The Liar's Key

by Mark Lawrence

  “You might not remember the stool but I’m pulling pieces of it out of your cheek—so keep still. We don’t want to spoil those good looks, now do we?”

  I did my best to hold still at that. It was true, good looks and a title were most of what I had going for me and I wasn’t keen to lose either. To take my mind off the pain I tried to remember how I had managed to get beaten with my own furniture. I drew a blank. Some vague recollection of high-pitched screaming and shouting . . . a memory of being kicked whilst on the floor . . . a glimpse through slitted eyes of two women leaving arm in arm, one petite, pale, young, the other tall, golden, maybe thirty. Neither looked back.

  “Right! Up you get. That’s the best I can do for now.” Tuttugu hauled on my arm to get me on my feet.

  I stood swaying, nauseous, hung over, perhaps still a little drunk, and—though I found it hard to credit—slightly horny.

  “Come on. We have to go.” Tuttugu started to drag me toward the brightness of the doorway. I tried digging in my heels but to no avail.

  “Where?” Springtime in Trond had turned out to be more bitter than a Red March midwinter and I’d no interest in exposing myself to it.

  “The docks!” Tuttugu seemed worried. “We might just make it!”

  “Why? Make what?” I didn’t remember much of the morning but I hadn’t forgotten that “worried” was Tuttugu’s natural state. I shook him off. “Bed. That’s where I’m going.”

  “Well if that’s where you want Jarl Sorren’s men to find you . . .”

  “Why should I give a fig for Jarl Sorr—oh.” I remembered Hedwig. I remembered her on the furs in the jarlshouse when everyone else was still at her sister’s wedding feast. I remembered her on my cloak during an ill-advised outdoors tryst. She kept my front warm but damn my arse froze. I remembered her upstairs at the tavern that one time she slipped her minders . . . I was surprised we didn’t shake all three axes down from above the entrance that afternoon. “Give me a moment . . . two moments!” I held up a hand to stay Tuttugu and charged upstairs.

  Once back in my chamber a single moment proved ample. I stamped on the loose floorboard, scooped up my valuables, snatched an armful of clothing, and was heading back down the stairs before Tuttugu had the time to scratch his chins.

  “Why the docks?” I panted. The hills would be a quicker escape—and then a boat from Hjorl on Aöefl’s Fjord just up the coast. “The docks are the first place they’ll look after here!” I’d be stood there still trying to negotiate a passage to Maladon or the Thurtans when the jarl’s men found me.

  Tuttugu stepped around Floki Wronghelm, sprawled and snoring beside the bar. “Snorri’s down there, preparing to sail.” He bent down behind the bar, grunting.

  “Snorri? Sailing?” It seemed that the stool had dislodged more than the morning’s memories. “Why? Where’s he going?”

  Tuttugu straightened up holding my sword, dusty and neglected from its time hidden on the bar shelf. I didn’t reach for it. I’m fine with wearing a sword in places where nobody is going to see it as an invitation—Trond was never such a place.

  “Take it!” Tuttugu angled the hilt toward me.

  I ignored it, wrestling myself into my clothes, the coarse weave of the north, itchy but warm. “Since when did Snorri have a boat?” He’d sold the Ikea to finance the expedition to the Black Fort—that much I did remember.

  “I should get Astrid back here to see if another beating with a stool might knock some sense into you!” Tuttugu tossed the sword down beside me as I sat to haul my boots on.

  “Astrid? . . . Astrid!” A moment returned to me with crystal clarity—Edda coming down the stairs half-naked, Astrid watching. It had been a while since a morning went so spectacularly wrong for me. I’d never intended the two of them to collide in such circumstances but Astrid hadn’t struck me as the jealous sort. In fact I hadn’t been entirely sure I was the only younger man keeping her bed warm whilst her husband roamed the seas a-trading. We mostly met at her place up on the Arlls Slope, so stealth with Edda hadn’t been a priority. “How did Astrid even know about Hedwig?” More importantly, how did she reach me before Jarl Sorren’s housecarls, and how much time did I have?

