The Liar's Key

by Mark Lawrence

  I hastened away through the tables, making a waiter stumble to avoid disaster, and veering away as Marco hoved into view, no doubt to discuss his own matters of business and the purchase of four fine bottles of Chamy-Nix ’96.

  “Get up. Quick about it!” I snapped my fingers at Todd and Ronar dozing beneath the maple. Martus’s guard would have stood all night, not sat down with their backs to a tree trunk. “We’re going back.” I could have been talking to the tree itself for all the response I got. I kicked Ronar’s foot, hard. “Wake up! If you’re drunk I’ll have your—”

  He slumped over, head hitting the paving slabs with a dull thud. Somewhere behind me a woman laughed.

  “Shit.”

  I nudged Ronar over with my foot. His head lolled, eyes glassy, a line of red drool running from his mouth. Maeres had had them both killed. It was the only explanation. He’d had them murdered as a warning. I set off at a sprint.

  It took me about two hundred yards to run out of puff and I stood gasping for air, doubled over, one hand against the gatepost of a large house. Sweat soaked me and dripped from my hair. Once I’d stopped running and let common sense catch up with me I realized I had no reason to run. If Maeres wanted me dead I’d be dead already. I knew from my time in his warehouse that madness lurked behind his calm and reasonable exterior. He didn’t get to run half the criminals in the city by gentle persuasion, I’d always known that, but I had mistakenly thought him just another form of businessman, a pragmatist who would roll with the punches. The man I’d seen unmasked in that warehouse though—that man would consider my escape an injury to his pride and how much gold might be required to heal such an injury I couldn’t say. Except that it would be more than I had.

  TWENTY-TWO

  The messenger brought two scrolls to the Roma Hall and though a hangover had been driven through my head like a huge metal spike I was awake and ready to receive them at the breakfast table. Outside grey dawn had started to tiptoe along the Kings Way toward the palace. I sat looking at the scramble of my eggs, the black scroll-case, and the copper-worked one, all with equal mistrust. My stomach’s protests led me to push the plate away first. The black case bore an ivory cartouche displaying a wrecked ship in silhouette, the Isen crest. Inside would be formal announcement of his planned visit. The only question in my mind was where I was going to run to and whether to read the other message first. I had no funds to speak of, nowhere to run, and no excuse for running, but there wasn’t any question of me staying to duel the Count of Isen. It would take more than Grandmother’s disapproval to have me ready to face a lunatic like Isen in combat.

  Pressing the heel of one hand to my forehead in an attempt to squeeze out the self-inflicted pain I reached, groaning, for the copper scroll-case. It bore no legend. I tried to pry the end off one-handed, cautious in case Maeres had sent me an asp. I ended up fumbling the thing to the floor and having to use two hands—both of them trembling with the aftermath of too much wine, stress, and the certainty that if there were an asp in there it would now be a decidedly pissed off one. The end cap unscrewed rather than pulled. I shook out the scroll within then smoothed it across the table. At first I had trouble focusing bleary eyes sufficiently to read the calligraphy set across the vellum. Some sort of official letter or warrant.

  I fixated on a line near the top: “Davario Romano Evenaline of the House Gold, Mercantile Derivatives.” Then one near the bottom. “Bearer Prince Jalan Kendeth deputized to represent the interests of Gholloth in Afrique trade—specifically the RMS Jupiter, Mars, and Mercury.” I blinked, lifted the scroll before my face and squinted at it. “House Gold, Umbertide, Florence.”

  It seemed to be a document both authorizing and dispatching me to conduct some kind of commercial negotiations in Umbertide, the banking capital of Florence. I ran my finger across the hard blob of sealing wax impressed with a complex sigil. It took me a moment to remember where I knew it from. Eight interlocking fingers.

  “Garyus!” I said it out loud. Too loud. And wished I hadn’t. For a moment the piercing agony of my hangover left no room for thought. “Garyus.” A whisper. He had this symbol tattooed across the veins of his left wrist. And Gholloth must be his true name, after his father, King Gholloth II, Garyus being a diminutive, perhaps even “Gharyus”—I’d never seen it written. I looked more closely and saw that the “Jalan” appeared to overwrite some other name that had been scraped away, with another seal-mark to notarize the change.

