The Liar's Key (The Red Queen's War #2)(70)

“What waits for you and your subjects in the Highlands, King Gorgoth? I don’t recall hearing that the Count Renar has a reputation for hospitality . . .”

“I’m no king, Prince Jalan. It’s just a word that proves useful for the moment.” Gorgoth held his hand out to the fire, so close it seemed impossible the skin wasn’t bubbling off his fingers. The three digits, stark against the blaze, made something alien of him. “It’s King Jorg who rules in the Highlands now. He has offered us sanctuary.”

“Trolls need sanctuary? I— Wait, Jorg? Surely not that Ancrath boy?”

Gorgoth inclined his head. “He took the throne from his uncle by force. I came north with him to the Heimrift.”

“Oh.” For a moment words escaped me. I’d imagined Gorgoth born among the trolls, though I’d given no thought to how he came to language among them, nor to his knowing the ways of men sufficient to negotiate with dukes and lords.

“And yes, trolls need sanctuary. Men are many and take strength as a challenge, difference as a crime. They say there were once dragons in the world. Now they are gone.”

“Hmmm.” I couldn’t find it in myself to be sorry for the plight of the persecuted troll. Maybe if they were more fluffy . . . “This Jorg of yours, I’ve heard tales of him. Queen Sareth wanted me to put the scamp over my knee and tan his hide. I would have too—very persuasive woman, Queen Sareth.” I raised my voice, just a notch, nice and subtle, so Kara wouldn’t miss my talk of queens and princes. “Beautiful with it. Have you ever . . . well maybe not.” I remembered Gorgoth wasn’t the type to be getting invitations to court, unless perhaps it was in a cage, as the entertainment. “I would have taught the boy a lesson but I had more urgent business in the north. Necromancers and unborn to put in their place, don’t you know.” My adventures may have been an unrelenting misery but at least I could now pull “necromancers” out to trump my opposition in any story of daring and adversity. Gorgoth might be a monstrous king of trolls, but what would a cave-dweller like him know of necromancers!

Gorgoth rumbled, deep in his chest. “Jorg Ancrath is wild, unprincipled and dangerous. My advice would be to steer well clear of him.”

“Jorg Ancrath?” Hakon, catching the name, broke off from his discussion of the finer points of some tedious verse from the Iliad. “My uncle says the same of him, Gorgoth. I think he likes him! Cousin Sindri was impressed with the man too. I’ll have to take his measure myself one of these days.” The Dane stepped over from the fire—all golden hair, square chin, and shadows. “And you thought to put him over your knee, Prince Jalan?” I heard Snorri snort in the background, probably remembering the truth of the matter and our hasty exit from Crath City. “That might be difficult. The man put an end to Ferrakind . . .”

“Ferrakind?”

Kara answered. “The fire-mage who ruled in the Heimrift, Jal. The volcanoes fell silent at his death.” She watched me from the shadows, just the lines of her face caught in firelight. I could see her smile echoed on the faces of many of the Danes.

“Ah.” Damn them all. I stood up, blustered about needing a stretch and stalked off, leaving them with a defiant, “Well, Queen Sareth didn’t seem to think much of the boy.”

? ? ?

As the nights stacked up one upon the next and we drew ever closer to the Gelleth border I seemed to be making slow progress on my other journey—the one toward Kara’s furs—though unsettlingly I had the feeling of being the one steadily reeled in rather than having hooked my prey with the old Jalan charm and being the one to draw her to me.

To add to my vexation, whilst Kara mysteriously began to look my way and offer me the kind of smiles that warm a man right through . . . she also seemed to see right past my normal patter, laughing off my lies concerning devotion and honour. Often she would ask me about Snorri and the key: the circumstances by which we acquired it, the ill-advised nature of his quest, and my thoughts on how he might be deflected from it. As much as it irked to be talking about Snorri with a woman yet again, I enjoyed the fact that she was seeking my opinions and advice on the matter of Loki’s key.

“A thing like that can’t be taken by force,” she said. “Not without great risk.”

“Well of course not—this is Snorri we’re talking about . . .”

“More than that.” She moved closer, lowering her voice to a delicious husk beside my ear. Memories of Aslaug stirred somewhere low down. “This is Loki’s work. The trickster. The liar. The thief. Such a one would not let his work fall to the strongest.”

“Well, to be fair, we weren’t exactly gentle when we took it!” I puffed out my chest and tried to look nonchalant.

“The unborn captain attacked you though, Jalan. Snorri merely took the key from his ruin. It wasn’t his purpose—he didn’t attack the unborn for the key.”

“Well . . . no.”

“Trickery or theft. Those are the only two safe options.” She held my gaze.

“If you think those are safe,” I said, “you don’t know Snorri.”

? ? ?

At the same time that I felt my connection with Kara strengthening, she seemed more charmed each passing day by the annoyingly handsome Lord Hakon. Every night the bastard would demonstrate some new virtue, with consummate skill, and make it seem a natural revelation rather than showing off. One evening it would be his deep tenor, perfect pitch, and command of all the great songs of the north. The next it would be defeating everyone but Snorri, and some ogre of a man called Hurn, in an arm-wrestling contest that he had to be coaxed into joining. Another night he treated us to a great show of concern for a man of his who fell prey to sudden head pains—debating herb-lore with Kara as if he were an old-wife called to treat the invalid. And tonight Hakon prepared a venison stew for us which I choked down and forced myself to call “passable” whilst only iron will prevented me demanding a third helping . . . the best damn venison I ever ate.