appeared to be waiting for something. Then: ‘I don’t bow for free, you know.’
‘We didn’t ask you to bow,’ said Jacques. ‘Feel free to take it back, if you wish.’
Anya, though, just raised an eyebrow and gave a quarter-smile, then tossed the boy a coin. ‘You can keep an eye on the boat. Which way,’ she asked, ‘for the race?’
‘Just follow the crowd,’ said the boy. ‘It starts at dusk, so I’d hurry if I was you, if you want a good spot.’ He eyed them; the last days had not done much for their clothing and cleanliness. ‘I’m quite glad not to be you, to be honest.’
‘Then I suggest that you be less honest,’ said Anya. And she swept away, swords at her back, blonde hair trailing behind her. She grinned at Christopher. ‘That was smile number sixteen of the official royal smiles: haughty but essentially benevolent.’
The vast crowds were all headed in one direction, jostling, laughing, arguing, eating peanuts and swigging from hip flasks. Anya spotted a row of sleek open carriages pulled by twrch tryths, each filling up with a dozen passengers.
‘You want the square?’ said a driver as they approached. He had clusters of dark warts across his face and down his thick neck. ‘Transport to the city square?’
‘We want the Race of Thieves,’ said Christopher.
‘Don’t say it aloud, fool! Just, the square. And a wink.’
‘I can’t winks,’ said Ratwin. She blinked instead, meaningfully.
The driver sighed. ‘Get in,’ he said. ‘All of you. The dragon’s free if he flies, but if he lands, then you have to pay. Give the money to the mouse.’
‘The mouse?’
‘Batrachomyomachian mouse. His name is Troxartes.’
The mouse hurried eagerly forward, proffering a silk purse in his paws for their coins. They were followed on to the carriage by three men and a tall, muscular woman, all of them wearing hoods that cast their faces in shadow.
Anya raised her eyebrows at Christopher. ‘Subtle,’ she whispered. ‘Not at all suspicious.’
The carriage bore them down broad avenues into the city.
The streets were cobbled and the buildings towered over them in red and yellow stone.
It was an ancient and sumptuous place, but its grandeur was that of a long-declining city: walls eroded by time, and wild pink-flowered creepers growing up street lamps.
The mouse appeared at Christopher’s elbow.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, we will be arriving in ten minutes. Please ensure that you have all your personal belongings with you, and that you do not dismount the carriage until it has come to a complete standstill, lest you be dashed to the ground and your brains fall out on to the cobbles.’
‘Right,’ said Anya. ‘Good to know.’
‘Did they say you were called Troxartes?’ said Christopher.
‘They did, sir. Can I assist in any way? I do so love to assist.’
‘Could you tell us about the race? We’re … strangers here,’ he said.
‘Oh, it is a fearsome thing! The prize this year is twenty thousand Lithian bullions, and a golden apple from the Garden of the Hesperides.’
‘And where does the race go?’ said Christopher. ‘And how long is it?’
‘And what can you ride?’ said Anya.
‘One question at a time, dear customers!’
‘Sorry,’ said Anya. ‘You tell us, in your own time.’
‘A pleasure!’ He beamed with delight, showing long rodent teeth.
‘The only rule is that your steed must not be capable of flight, but everything else is permitted. I believe one winner some years ago rode a rogue behemoth, and trampled the others. The race was made illegal after that, but it still flourishes. Some of the most notorious vagabonds and wild-girls in Glimouria turn up for our event. There is wagering, and people come from across the islands. Every few years, someone loses a limb or ends up a little dead. The Gardai look the other way, for this one night.’
‘What about the course?’
‘It leads through the great square in the centre of the city, around the city walls, through the river and back over the bridge.’
‘And what kinds of creatures tend to win?’
Troxartes considered. ‘Last year it was a young twrch tryth, I believe. This year, the betting was on the Ceryneian hind, from this island. A deer the size of a bull, antlers of gold. There are perhaps three dozen in the whole Archipelago.’ He moved closer, like one about to impart gossip.
‘She was to be ridden by the jockey Tatenda Ajmal – he’s famous across the islands. But that is no longer possible.’
‘Why not?’
‘Just yesterday, someone broke into her enclosure: a masked man, clipping hairs from her tail. Tatenda chased him off but it spooked the hind. When Tatenda mounted, she bucked him off and savaged both his legs. They’re wild, the hinds. They can’t be in captivity. They die or kill – or both.’
‘Right,’ said Christopher. ‘Thanks, Troxartes. That’s helpful.’