  I rolled the scroll up and tapped it into the case, then clutched it tight, hauling in a sigh of relief. I had my excuse for leaving and a place to go. Dear old Great-uncle Garyus had heard of my predicament and swapped me in for the duty. If I hurried I could be out of the palace before they dragged Snorri in, before the count turned up waving his sword and bleating about satisfaction, and before Maeres Allus knew anything about it. Better still, I was bound for Umbertide, where all the world’s money washes up sooner or later: what better place for an impoverished prince to line his pockets? I could come back laden with gold, pay off Allus and the other vultures, and hopefully find that Sharal DeVeer had talked sense into her new husband by then.

  “Saddle my horse!” And, hoping that someone would convey the order to the stablemaster, I plotted an unsteady path back to my rooms, determined to pack for the journey this time. The first thing I did was to swap my old campaign blade for the dress sword at my side. The queen’s peace held on the roads to Florence but even so the old adage also held—the more used your sword looks, the less likely you’ll have to use it.

  • • •

  Horse-riding is a kill-or-cure treatment for hangovers and I managed to stay on the right side of the divide, whilst wishing not a few times for the merciful embrace of death. I cantered out of Vermillion with over-full saddlebags bouncing against Nor’s flanks and the morning sun beginning to heat the cobbles all around us.

  I slowed Nor to a walk as soon as distance had diminished the city behind me to something I could block out with an outstretched thumb. It felt good to be on the move again, this time with a safe destination, a letter of authority in my pack, plenty of provisions, spare clothes, a horse, a handful of coppers, and six silver crowns. I’d left instructions for the count to be told I’d been called away on official royal business. It pleased me to think of him kicking his heels in the heat outside the Roma Hall then stomping back home. Maerus Allus could go hang too. I rode on in good spirits. There’s something remarkably uplifting about moving on and leaving your troubles behind.

  I rode a day, slept at a decent inn, enjoyed an enormous breakfast of mushroom omelette and fried potatoes, and set off again. Travelling incognito through my homeland proved a liberating experience, and whilst I missed the company the Norse had provided it did give me time to think my own thoughts and watch the world go by. It turns out that’s highly over-rated.

  Two thoughts started to gain prominence among all my speculation about events back in Vermillion. Namely, where were Grandmother’s riders, with Snorri a prisoner in their midst, and why the hell hadn’t I caught up with Hennan yet? How had an urchin on foot with just a day’s start on me managed to stay ahead this long? Another day of clip-clopping down the Appan Way didn’t answer either question. The sun set behind me bringing the faintest whisper of Aslaug’s presence and throwing all the valley of Edmar into shadow. The white flash down Nor’s face seemed to catch the last of the light and point the way. Warm air, the chirp of crickets rising among the vineyards lining the slopes to either side, the odd wagon or laden cart hauled by a sway-backed donkey . . . as peaceful an evening as a man could wish for. Instead I found myself wishing for the drunken riot of an evening at the Follies, followed by a drunken tumble with one of the more flexible performers (they liked to call themselves actresses) or perhaps two of them, or three. I rolled comfortably in Nor’s saddle pondering how Vermillion called to me the moment I left it despite having proved something of a disappoi
ntment after my long absence.

  I wasn’t aware of the horsemen coming up behind me until the last moment—that’s another disadvantage of getting lost in your thoughts. On my left a man leaned from his saddle and drew my sword, on my right another pulled his horse across Nor’s path and grabbed the reins from me.

  “If you’d be so kind as to dismount, Prince Jalan.” A voice from behind me.

  Leaning around, I saw three more men on horseback, the middle one a solid fellow, well-dressed in a high-collared cloak, the latest fashion, fastened with a thick gold chain. He looked to be about fifty, with close-cropped grey hair, dark eyes, and a grim smile. Cold hands contracted around my stomach and bladder with the realization that this was likely Count Isen. To his left a slighter figure hooded in grey, holding his reins in a single hand, to his right an ugly dark-haired bruiser much like those flanking me, only this one had a heavy crossbow levelled at my back.

