I hugged the wall once more and strained to listen. As far as I could judge, there was no one directly above. There was no point waiting for a better opportunity. Gripping with my right hand and all my might, I let go with my left and drew out the first of the short, flat-bladed knives I had stashed in my belt. I hunted for a suitable patch of mortar, eyes struggling against the darkness. Eventually I thought I'd found a point where the blocks fit badly, creating a wider gap of weather-scoured mortar. I jammed the knife's tip in as far as it would go, wincing at the ring of metal on stone. Not pausing to check if anyone had heard, I laboured to drive the blade further in.
Satisfied, I returned my free hand to the rope. I climbed an arm's length higher, enough that I could angle a leg up and rest my foot on the protruding knife hilt. I reached for another knife, hunted another gap, jabbed this one at shoulder height. Switching hands, I added a third on my opposite side. Finally, using the lowest knife as a foothold and the leftmost as a handhold, I reached over to hammer in a fourth, low as I could reach.
The result was an off-kilter square, just below the summit of the wall.
Of everything my misconceived plan involved, I'd dreaded this part most. Yet what else could I do? It had to be just after dawn, I was sure of that much — Moaradrid might have been a madman with chronic paternal issues, but he'd understood what made the giants terrifying. Then, once it started, I'd have a few minutes at most. I couldn't possibly have climbed the entire wall and done everything else that lay ahead in so short a time.
Meanwhile, trying to ascend the last distance would mean passing directly into the view of anyone watching from the wall. Even in my dark garb, it was too great a chance to take. At least, thanks to the knives, I had holds. I only had to hang on for a short while. How hard could that be?
My hands were first to lose their feeling.
Terrifying as that was, I found I could brace against the wall with my feet and calves. Though they felt like clods of meat, my numbed hands still kept me in place, aided by the rope, which I'd managed to loop round my wrists. If I could only stay like that, I'd be all right.
Only, the numbness was spreading. It seemed so much colder up there on the wall than it had been on the ground. The wind flailed across me, dipping icy fingers inside my cloak. Slowly but certainly, it found the flesh of my wrists, my forearms. In its wake came the prickle of pins and needles — and then, far worse, no feeling at all.
I pressed against the stone, concentrating every speck of strength I had left into holding myself in place. Even as I did it, I knew it wouldn't be enough. It was too cold. I was too worn out by my climb. With nothing to distract me, time was passing at the barest crawl. How could I hang on when every minute seemed an hour?
Sooner or later — and I knew it would be sooner — some vital muscle would succumb to the creeping chill. Then the only question would be whether I had feeling left in whichever part of me hit the ground first.
At first, I thought the sound was my own heartbeat shuddering in my ears.
Only, why would my heartbeat be coming from behind me? With utmost care, I shifted my weight to the rope, sending shivers of painful life back into my hands. Once I was fairly sure I wouldn't just plummet, I began to twist around, manoeuvring until my back was to the wall. There ahead lay the Suburbs, sketched in deep shades of grey beneath me.
I'd hardly dared hope. But I'd been right. The giants were coming.
From my vantage point, I could make them out easily. They were approaching through a particularly derelict region of the Suburbs, and they towered head and shoulders above the crumpled shacks. I found my numb face could manage a thin smile. That was a nice touch on Saltlick's part.
A choked shout sounded from close above me. Others followed close behind, from all along the northern wall. I wasn't surprised to make out the word "giants" over and over, along with an impressive amount of cursing.
I could see the giants clearly by then, as I was sure those watching above me could. They'd certainly been busy in the Suburbs. In broad daylight, I'd have easily recognised their helmets as cooking pans and cauldrons, their clubs as broken timbers, their armour as a patchwork of cloth and loose-tied boards scrounged from deserted shacks. In that tricky dawn gloom, though? It made the illusion real. The giants looked nothing like friendly behemoths clad in carnival gear of looted junk. They were armoured monsters, fearsome and implacable.
What made the effect all the more believable was that I could hear the giants clearly too. For every one of Mounteban's men who cried out above me, a giant bellowed incoherently below. On my instruction, they were keeping to meaningless roars or shouting in their own clipped language. It was hard to say which was more alarming.
They were putting on quite a show; if I hadn't been nine-tenths numb and suspended from a wall, I might have laughed. For Mounteban's lackeys, the effect was anything but humorous. I could hear the rising terror in their exclamations — and increasingly, the shouts were joined by the clatter of running footsteps. Just as I'd hoped, they were running away from me.
I gave it another few seconds, as long as my rapidly failing grip would stand. There was always the chance someone would have sense enough to remain on lookout, but it was a risk I had to take. Steeling myself, I began to climb once more. Though I was sure my cold limbs would fail me, that my numbed fingers would lose their hold, somehow they didn't. It took me less than a minute to reach the height of the battlements to my left.
Treading sideways against the stone, I managed to swing a little, to hook a foot into a gap. I used that foot to drag myself over and then lashed out a hand for the edge of the tower. With foot and hand together, I pulled myself further, until, with a leg and arm an chored, I could haul myself the last way. I flopped onto the walkway.
Had there been anyone between the next tower and me, they couldn't have failed to see me. There wasn't. Sure enough, all their attention was absorbed with repelling the imminent assault. How were they to know it was a sham? I didn't doubt Mounteban would have put out word that the giants wouldn't hurt a fly, but who would believe Mounteban's word over their own eyes? Nobody who didn't know them could look at those vast figures, lurching through the shadowed streets, and see anything but monsters set to tear the city down brick by brick.
They'd know differently soon enough. Once the fighting began, even the most fear-blinded defenders would realise it was entirely one-sided. Time was already running out. I had to move.
I pitched to my feet, slumped hard against the parapet, managed to steady myself and keep going. Halfway to the next tower, stairs led down. I took them three at a time. All the while, I strove to prepare myself. Just because this section of wall had been abandoned that didn't mean the gate would be unguarded. If it was, I was defenceless, the only weapons I'd thought to bring still embedded in the wall behind me. Why could I never hang onto a knife for more than ten minutes?
I reached the base of the stairs without slowing. The gatehouse was beyond the next tower, hidden from view. The racket behind me was increasing second by second, the confusion of yelled warnings and barked orders becoming louder and more hysterical, mixing with a building tremor of feet and hooves. Over it all, the roars of the giants massed like a great black cloud, ominous of the storm to come.
As the pitch of the chaos behind me heightened to ear-splitting levels, the tower loomed in my view. A stitch was flaring in my not-quite-thawed side. How could this ever have seemed a good idea? I was on the verge of collapse, sprinting straight into a trap — one of my own design.
I ran on. It was a trap I'd already sprung, for I had nowhere else to go. Anyway, I still had a tongue in my head, didn't I? Even if I couldn't fight, perhaps I could still bluff.