Crown Thief

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"Things are looking up for Easie Damasco."

"Hrm?" Saltlick stared down at me questioningly. That, at least, was how I interpreted the expression smeared across the giant's lumpish features. In truth, it could have been anything between mild annoyance and indigestion.

"My luck is on the turn," I explained. "Yours too. Take my word for it."

Saltlick's face broke into a grin, and he nodded enthusiastically.

Ahead, the small militia we travelled with — half amateur soldiers gathered from around the Castoval, half guardsmen from nearby Altapasaeda — chose that moment to break into song. Or rather, songs, for the minute the Castovalians struck up a bawdy tavern ballad, the Altapasaedans countered with a clamorous northern marching chant.

It was an amiable enough competition. Here were men who'd helped defeat the despotic Moaradrid, foiled his plans for the Castoval, and now were heading home as heroes; those all seemed good enough reasons for high spirits.

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