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

I set a foot into Nor’s stirrup and stepped lively onto his back. Count Isen kept setting his fingers to his bloody scalp and I really didn’t want to be on hand if he dug out a splinter and jogged back any of those lost memories. I leaned over and snagged the reins of first one, then two, finally all three of the Slavs’ horses.

“Count Isen.” I inclined my head some fraction of a degree. “Stevenas.” And I set off awkwardly, leading the three nags alongside me. I planned to sell them at the next decent inn and my need for gold over-rode any shame at such looting with Isen and his henchman watching on.

For the first hundred yards I could feel Isen’s stare burning into the back of my neck. I may have got the drop on the little madman but he still scared the hell out of me. Men like him and Maeres deserved each other. I hoped Isen would take Sir Kritchen’s death as a personal insult and take Master Allus to task over the matter.

Riding on in the noonday sun with the road ahead drowned beneath a shimmering heat haze a sudden rush of relief ran through me and left me shuddering. In the space of a day I’d been caught by both the nightmares that chased me out of my home so quickly after finally making it back. I’d jumped, or been pushed, from the fire into the frying pan and finally escaped, somewhat singed, to retrace steps I’d taken two days previously. “I hope the bastards eat each other alive,” I told Nor, then kicked his ribs to break him into a canter. Standing in the stirrups I gave a whoop and urged him on. I couldn’t leave that shit behind me quick enough!

TWENTY-THREE

Having escaped both Maeres Allus and Count Isen I rode on south buoyed up by the kind of good spirits I hadn’t had since . . . well, since being on the road with Snorri. My good mood lasted until early evening when the sullen heat piled up a thunderhead of titanic proportions that proceeded to try and drown everyone on the Appan Way. I took shelter beneath a huge oak a hundred yards off the road in the midst of a tobacco field. Lightning began to fracture the sky, the thunder rolling back and forth. Nor nickered and pulled, skittish and threatening to bolt with each new crash from above. They do say it’s foolish to stand beneath a tree when there’s lightning all about, but getting soaked through when there’s shelter to hand seemed more foolish so I decided it was probably an old wives’ tale and ignored the advice. Soon enough a small crowd of travellers had joined me—a couple of old wives among them.

We stood waiting for the rain to slacken off, the commoners gossiping among themselves, me keeping a dignified silence and listening in surreptitiously.

“. . . Nobby? Ain’t seen Nobby in donkey’s years. Had a flat head did Nobby—last time I saw him he had a flagon of beer balanced on his head and a beer in each hand . . . must’ve been twenty years ago . . .”

“. . . two dozen palace riders! Going like the devil they were, headed south. More following behind, checking everyone . . .”

“Gelleth! No? Truly? . . . Must have been a judgment on them. A godless lot they are up north . . .”

Out on the road a tight pack of riders hastened north toward Vermillion. Through the rain, and with their cloaks sodden and dark, it was hard to make out the uniform but I could see that it was a uniform, which made it pretty certain they were some portion of the cavalry that Grandmother had sent out after Snorri. Probably the Undoreth and Kara were in the middle of the bunch, quite possibly each tied across a saddle.

When the ferocity of the downpour abated I took to the road again and pushed on at a decent pace. The sun re-emerged and the puddles began to steam. Two hours later the road ahead lay dusty and parched as if the rain had never happened. There’s a lesson in that somewhere. The road forgets. Make your life a journey, keep moving toward what you want, leave behind anything that’s too heavy to carry.

•   •   •

The miles passed easily enough. I took a room at a decent inn and got a quantity of lampblack with which I set to obscuring the distinctive flash of white along Nor’s nose. Sometimes it’s better to travel incognito than in style.

I pressed on, day after day, expecting to find Hennan on the road still hunting the good life with Snorri, not knowing the Norse had been captured and taken back to Vermillion with that damned key.

The further I rode the more impressed I was with Hennan’s fortitude and pace. By the time I reached the Florence border I assumed I must have missed him along the way. That or some harm had come to him. The type of harm that grabs you from behind and buries your body in a shallow grave. The idea gave me a peculiar type of pain, deeper and different from the simple fear of what Snorri would say if he found out I’d let the boy run away and get himself killed. I shrugged the feeling off, attributing it to indigestion from the pastry I’d had off a roadside salesman some hours before. The nearer I got to Florence the less the local food seemed to agree with me.