Prince of Thorns (The Broken Empire 1)

“Ancrath is defined by her enemies,” he said, walking still. “The Army of the Gate must guard the homeland, and no other army would reach the Count in his halls.”

“A queen has died.” Mother’s throat opened again and coloured my vision red. The hooks burned in my flesh once more. “A prince of the realm, slain.” Broken like a toy.

“And there is a price to pay.” Lundist paused, one hand against the door, leaning as if for support.

“The price of blood and iron!”

“Rights to the Cathun River, three thousand ducats, and five Araby stallions.” Lundist wouldn’t look at me.

“What?”

“River trade, gold, horses.” Those blue eyes found me over his shoulder. An old hand took the door-ring.

The words made sense one at a time, not together.

“The army . . .” I started.

“Will not move.” Lundist opened the door. The day streamed in, bright, hot, laced with the distant laughter of squires at play.

“I’ll go alone. That man will die screaming, by my hand.” Cold fury crawled across my skin.

I needed a sword, a good knife at least. A horse, a map—I snatched the one before me, old hide, musty, the borders tattooed in Indus ink. I needed . . . an explanation.

“How? How can their deaths be purchased?”

“Your father forged his alliance with the Horse Coast kingdoms through marriage. The strength of that alliance threatened Count Renar. The Count struck early, before the links grew too strong, hoping to remove both the wife, and the heirs.” Lundist stepped into the light, and his hair became golden, a halo in the breeze. “Your father hasn’t the strength to destroy Renar and keep the wolves from Ancrath’s doors. Your grandfather on the Horse Coast will not accept that, so the alliance is dead, Renar is safe. Now Renar seeks a truce so he may turn his strength to other borders. Your father has sold him such a truce.”

Inside I was falling, pitching, tumbling. Falling into an endless void.

“Come, Prince.” Lundist held out a hand. “Let’s walk in the sunshine. It’s not a day for desk-learning.”

I bunched the map in my fist, and somewhere in me I found a smile, sharp, bitter, but with a chill to it that held me to my purpose. “Of course, dear tutor. Let us walk in the sun. It’s not a day for wasting—oh no.”

And we went out into the day, and all the heat of it couldn’t touch the ice in me.

Knife-work is a dirty business, yet Brother Grumlow is always clean.

10

We had ourselves a prisoner. One of Marclos’s riders proved less dead than expected. Bad news for him all in all. Makin had Burlow and Rike bring the man to me on the burgermeister’s steps.

“Says his name is Renton. ‘Sir’ Renton, if you please,” Makin said.

I looked the fellow up and down. A nice black bruise wrapped itself halfway round his forehead, and an over-hasty embrace with Mother Earth had left his nose somewhat flatter than he might have liked. His moustache and beard could have been neatly trimmed, but caked in all that blood they looked a mess.

“Fell off your horse did you, Renton?” I asked.

“You stabbed Count Renar’s son under a flag of truce,” he said. He sounded a little comical on the “stabbed” and “son.” A broken nose will do that for you.

“I did,” I said. “I can’t think of anything I wouldn’t have stabbed him under.” I held Renton’s gaze; he had squinty little eyes. He wouldn’t have been much to look at in court finery. On the steps, covered in mud and blood, he looked like a rat’s leavings. “If I were you, I’d be more worried about my own fate than whether Marclos was stabbed in accordance with the right social niceties.”

That of course was a lie. If I were in his place, I’d have been looking for an opportunity to stick a knife in me. But I knew enough to know that most men didn’t share my priorities. As Makin said, something in me had got broken, but not so broken I didn’t remember what it was.

“My family is rich, they’ll ransom me,” Renton said. He spoke quickly, nervous now, as if he’d just realized his situation.

I yawned. “No, they’re not. If they were rich, you wouldn’t be riding in chain armour as one of Marclos’s guards.” I yawned again, stretching my mouth until my jaw cracked. “Maical, get me a cup of that festival beer, will you?”

“Maical’s dead,” Rike said, from behind Sir Renton.

“Never?” I said. “Idiot Maical? I thought God had blessed him with the same luck that looks after drunkards and madmen.”

“Well, he’s near enough dead,” Rike said. “Got him a gut-full of rusty iron from one of Renar’s boys. We laid him out in the shade.”

“Touching,” I said. “Now get my beer.”

Rike grumbled and slapped Jobe into taking the errand. I turned back to Sir Renton. He didn’t look happy, but he didn’t look as sad as you might expect a man in such a bad place to look. His eyes kept sliding over to Father Gomst. Here’s a man with faith in a higher source, I thought.

“So, Sir Renton,” I said. “What brings young Marclos to Ancrath’s protectorates? What does the Count think he’s up to?”

Some of the brothers had gathered around the steps for the show, but most were still looting the dead. A man’s coin is nice and portable, but the brothers wouldn’t stop there. I expected the head-cart to be heaped with arms and armour when we left. Boots too; there’s three coppers in a well-made pair of boots.

Renton coughed and wiped at his nose, spreading black gore across his face. “I don’t know the Count’s plans. I’m not privy to his private council.” He looked up at Father Gomst. “As God is my witness.”

I leaned in close to him. He smelled sour, like cheese in the sun. “God is your witness, Renton, he’s going to watch you die.”

I let that sink in. I gave old Gomsty a smile. “You can look after this knight’s soul, Father. The sins of the flesh though—they’re all mine.”

Rike handed me my cup of beer, and I had a sip. “The day you’re tired of looting, Little Rikey, is the day you’re tired of life,” I said. It got a chuckle from the brothers on the steps. “Why’re you still here when you could be cutting up the dead in search of a golden liver?”

“Come to see you put the hurt on Rat-face,” Rike said.

“You’re going to be disappointed then,” I said. “Sir Rat-face is going to tell me everything I want to know, and I’m not even going to have to raise my voice. When I’m done, I’m going to hand him over to the new burgermeister of Norwood. The peasants will probably burn him alive, and he’ll count it the easy way out.” I kept it conversational. I find it’s the coldest threats that reach the deepest.

Out in the marshes I’d made a dead man run in terror, with nothing more than what I keep inside. It occurred to me that what scared the dead might worry the living a piece too.

Sir Renton didn’t sound too scared yet though. “You stabbed the better man today, boy, and there’s a better man before you. You’re nothing more than shit on my shoe.” I’d hurt his pride. He was a knight after all, and here was a beardless lad making mock. Besides, the best I’d offered was an “easy” burning. Nobody considers that the soft option.