‘Helpfuls, albeits horrifying,’ said Ratwin.
‘I’m not horrified,’ said Jacques. ‘I never am at accounts of death or bloodshed.’
‘I know you’re not,’ said Christopher. ‘But sometimes, I reckon you should consider trying. Just to be polite.’
He looked at Anya, and she nodded at him. They had had the same thought. ‘The hind,’ she whispered. ‘That’s your mount.’
‘We’re coming into sight of the square now,’ said the mouse, and bustled away to ask the tall woman in the hood to stop trying to jump out without paying.
The centre of the city was an enormous square, one side of it a palace, eroded by time but still beautiful, a site of ancient authority. As they pulled up, two centaurs passed by its soaring red-stone clock tower, deep in conversation.
‘Out you get. Here’s your return ticket.’ The carriage driver handed them red slips of paper. ‘We’ll take you back after the race.’
‘There’ll be padded carts too,’ said Troxartes, ‘for anyone who loses a leg if there’s a stampede of riders, or gets their hair burned off. But they cost extra.’
There was a raucous carnival feeling in the square.
Around the sides were rides: a carousel, in which the metal horses pawed the ground and tossed their heads; a Ferris wheel that went double speed.
There was a sign reading Reglio’s Phantastical Flying Rig, next to which small children, tethered to a rope, were soaring and somersaulting through the sky.
There were stalls everywhere: wine, cake, one at which young men looked admiringly at a group of young women selecting centaur-made sweets.
It was presided over by a man with a mouth full of gold teeth.
His voice boomed over the crowds: ‘Toffee apples! Sweet rose sherbet! Airbonbons! Float in the air as you suck them. Candy fingernails! Chew your nails to your heart’s content!
Underarma violets! Makes your armpits smell like flowers.
You, sir –’ he nodded at Christopher – ‘you look like a young man who could do with an upgraded armpit.’
‘Rude-impertinent,’ said Ratwin. ‘Albeits true.’
A man walked past, calling out, ‘Pie? Meat pie, fish pie, cheese pie?’
Christopher realised he was famished. He was about to hand over three coins when Ratwin shook her head. ‘You know Nighthand’s eel and jam pie? Worses than thats.’
‘I’m starving though.’ He bought peanuts instead, wrapped in a twist of paper, salty and still hot from roasting.
‘You can tell the Gardai are having a day off,’ said Anya uneasily, as two hooded figures hurried past, one carrying a sack of something pulsating.
Everywhere Christopher looked, the crowd thrummed with tense excitement.
There were betting touts moving through the crowd, and money was changing hands.
Some in the throng were open-faced and eager, laughing with giddy pleasure.
But there were many hidden faces, tattooed cheeks and a small crowd of men sitting outside a bar who seemed to be competing in a ‘Who has the thickest neck’ competition.
Christopher halted suddenly as they passed, as a word caught his attention.
‘Astorians?’ said one of the men. ‘I heard they were in the west. They looted a town in Riverrun. Stole their herd of Geryonian cattle, and slaughtered a dozen hippocamps.’
‘Seems to be no logic to it,’ said another. ‘Some places rich, some poor. Some places not even inhabited – they burned a forest full of Diomedian mares.’
‘There’ll be a logic,’ said a woman. Her face was like a slab of granite, but there was something sharp in her eyes. ‘It’s just we can’t see it yet.’
‘I dunno,’ said the first man. ‘Sometimes there isn’t logic. Maybe it’s random terror.’
‘Why are they called Astorians?’
‘For Astor Morax. The man they serve. The man with the snake.’
‘What d’you mean – what snake?’
But he shook his head. ‘I met him once.’
‘And? And what?’
‘His face …’ The man looked round, and saw Christopher and Anya listening. He half rose. ‘Eavesdropping, kids?’
Christopher didn’t move, but Anya seized his arm and pulled him away.
‘Did you hear?’ said Christopher. ‘He said a name! Astor Morax.’
‘I heard.’ She spat on the ground. ‘We won’t forget it.’
He twisted to look back at the men. ‘But when we find Irian, we’ll find Morax.’
‘And we’ll make him regret his entire life,’ said Anya. And she said the name again, disgust in her mouth. ‘Astor Morax.’
They pressed on, winding between the revellers. Then Christopher saw it: at the far end of the square was a row of dun-coloured stables made of tented canvas, each with a flag flying. He nudged Anya.
‘The contestants,’ he said. ‘That’s where the hind will be. Come on.’