  Tuttugu ran a hand down his face, red and sweating despite the spring chill. “Hedwig managed to send a messenger while her father was still raging and gathering his men. The boy galloped from Sorrenfast and started asking where to find the foreign prince. People directed him to Astrid’s house. I got all this from Olaaf Fish-hand after I saw Astrid storming down the Carls Way. So . . .” He drew a deep breath. “Can we go now, because—”

  But I was up and past him, out into the unwholesome freshness of the day, splattering through half-frozen mud, aimed down the street for the docks, the mast tops just visible above the houses. Gulls circled on high, watching my progress with mocking cries.

  TWO

  If there’s one thing I like less than boats it’s being brutally murdered by an outraged father. I reached the docks painfully aware that I’d put my boots on the wrong feet and slung my sword too low so it tried to trip me at each stride. The usual scene greeted me, a waterfront crowded with activity despite the fishermen having put to sea hours earlier. The fact that the harbour lay ice-locked for the winter months seemed to set the Norsemen into a frenzy come spring—a season characterized by being slightly above the freezing point of brine rather than by the unfurling of flowers and the arrival of bees as in more civilized climes. A forest of masts painted stark lines against the bright horizon, longboats and Viking trade ships nestled alongside triple-masted merchantmen from a dozen nations to the south. Men bustled on every side, loading, unloading, doing complicated things with ropes, fishwives further back working on the nets or applying wickedly sharp knives to glimmering mounds of last night’s catch.

  “I don’t see him.” Snorri was normally easy to spot in a crowd—you just looked up.

  “There!” Tuttugu tugged my arm and pointed to what must be the smallest boat at the quays, occupied by the largest man.

  “That thing? It’s not even big enough for Snorri!” I hastened after Tuttugu anyway. There seemed to be some sort of disturbance up by the harbour master’s station and I could swear someone shouted “Kendeth!”

  I overtook Tuttugu and clattered out along the quay to arrive well ahead of him above Snorri’s little boat. Snorri looked up at me through the black and windswept tangle of his mane. I took a step back at the undisguised mistrust in his stare.

  “What?” I held out my hands. Any hostility from a man who swings an axe like Snorri does has to be taken seriously. “What did I do?” I did recall some kind of altercation—though it seemed unlikely that I’d have the balls to disagree with six and a half foot of over-muscled madman.

  Snorri shook his head and turned away to continue securing his provisions. The boat seemed full of them. And him.

  “No really! I got hit in the head. What did I do?”

  Tuttugu came puffing up behind me, seeming to want to say something, but too winded to speak.

  Snorri let out a snort. “I’m going, Jal. You can’t talk me out of it. We’ll just have to see who cracks first.”

  Tuttugu set a hand to my shoulder and bent as close to double as his belly would allow. “Jal—” Whatever he’d intended to say past that trailed off into a wheeze and a gasp.

  “Which of us cracks first?” It started to come back to me. Snorri’s crazy plan. His determination to head south with Loki’s key . . . and me equally resolved to stay cosy in the Three Axes enjoying the company until either my money ran out or the weather improved enough to promise a calm crossing to the continent. Aslaug agreed with me. Every sunset she would rise from the darkest reaches of my mind and tell me how unreasonable the Norseman was. She’d even convinced me that separating from Snorri would be for the best, releasing her and the light-sworn spirit Baraqel to return to their ow
n domains, carrying the last traces of the Silent Sister’s magic with them.

  “Jarl Sorren . . .” Tuttugu heaved in a lungful of air. “Jarl Sorren’s men!” He jabbed a finger back up the quay. “Go! Quick!”

  Snorri straightened up with a wince, and frowned back at the dock wall where chain-armoured housecarls were pushing a path through the crowd. “I’ve no bad blood with Jarl Sorren . . .”

  “Jal does!” Tuttugu gave me a hefty shove between the shoulder blades. I balanced for a moment, arms pinwheeling, took a half step forward, tripped over that damn sword, and dived into the boat. Bouncing off Snorri proved marginally less painful than meeting the hull face first, and he caught hold of enough of me to make sure I ended in the bilge water rather than the seawater slightly to the left.

  “What the hell?” Snorri remained standing a moment longer as Tuttugu started to struggle down into the boat.

  “I’m coming too,” Tuttugu said.

