Jayne went off to find Ned—in no great hurry it should be added. A sigh escaped me and I pulled a book from Father’s desk to distract me. Hennan would probably have gone in pursuit of Snorri, heading southwest along the Appan Way where it exited the River Gate. With any luck he would see Grandmother’s riders bringing the others back and follow them in. I didn’t fancy explaining the boy’s absence to Snorri. Especially not after Grandmother had taken the key off him.
I stared at the book spines for an empty moment, sighed again, and moved to check the strong-box in the corner, hoping to find a few coins. It was locked of course but I’d figured how to jig the mechanism long ago. All it took was a bent nail and some patience. It turned out that my reserves of patience weren’t equal to the task but that a bent nail and some frustrated cursing would also do the job.
“Crap.” The box proved disappointingly coin-free, though lifting a spare cardinal’s cape I found unexpected treasure. Father’s fone and holy stone lay wrapped in velvet. Two symbols of his office, second only to the cardinal’s seal. The fone was a thin and battered tablet of plasteek and glass that would fit easily in the hand. A tracery of silver wire held the thing together, preventing the dark and fractured glass escaping. The priesthood told it that the Builders could speak to anyone they chose through such devices, and draw on the knowledge of the great and ancient libraries of the world. The clergy themselves put their fones to more pious use, speeding their prayers to God and, so they claimed, hearing his replies. I’d listened myself on several occasions but sensed no connection.
The holy stone looked for all the world like a small iron pineapple, its surface divided into squares by deep grooves, a tarnished silver-steel handle or lever held tight to the side. In ancient times the pineapple was ever the symbol of welcome, though the church used the objects in a different way. Apparently, each theological student of good family and destined for high office was given one on beginning their training and forbidden from pulling the lever on pain of excommunication. A test of obedience they called it. A test of curiosity I called it. Clearly the church wanted bishops who lacked the imagination for exploration and questioning.
I toyed with the thing. Let he that is without sin cast the first stone . . . and set it aside, knowing Father would disinherit me if I broke it. Treasures, but sadly too valuable and too difficult to pawn. I wondered briefly at their significance. As a rule, Father never let them from his sight. Perhaps he feared if he took them to Roma with him the pope might strip them from him by way of chastisement for his failings in office.
I closed the box and returned to my seat, plucking a book at random from the shelves. The Prodigal Son. Bible stories aren’t my strong point but I had a feeling the prodigal son had been feasted and celebrated on his return, despite being a waste of space. Here I was, with actual accomplishments to my name and all I’d got was a plaque on the outside of the family church, and a telling off for not wresting from a giant Norse killing-machine something that I didn’t know Grandmother wanted in the first place. Add to that Micha married to an undeserving Darin, Sharal promised away to a man who looked set to carve me up for sport, and Hennan running off to the road as if trudging through the dust was better than life in the palace of Vermillion.
“I’m going out.” I tossed the book down. My life in Vermillion had always centred on its less salubrious spots, its flesh-pits and hellholes, the racetrack, the bordellos . . .
First to my rooms to find something suitable to wear for town. I found the place in a terrible mess and pursed my lips. It was entirely possible I’d left my gear scattered when I left—but I expected it tidied away by . . . someone. I wasn’t sure who did such things, but they happened. Always. I made a note to complain to Ballessa about it. It almost looked as if someone had rummaged through my belongings . . . With a shrug I selected a fine waistcoat, pantaloons with slashed velvet revealing a scarlet silk liner, a dark and expensive cape with a silver clasp. A glance in the mirror. Ravishing. Time to go.
Down in the guardhouse I rousted out the two old men Father assigned to my personal protection: Ronar and Todd, both veterans of some war not worth a song. I’d never enquired after their family names. They got up, grumbling, and clattered along after me as if it were some great imposition after spending the last six months on their arses playing battamon in the barracks.