  I raised my hands, mind racing. “I’m on the queen’s business. I’ve no time for games—especially not for being waylaid on the highway. This is common criminality! My grandmother has men nailed to trees for this kind of thing.” I kept my voice as even as I could, choosing my words to remind the count of his duties and of mine. Challenging a man to a duel is one thing. Forcing him off the road at crossbow point is a very different matter.

  “I asked you to dismount, Prince Jalan. I won’t be asking again.” The count seemed unmoved.

  Slowly, so as to give no excuse to the fellow with the crossbow, I dismounted. It would just take one nervous twitch from the man, or even from his horse, and I could be staring at the hole a crossbow bolt had punched through me. I’d seen men hit by crossbow bolts at short range and very much wished that I hadn’t.

  “Easy now. This is madness! You only had to wait—”

  “.” The count waved at the two men who had dismounted as I did. I shook my head but couldn’t make sense of the words.

  “Hey now!” They grabbed my hands and secured them behind me with disturbing swiftness, having a rope noose already prepared to loop around both wrists.

  The count glanced back down the road then stood in his stirrups to look ahead. Satisfied we weren’t about to be disturbed in the next minute or two he sat back. “And the mask.” Neither man shifted. The count placed his palm over his mouth, “!”

  A rustling behind me and hands reached around me to press something heavy across my mouth.

  “No!” I started struggling but the man in front, tall as me and thick with muscle, punched me in the stomach, right in that spot that tells all the air to leave your lungs fast as it can.

  While I doubled up they secured the gag, forcing the leather bit between my teeth as I gasped for breath. The thick leather straps reached out across my face and round the back of my head like the fingers of a hand, partly blocking my nose and half-covering my eyes. A common liar’s mask of the sort used to transport seditionists and madmen. I would have smiled if I could. Count Isen had gone far too far. Grandmother wouldn’t stand for anyone bearing her name to endure such humiliation. Dragging me through Vermillion like this might sully my reputation somewhat but the count would be lucky to escape with his lands and title, certainly there would be no question of me having to duel him.

  “Up!” The count waved his hand at the pair manhandling me and with distressing ease they lifted me back onto Nor. I slipped my boots into the stirrups and held on tight with my knees. Falling off a horse with your hands tied behind your back is a quick way to break your neck.

  The third of the Slavic men lowered his crossbow and removed the bolt. I guess the trio didn’t speak the Empire tongue, though why the count would employ such men I couldn’t—

  “No!” Is what I would have said. Instead I made a muffled scream around the gag. The man on Isen’s other side had raised his hood. He released his reins to do it since he only had the one arm. The hood slipped from a bald white skull, pale eyes stared into mine from a fleshless face that somehow, despite seeming nothing but skin stretched over bone, managed to look pleased to see me. How the hell did Maeres Allus’s head torturer, Cutter John, come to be riding with Count Isen? I tried to urge Nor into a trot but the bully beside me had tight hold of the reins and the other punched me in the leg, hard enough for me to lose feeling in it.

  “Steady now!” The count raised a hand. “You left it a little late to run, Prince Jalan.” He smiled without humour. “I see you’ve recognized John. I’m Alber Marks, and my associates’ names are unimportant. What is important is that they won’t understand anything you say to them and have no idea who you are. I mention this only to save you breath when trying to bribe them or otherwise sway them from their purpose.”

  Shit. Shit. Shit. Maeres Allus had sent one of his best lieutenants after me. Alber Marks had a reputation for ruthless efficiency. Here I’d been thinking that only social niceties and royal duty stood between me and being run through with the count’s longsword. But the real threat had been re-acquaintance with Cutter John’s pincers—and anything that stood between me and being tied to a table in one of Maeres’s warehouses had slipped away when I stopped paying attention. I should have known it wasn’t the count. Isen was said to be a small man and even on a horse, dwarfed by henchmen, Alber Marks hadn’t fit the bill.

  “Come.” Alber tilted his head and led off toward a gap in the verge where a tiny track angled away from the highway. The Slavs rode two in front, one behind, corralling me. They led me after Alber and Cutter John at an unhurried pace. It took a minute or two to get out of sight of the road among the vine rows and the dividing hawthorn hedges.

