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

“Yes, Prince Jalan?” She straightened up and faced me.

“Ballessa—bring her here would you? I need to find out about the boy.”

“You mean, Hennan, sir?”

“That’s the one. Little fellow. Dirty. Where is he?”

“He ran off, sir. Ballessa put him to work in the kitchen garden and an hour later he was gone.”

“Gone?” I stood up out of the chair. “Gone where?”

Jayne raised her shoulders, almost insolent. “I don’t know, sir.”

“Dammit all! Tell Fat Ned I want the boy found. He can’t have got far!” Though in truth he could have got quite far. The palace was hard to get into. Getting out was much less difficult, providing you weren’t carrying an armful of valuables.

Jayne went off to find Ned—in no great hurry it should be added. A sigh escaped me and I pulled a book from Father’s desk to distract me. Hennan would probably have gone in pursuit of Snorri, heading southwest along the Appan Way where it exited the River Gate. With any luck he would see Grandmother’s riders bringing the others back and follow them in. I didn’t fancy explaining the boy’s absence to Snorri. Especially not after Grandmother had taken the key off him.

I stared at the book spines for an empty moment, sighed again, and moved to check the strong-box in the corner, hoping to find a few coins. It was locked of course but I’d figured how to jig the mechanism long ago. All it took was a bent nail and some patience. It turned out that my reserves of patience weren’t equal to the task but that a bent nail and some frustrated cursing would also do the job.

“Crap.” The box proved disappointingly coin-free, though lifting a spare cardinal’s cape I found unexpected treasure. Father’s fone and holy stone lay wrapped in velvet. Two symbols of his office, second only to the cardinal’s seal. The fone was a thin and battered tablet of plasteek and glass that would fit easily in the hand. A tracery of silver wire held the thing together, preventing the dark and fractured glass escaping. The priesthood told it that the Builders could speak to anyone they chose through such devices, and draw on the knowledge of the great and ancient libraries of the world. The clergy themselves put their fones to more pious use, speeding their prayers to God and, so they claimed, hearing his replies. I’d listened myself on several occasions but sensed no connection.

The holy stone looked for all the world like a small iron pineapple, its surface divided into squares by deep grooves, a tarnished silver-steel handle or lever held tight to the side. In ancient times the pineapple was ever the symbol of welcome, though the church used the objects in a different way. Apparently, each theological student of good family and destined for high office was given one on beginning their training and forbidden from pulling the lever on pain of excommunication. A test of obedience they called it. A test of curiosity I called it. Clearly the church wanted bishops who lacked the imagination for exploration and questioning.

I toyed with the thing. Let he that is without sin cast the first stone . . . and set it aside, knowing Father would disinherit me if I broke it. Treasures, but sadly too valuable and too difficult to pawn. I wondered briefly at their significance. As a rule, Father never let them from his sight. Perhaps he feared if he took them to Roma with him the pope might strip them from him by way of chastisement for his failings in office.

I closed the box and returned to my seat, plucking a book at random from the shelves. The Prodigal Son. Bible stories aren’t my strong point but I had a feeling the prodigal son had been feasted and celebrated on his return, despite being a waste of space. Here I was, with actual accomplishments to my name and all I’d got was a plaque on the outside of the family church, and a telling off for not wresting from a giant Norse killing-machine something that I didn’t know Grandmother wanted in the first place. Add to that Micha married to an undeserving Darin, Sharal promised away to a man who looked set to carve me up for sport, and Hennan running off to the road as if trudging through the dust was better than life in the palace of Vermillion.

“I’m going out.” I tossed the book down. My life in Vermillion had always centred on its less salubrious spots, its flesh-pits and hellholes, the racetrack, the bordellos . . .

First to my rooms to find something suitable to wear for town. I found the place in a terrible mess and pursed my lips. It was entirely possible I’d left my gear scattered when I left—but I expected it tidied away by . . . someone. I wasn’t sure who did such things, but they happened. Always. I made a note to complain to Ballessa about it. It almost looked as if someone had rummaged through my belongings . . . With a shrug I selected a fine waistcoat, pantaloons with slashed velvet revealing a scarlet silk liner, a dark and expensive cape with a silver clasp. A glance in the mirror. Ravishing. Time to go.