From Roma Hall I led off aiming for the guest range to gather up some of my old cronies. I cut through the Field, a poorly named courtyard where in my youth I spent many unhappy hours being drilled in all the military arts. I passed Uncle Hertet, almost lost amid his retinue. Into his fifties and wearing his years poorly he cut a gaudy figure in a high-necked tunic sewn with enough gold thread to found an orphanage. I spotted cousins Roland and Rotus in the mix but none of them so much as spared me a glance. They seemed to be coming from the direction of the Inner Palace—perhaps another formal visit where the heir-apparently-not checked in to see if his mother had had the decency to die yet.
• • •
From the Field I led my two layabout bodyguards to the guest range, a sprawling arm of the Inner Palace, secured from the royal quarters and home to a fluid population of visiting nobility, diplomats, trade delegations and the like. Barras Jon’s father, the ambassador from Vyene, held a suite of chambers on the second floor. Vyene might be the capital of a broken empire but the memory of its former glory lent its ambassadors a certain gravitas—further bolstered by the quality of the Gilden Guard who once served the last emperor and now protected the dynasty of officials he left behind.
Quite why Grand Jon had been at court for three years now nobody seemed to know. The empire had a hundred fragments as large as Red March and while the Vyenese ambassadors would certainly call in at each of them from time to time, few stayed to take up residence. Barras only said that his father, having negotiated a truce between Scorron and the March, now refused to leave for fear it would fall apart the moment his back turned.
I led the way through several long corridors, stairs up, stairs down, and stairs up. At last we reached the correct doors and I hammered for admission.
“Barras!” He came to the chamber doors half-dressed, though it took an age after I’d sent the doorman to get him. Rollas came up behind him, a hefty fellow, competent with fists and blade, good company but you never forgot he was there to protect the ambassador’s son from the consequences of his own recklessness.
“Jalan! It’s true! We thought the opera killed you.” He grinned, though with a nervy air. He’d buttoned his shirt wrong and had what looked like bite marks on his neck.
“It was touch and go for a while,” I said. “But I got out during the intermission. Had a bit of an adventure up north, but I’m back and ready for trouble. We’re hitting the town tonight.”
“Sounds good . . . Who is ‘we’?” He rubbed at his neck, eyes flicking to Rollas who’d come to crowd the doorway, giving me a friendly nod.
“We’ll get the Greyjars, winkle Omar out of his studies, head down to Davmar Gardens and spill a little wine . . . see where the night leads us.” A flicker of satin skirts caught my eye and I peered past Barras to the corner at the end of the hallway behind him. “Entertaining a young lady in there, Barras? What would the Grand Jon say?”
“He, ah . . . he’d give me his blessing.” Barras looked at his feet, frowning. “I, um.”
“He got married,” Rollas said. “When you ‘died’ it shook him up a bit. Started thinking about what his plans were, what he might leave behind him if something cut him short too.” He gave a shrug as if this were a stage all men went through.
“You old dog!” I tried to sound cheerful about it. Though it’s hard to cheer the loss of a good man. “Who is she? Someone rich I hope!”
Barras still couldn’t look me in the eye. Rollas cleared his throat.
“Oh for Christsake . . . not Lisa?” My voice came out louder than intended. “You m
arried Lisa DeVeer?”
Barras looked up sheepishly. “She was very upset when you . . . when she thought you’d died with Alain. I thought it my duty to comfort her.”
“The hell you did.” I could see him “comforting” her right now. “Poor Jalan. I expect he’s in a better place now . . .” shuffling closer to her on the chaise longue, “There, there!” arm creeping around her shoulders. “Dammit all.” I turned on my heel and started to stride away.
“Where are you going?” Barras called after me.
“To find Roust and Lon. I expect you’ll try and tell me the Greyjars are married now?”
“Gone back to Arrow,” he shouted as the distance between us grew. “Their cousin has taken the country to war. They’re part of the invasion of Conaught now!”
“Omar then!” I roared back.
“Returned to Hamada to study at the mathema!”