  I lay on my side in the freezing dirty water at the bottom of Snorri’s freezing dirty boat. Not the best time for reflection but I did pause to wonder quite how I’d gone so quickly from being pleasantly entangled in the warmth of Edda’s slim legs to being unpleasantly entangled in a cold mess of wet rope and bilge water. Grabbing hold of the small mast, I sat up, cursing my luck. When I paused to draw breath it also occurred to me to wonder why Tuttugu was descending toward us.

  “Get back out!” It seemed the same thought had struck Snorri. “You’ve made a life here, Tutt.”

  “And you’ll sink the damn boat!” Since no one seemed inclined to do anything about escaping I started to fit the oars myself. It was true though—there was nothing for Tuttugu down south and he did seem to have taken to life in Trond far more successfully than to his previous life as a Viking raider.

  Tuttugu stepped backward into the boat, almost falling as he turned.

  “What are you doing here, Tutt?” Snorri reached out to steady him whilst I grabbed the sides. “Stay. Let that woman of yours look after you. You won’t like it where I’m bound.”

  Tuttugu looked up at Snorri, the two of them uncomfortably close. “Undoreth, we.” That’s all he said, but it seemed to be enough for Snorri. They were after all most likely the last two of their people. All that remained of the Uuliskind. Snorri slumped as if in defeat then moved back, taking the oars and shoving me into the prow.

  “Stop!” Cries from the quay, above the clatter of feet. “Stop that boat!”

  Tuttugu untied the rope and Snorri drew on the oars, moving us smoothly away. The first of Jarl Sorren’s housecarls arrived red-faced above the spot where we’d been moored, roaring for our return.

  “Row faster!” I had a panic on me, terrified they might jump in after us. The sight of angry men carrying sharp iron has that effect on me.

  Snorri laughed. “They’re not armoured for swimming.” He looked back at them, raising his voice to a boom that drowned out their protests, “And if that man actually throws the axe he’s raising I really will come back to return it to him in person.”

  The man kept hold of his axe.

  “And good riddance to you!” I shouted, but not so loud the men on the quay would hear me. “A pox on Norsheim and all its women!” I tried to stand and wave my fist at them, but thought better of it after nearly pitching over the side. I sat down heavily, clutching my sore nose. At least I was heading south at last, and that thought suddenly put me in remarkably good spirits. I’d sail home to a hero’s welcome and marry Lisa DeVeer. Thoughts of her had kept me going on the Bitter Ice, and now with Trond retreating into the distance she filled my imagination once again.

  • • •

  It seemed that all those months of occasionally wandering down to the docks and scowling at the boats had made a better sailor of me. I didn’t throw up until we were so far from port that I could barely make out the expressions on the housecarls’ faces.

  “Best not to do that into the wind,” Snorri said, not breaking the rhythm of his rowing.

  I finished groaning before replying, “I know that, now.” I wiped the worst of it from my face. Having had nothing but a punch on the nose for breakfast helped to keep the volume down.

  “Will they give chase?” Tuttugu asked.

  That sense of elation at having escaped a gruesome death shrivelled up as rapidly as it had blossomed and my balls attempted a retreat back into my body. “They won’t . . . will they?” I wondered just how fast Snorri could row. Certainly under sail our small boat wouldn’t outpace one of Jarl Sorren’s longships.

  Snorri managed a shrug. “What did you do?”

  “His daughter.”

  “Hedwig?” A shake of the head and laugh broke from him. “Erik Sorren’s chased more than a few men over that one. But mostly just long enough to make sure they keep running. A prince of Red March though . . . might go the extra mile for a prince, then drag you back and see you handfasted before the Odin stone.”

  “Oh God!” Some other awful pagan torture I’d not heard about. “I barely touched her. I swear it.” Panic starting to rise, along with the next lot of vomit.

  “It means ‘married,’” said Snorri. “Handfasted. And from what I heard you barely touched her repeatedly and in her own father’s mead-hall to boot.”

  I said something full of vowels over the side before recovering myself to ask, “So, where’s our boat?”

  Snorri looked confused. “You’re in it.”

  “I mean the proper-sized one that’s taking us south.” Scanning the waves I could see no sign of the larger vessel I presumed we must be aiming to rendezvous with.

  Snorri’s mouth took on a stiff-jawed look as if I’d insulted his mother. “You’re in it.”

  “Oh come on . . .” I faltered beneath the weight of his stare. “We’re not seriously crossing the sea to Maladon in this rowboat are we?”

