The Liar's Key (The Red Queen's War #2)(101)

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 disappointment after my long absence.