“Shit on it all!” And I was past earshot, taking the stairs three at a time. I paused for breath at the main doors and let the injustice of it all sink in. I had definitely been going to ask Lisa to marry me. Lisa, whose memory sustained me in the icy wastes, kept me going despite pain, hardship and the suicidal nature of our quest. Lisa, who my mind kept returning to in the empty wilderness. Married! To my friend Barras! I gave the doorpost a vicious kick and hobbled out into the blazing sun. I made the Poor Palace my next stop. I hadn’t intended to but with things at a low ebb I set out across Victory Plaza and went up to see what old Garyus had to say for himself. I used the stairs, it being too hot for climbing. In any case such activities were beneath the dignity of a prince returning from staring death in the eye on margins of the Bitter Ice.
“Hello?” Nobody stood in attendance and the door lay half-open.
No answer.
“Hello?” I leaned in. “It’s me. Jalan.”
The lump on the bed turned ponderously. With a sigh and an effort that set him trembling Garyus raised his head, as ugly and misshapen as I recalled, but older and more tired.
“Young Jalan.”
“I’m back.” I took the chair by the bed and sat down uninvited. With the curtain drawn I could make out little save for the furniture.
“I’m glad of it.” He smiled, his lips wet, a trail of drool drying on his chin, but a genuine smile.
“You’re the only one.” I bent to rub my toes, still smarting from kicking the wall. “Grandmother just roared me out of the throne room over some key . . .”
“Loki’s key.” It didn’t seem to be a question. Garyus watched me with mild eyes.
“Probably going to be Kelem’s key soon enough.” A silence stretched. “Kelem is—”
“I know who he is,” Garyus said. “Anyone with business interests knows old Kelem. Not so many years ago it might just as well have been his face on every coin of Empire.”
“And now? I thought he owned every bank in Florence.” What was it Snorri had said? Something about the beating heart of commerce.
“They call him the father of the banking clans, but if a father lives too long his children are apt to turn on him.” With effort Garyus waved his arm at correspondence piled on the desk behind his bed. “There’s trouble brewing in Umbertide. Finance houses seeking new partners. Some have even looked as far as the Drowned Isles. These are interesting times, Jalan, interesting times.”
“The Drowned Isles? The Dead King is interested in gold as well as corpses?”
Garyus shrugged. “One often follows the other.” He lay back, rasping in a breath, apparently exhausted.
“Are you . . .” I hunted for the right word, obviously he wasn’t “well.” “Can I get someone for you?”
“Tired, Jalan. Old and tired and broken. I . . . should sleep.” He closed his eyes. There were a thousand questions I’d wanted to ask him on my journey. But now, seeing him frail and ancient none of them seemed so pressing. Quite how we ended up talking about banks I wasn’t entirely sure but I hadn’t the heart to challenge him over any of my suspicions—they seemed silly now I sat here before him.
“Sleep then, Uncle.” Almost a whisper. I turned to go.
He spoke once more as I stepped through the door, voice thick with dreams. “I am glad . . . to see you, Jalan . . . knew you had it in you, boy.”
• • •
“Just you and me for the now, boys.”
Ronar and Todd waited for me, lounging in the shade, at ease in the way only old soldiers can manage. They seemed neither excited nor disappointed by the news, simply straightening themselves up and preparing to move out. They didn’t look much, both grey, grizzled and carrying pot bellies, and I didn’t expect much of them either, remembering how quickly they faded away that last time in the Blood Holes when Maeres Allus came over for a word.
Off we set, through the Surgeons Gate out into the sullen heat of late afternoon, a dirty haze above the city’s roofs and a threat of distant thunderheads clustering above the Gonella Hills to the south. I felt somewhat deflated, but there’s nothing like a skin-full of wine to reflate a man’s ego, so I led my guards out along the Corelli Line which mirrors the curves of the Seleen, set back on a ridge from where the waters can be glimpsed between the houses. Merchant dwellings and the town houses of minor aristocracy give way in time to the squares and plazas of Little Venice, divided and bracketed by innumerable canals. We crossed a few of the many humped bridges and came to the Grapes of Roth, a wine-house I knew well. Old Roth had died years ago but his sons inherited his flair for selecting good vintages and keeping the hoi polloi out.