  By way of answer Snorri shipped the oars and started to prepare the sail.

  “Dear God . . .” I sat, wedged in the prow, my neck already wet with spray, and looked out over the slate-grey sea, flecked with white where the wind tore the tops off the waves. I’d spent most of the voyage north unconscious and it had been a blessing. The return would have to be endured without the bliss of oblivion.

  “Snorri plans to put in at ports along the coast, Jal,” Tuttugu called from his huddle in the stern. “We’ll sail from Kristian to cross the Karlswater. That’s the only time we’ll lose sight of land.”

  “A great comfort, Tuttugu. I always like to do my drowning within sight of land.”

  • • •

  Hours passed and the Norsemen actually seemed to be enjoying themselves. For my part I stayed wrapped around the misery of a hangover, leavened with a stiff dose of stool-to-head. Occasionally I’d touch my nose to make sure Astrid’s punch hadn’t broken it. I’d liked Astrid and it sorrowed me to think we wouldn’t snuggle up in her husband’s bed again. I guessed she’d been content to ignore my wanderings as long as she could see herself as the centre and apex of my attentions. To dally with a jarl’s daughter, someone so highborn, and for it to be so public, must have been more than her pride would stand for. I rubbed my jaw, wincing. Damn, I’d miss her.

  “Here.” Snorri thrust a battered pewter mug toward me.

  “Rum?” I lifted my head to squint at it. I’m a great believer in hair of the dog, and nautical adventures always call for a measure of rum in my largely fictional experience.

  “Water.”

  I uncurled with a sigh. The sun had climbed as high as it was going to get, a pale ball straining through the white haze above. “Looks like you made a good call. Albeit by mistake. If you hadn’t been ready to sail I might be handfasted by now. Or worse.”

  “Serendipity.”

  “Seren-what-ity?” I sipped the water. Foul stuff. Like water generally is.

  “A fortunat
e accident,” Snorri said.

  “Uh.” Barbarians should know their place, and using long words isn’t it. “Even so it was madness to set off so early in the year. Look! There’s still ice floating out there!” I pointed to a large plate of the stuff, big enough to hold a small house. “Won’t be much left of this boat if we hit any.” I crawled back to join him at the mast.

  “Best not distract me from steering then.” And just to prove a point he slung us to the left, some lethal piece of woodwork swinging scant inches above my head as the sail crossed over.

  “Why the hurry?” Now that the lure of three delicious women who had fallen for my ample charms had been removed I was more prepared to listen to Snorri’s reasons for leaving so precipitously. I made a vengeful note to use “precipitously” in conversation. “Why so precipitous?”

  “We went through this, Jal. To the death!” Snorri’s jaw tightened, muscles bunching.

  “Tell me once more. Such matters are clearer at sea.” By which I meant I didn’t listen the first time because it just seemed like ten different reasons to pry me from the warmth of my tavern and from Edda’s arms. I would miss Edda, she really was a sweet girl. Also a demon in the furs. In fact I sometimes got the feeling that I was her foreign fling rather than the other way around. Never any talk of inviting me to meet her parents. Never a whisper about marriage to her prince . . . A man enjoying himself any less than I was might have had his pride hurt a touch by that. Northern ways are very strange. I’m not complaining . . . but they’re strange. Between the three of them I’d spent the winter in a constant state of exhaustion. Without the threat of impending death I might never have mustered the energy to leave. I might have lived out my days as a tired but happy tavernkeeper in Trond. “Tell me once more and we’ll never speak of it again!”

  “I told you a hundr—”

  I made to vomit, leaning forward.

  “All right!” Snorri raised a hand to forestall me. “If it will stop you puking all over my boat . . .” He leaned out over the side for a moment, steering the craft with his weight, then sat back. “Tuttugu!” Two fingers toward his eyes, telling him to keep watch for ice. “This key.” Snorri patted the front of his fleece jacket, above his heart. “We didn’t come by it easy.” Tuttugu snorted at that. I suppressed a shudder. I’d done a good job of forgetting everything between leaving Trond on the day we first set off for the Black Fort and our arrival back. Unfortunately it only took a hint or two for memories to start leaking through my barriers. In particular the screech of iron hinges would return to haunt me as door after door surrendered to the unborn captain and that damn key.