The Wheel of Osheim (The Red Queen's War 3)

It took a while but each scoop of the bookkeeper’s shovel-like hands lightened my load. He weighed the coins in his scales, calling the tallies aloud then spilling the gleaming heap into a leather sack. He quickly sent for two more, realizing that the one he had would prove too small to receive my payment.

“One thousand.”

While the bookkeeper scooped and weighed, weighed and scooped, Maeres kept his gaze on me, eyes dark and unreadable. The madness I’d seen in them that day in his poppy halls lay hidden now.

“The repayment of a loan is always welcome—but tell me, what prompted this change of heart, from a man so keen to borrow to a man so keen to pay?”

“Two thousand.” The bookkeeper tied off a second sack.

I stared back. Was Maeres inviting me to advertise his methods? Daring me? This killer with his vile tastes, murdering within the walls of Vermillion, dining so close to the palace that the shadows of its towers might brush against his mansion, richer than many a lord, making his own laws and dishing out his own justice. “I met a king and sought his advice.”

“And he advised you to pay me?”

I thought of my meeting with Jorg Ancrath. When I had spoken of my problem he grew quiet at first, then serious as if not a drop had passed his lips all night. “He said to give you what you want.” I set the coffer down between us and rubbed my arms.

“A wise king indeed.”

“Three thousand.” The bookkeeper tied off the last sack, then bent over the coffer once more and started to count out the last eleven coins.

“You seem a changed man, Prince Jalan. I do hope your travels in the remnants of our once great empire haven’t soured you?”

“Six . . . seven . . . eight.” The bookkeeper placed the coins into a pocket of his leather apron.

“I’ve been through Hell, Maeres.”

“The roads can be dangerous.” He nodded. “Still, I’m sure we’ll see the old prince return, such a happy young man, so sure of his opinion, so ready to spend.”

“Nine . . . ten . . .”

“I hope so too—but for now the prince you see before you will have to serve.” I remembered how it felt to be tied to his table—the look on his face as he turned me over to Cutter John—how I’d shouted and begged. Snorri had mistaken that for bravery.

“Eleven.” The bookkeeper straightened up, seeming reluctant to leave the coffer with gold still obscuring the bottom. “The debt is covered.”

“Well and good.” Maeres’s smile told me he knew that despite the chains of debt being cast off he owned me now, more truly than he ever had before. A chill ran through me, the cold challenge of the Slidr, and the red heat that had seen me across the sharpest river in Hell now rose to burn away that chill. I remembered all the boy-king’s words.

“Jorg Ancrath told me, ‘Give him what he wants.’” I stepped forward, bending to recover my coffer.

“One more thing, Prince Jalan.” Maeres’s voice, arresting me as I bent before him. A cold hand closed around my heart and I knew there was only Jorg’s path open to me.

“He said you would say that.” I remembered all of it. I remembered the darkness, the heat, Jorg Ancrath’s prediction: “When you’ve given, he will ask for more. Just one more thing, he’ll say.” And I remembered the look in the boy-king’s eyes.

“He said, give him what he wants.” I straightened, quick and smooth, without touching the box. “Then take what you want.” A flick of my wrist brushed the back of my hand across Maeres’s neck. The small triangular knife, once concealed in my sleeve, and now with its blade jutting between my fingers, slit his throat. I hardly felt it.

I caught him around the back of the head and held him close, spraying crimson and trying to speak. I had it done before any of his men even knew what had happened.

“I am the Red Queen’s grandson.” I roared the words out into the silence. “Maeres Allus is dead. His life was mine to take. There’s nothing left to protect here.” Hot blood soaked my chest while I clasped Allus against me, lifting my chin as one of his arms reached up weakly, scrabbling at my face. “I don’t care how his assets are divided, but lift a hand against me and by God you will lose it.”

The crowd had drawn back from us, aghast, as if the violence they looked down upon each day twenty foot below the level of their shoes was something different, a pretence perhaps, but a man in a well-tailored tunic bleeding among them was all too real and made them blanch and cringe.