“Prince Jalan!” The elder son danced between the tables, graceful despite the swing and sway of his belly. “We thought you had abandoned us!”
“Never!” I let him guide me in and draw out a chair for me at one of the reserved tables near the centre beneath high awnings. “Not even death could keep me from your hospitality, Marco!”
“What can I bring you, my prince?” A genial smile on fat and pockmarked cheeks. The man generated a miasma of good humour, his ugliness somehow charming, and if the fact that I owed him the best part of fifty crowns in gold bothered him . . . well none of it showed on the surface.
“A good Rhonish red,” I said.
“Ah, your tastes have broadened, Prince Jalan! But all Rhonish reds are good. Which to choose? Bayern? Ilar Valley? Chamy-Nix? Don P—”
“Chamy-Nix.”
“As you say.” And with a bow he was off. Soon a boy would be scurrying to the cellars in search of my wine.
I leaned back. Todd and Ronar had taken themselves to the shade of a large maple not far outside the part of the plaza roped off for Roth’s customers. The slow ebb and flow of the world passed by as shadows lengthened. My wine came and I sipped it, washing the flavour over my tongue. Relaxed, warm, safe, respected. It should have felt better than it did. After a while the wine began to erode my sense of discontent but from time to time I would see some or other long and rolling horizon from my travels, stretching away, full of secrets waiting to unfold. I tried to shake off the sensation and remind myself how awful it had been from beginning to end.
“Prince Jalan! How are you? You must tell us about your adventures.” A man, catching my eye from a neighbouring table. I frowned a moment taking him in, thin, weasel-like, balding, a port-wine stain beneath his eye as if he’d been crying blood . . . Bonarti Poe! A dreadful social climber and a fellow I would normally cut dead, but lacking company, and remembering how pretty his sister was, I gave him the slightest nod and with a twitch of my finger beckoned him and his cronies over.
Before Roth’s sons had the lamps lit I was in my cups, a bottle and a half to the good, and lying my way through the first leg of my trek north. I steered clear of unsettling detail and made no mention of the Dead King, but even so surprised myself by discovering that for once the lies were merely window-dressing and the truth provided a decent backbone to
the tale.
“Two dozen of the brigands, pursuing us up into mountains as steep as any you’ll find around the Aral Pass!” I drained my goblet, shaping the mountains in question with my spare hand. “Edris Dean at their head—as foul a murderer as ever—”
The conversation waned around me, not dying as if a man had walked in carrying a severed head, but fading as if every person there suddenly didn’t want to be noticed. From the looks on the faces around me, all aimed my way, I thought for a moment that perhaps Edris Dean was standing behind me exactly as I had described him.
“Prince Jalan, how good to see you.” A soft voice, slightly nasal, one might almost call it boring.
I turned, having to crane my neck awkwardly. “Maeres Allus.” I managed not to stammer, though immediately I felt as though I were tied to that table of his, waiting for Cutter John to redesign my face with a sharp little knife.
“Don’t let me disturb you, my prince.” Maeres laid one of his small and neatly manicured hands upon my shoulder. “I just wanted to welcome you back from your travels. I believe that Count Isen is to pay a call to the Roma Hall tomorrow, but if you are available after that then it would be a pleasure to see you at the Blood Holes again and discuss matters of business.”
The gentle pressure lifted and Maeres moved away without waiting for a reply. He left me feeling uncomfortably sober and all of a sudden wishing for the security of the palace walls.
“Damn fellow.” I stood up, brushing at my shoulder where he’d touched me. “Remembered I’ve a thing at the palace. Royal . . . reception.” I didn’t feel drunk but my lying was below par. I have on occasion placated wronged husbands with the most ridiculous of excuses—the art is in the delivery. Said with enough conviction even “I dropped my cufflink down her bodice, gift from my mother don’t you know, and she needed help getting it out,” can be made to sound temporarily plausible. Nobody at this table however thought for one moment that I was leaving for any reason other than Maeres Allus.