  The men lifted me from Nor’s back again and Cutter John came over to check my bonds, running a cold and long-fingered hand over each of the five straps about my head—an intimate touch that made me shiver with revulsion. A moment’s fiddling at the back of my head and I heard the snap of a lock. Cutter John came back into view, dangling a small key before dropping it into his pocket. He smiled, displaying narrow teeth and pulled open his cloak to show the stump of his arm, ending in an ugly mass of pale scar just above the elbow. The last time I’d seen Cutter John blood had been pulsing from the wound—Snorri having sliced the arm off just moments before—and I’d given him several good kicks in the head while he lay unconscious, and I rather hoped, dying. I wished now I’d staved his skull in with a table leg.

  Rummaging somewhat awkwardly in an inner pocket Cutter John drew out a pair of iron pincers. “Remember?” he asked.

  I hadn’t forgotten, though Lord knows I’d wanted to. The damn things had featured regularly in my nightmares for the past six months.

  “I’ll be waiting,” he said, and moving behind me he caught the tip of one of my fingers in the pincers, squeezing hard. I roared behind the gag and threw myself about in the Slavs’ grip and somehow my finger came free though with so much pain I couldn’t tell if he’d snipped off the fingertip or not. The whole hand pulsed with agony and I hauled air in and out through my nose, slobber escaping the gag.

  Alber Marks rode closer and leaned in. “John and I will be leaving now. It wouldn’t be sensible to risk getting caught with you in our possession. We’ll arrange a discreet entrance into the city for you and if I don’t meet you again . . . well, I’m sure that John will.” He straightened up. “Safe journey, Prince Jalan.” And with that they both rode off at a trot, Cutter John bouncing along like a man unused to the saddle.

  I sat struggling to draw breath past the mask, eyes swimming with tears, and with my finger ablaze with agony as if it had been dipped into hot acid. Even so my heart hammered slightly less frantically with each yard that opened up between us. It might seem small comfort but however dire my circumstances were the fact that Cutter John was riding away just made everything that bit better.

  The relief proved short-lived. With a grunt one of the three Slavs tugged Nor’s reins and we started back toward the Appan Way.
I blinked a few times to clear my eyes and glanced around at the guards as we rode. They shared the same coarse features, their faces each comprising a set of broad planes: heavy brow above a small nose, prominent cheekbones from which sallow skin stretched down to a square jaw. I judged them to be brothers, possibly even triplets, for there was little to tell them apart. Without the mask and the language barrier I might stand a chance of talking my way out of it, but something about their eyes—that flat and unimaginative look they all had—told me they would be hard to turn from their course even then.

  The first three times we passed people on the road I immediately started struggling and trying to call out. It earned me looks of disgust and jeers of derision from the travellers as they passed by, and cuffs around the head from the Slavs once they were out of sight. The fourth time I tried the carter’s mate threw a rock at me and the largest of the Slavs punched me in the kidneys hard enough that I’d be pissing blood come morning. I gave up after that. The liar’s mask made me near impossible to recognize even if our household servants were to walk on past. Moreover it marked me as an enemy of Red March whose untruths were poison. Most would assume I was being taken to trial and would probably lose my tongue once found guilty, or perhaps if the judge were lenient merely have it split to the root.

  • • •

  We made camp at the side of the road, far enough back into a field of maize to hide us from view. The relief I’d felt at being separated from Cutter John once more had quickly eroded as we reduced the gap again, making steady progress toward Vermillion. I hadn’t any ideas about how to escape and being ridden through my own kingdom past dozens of loyal subjects, unrecognized and unable to ask for help was maddening.

  Squatted in a flattened circle of maize and hemmed in on all sides by the tall green legion of undamaged crop, we were well hidden. Even the horses wouldn’t be seen, heads bowed and crunching away on the nearly ripe cobs. One of the Slav brothers hammered a wooden stake into the ground and attached the back of my mask to it with a length of chain already bolted to the stake. This done, the brothers broke out cold rations and settled to eat—black bread, a tub of greyish butter, and a length of dark red sausage mottled with white lumps of fat and gristle. They devoured it in silence save for the constant chewing and occasional unintelligible word as they exchanged foodstuffs. None of them paid me the slightest attention. I tried to think of an escape plan whilst trying not to think how much I needed to piss. Neither attempt proved successful and it began to seem like the only way to alert the bastards to my toileting needs would be to wet myself.