“Keppen, yer highness,” he said. He looked as if he’d rather be somewhere else, had his eyes open, looking for the out.

“Order him to jump, Watch Master,” I said.

“W-what?” Lord Vincent went very pale very quickly.

“Jump,” I said. “Order him to jump over the fall.”

“What?” Lord Vincent seemed to be having difficulty hearing over the roar.

Keppen had his hand on his dagger-hilt. Sensible fellow.

“If your men are all going to die over some stupid promise a boy made his father, well, it’s only sensible for the boy to make sure they’ll follow your orders when it means certain death,” I said. “And if you say ‘what’ again, I’m going to have to slice you open here and now.”

“W—But, my prince . . . Prince Jorg . . .” He tried to laugh.

“Order him to jump, now!” I barked it in de Gren’s face.

“J-jump!”

“Not like that! Put some conviction into it. He’s not going to jump if you make it a suggestion.”

“Jump!” Lord Vincent reached for some lordly command.

“Better,” I said. “Once more, with feeling.”

“Jump!” Lord Vincent screamed the word at old Keppen. The colour came back now, flushing him bright crimson. “JUMP! Jump, damn you!”

“Buggered if I will!” Keppen shouted back. He pulled his knife, a wicked bit of steel, and backed off, wary-like.

I shrugged. “Not good enough, Lord Vincent. Just not good enough at all!” And with a hearty shove he went over. Never a wail from him. Didn’t even hear a splash.

I moved quickly then. In two strides I had Keppen by the throat, with my other hand on his wrist, keeping that knife at bay. I took him by surprise and in another step I had him backed out over the edge, heels resting on air, and my grip on his neck all that kept him with us.

“So, Keppen,” I said. “Will you die for the new Watch Master?” I gave him a smile, but I don’t think he noticed. “This is the bit where you say, ‘yes.’ And you’d better mean it, because there are a lot worse things than dying easy when given an order.”

He got a “yes” out past my fingers.

“Coddin.” I pointed him out. “You’re the new Watch Master.”

I pulled Keppen back and walked back toward the keep. They all followed me.

“If I ask you to die for me, I expect you to ask when and where,” I said. “But I’m not in any hurry to ask. It’d be a waste. The Forest Watch is the most dangerous two hundred soldiers Ancrath has, whether my father knows it or not.”

It wasn’t all flattery. In the forest they were the best we had. With a good Watch Master they were the sharpest sword in the armoury, and too clever to jump when told.

“Watch Master Coddin here is taking you into Gelleth.” I saw a few lips curl at that. Lord Vincent’s long jump or not, I was still a boy, and the Castle Red was still suicide. “You’ll get within twenty miles of the Castle Red, and no closer. You’re to spend two weeks in the Otton forests, cutting wood for siege engines and killing any patrols that come in after you. Watch Master Coddin will tell you the rest when the time comes.”

I turned from them and pushed open the door to the keep. “Coddin, Makin!”

They followed me in. The entrance hall gave onto a homely dining room where the table was set with cold goose, bread, and autumn apples. I took an apple.

“My thanks, Prince Jorg.” Coddin gave another of his stiff bows. “Saved from escort duty in Crath City, I can enjoy my winter running around the woods in Gelleth now.” The faintest hint of a smile flickered at the corner of his mouth.

“I’m coming with you. In disguise. It’s a closely guarded secret that you’re to ensure leaks out,” I said.

“And where will we be really?” Makin asked.

“The Gorge of Leucrota,” I told him. “Talking to monsters.”

25

We returned to the Tall Castle through the Old Town Gate, with the noonday sun hot across our necks. I carried the family sword across my saddle and none sought to bar our way.

We left the horses in the West Yard.

“See he’s well shod. We have a road ahead of us.” I slapped Gerrod’s ribs and let the stable lad lead him away.

“We’ve company.” Makin laid a hand upon my shoulder. “Have a care.” He nodded across the yard. Sageous was descending the stair from the main keep, a small figure in white robes.

“I’m sure our little pagan can learn to love Prince Jorgy just like all the rest,” I said. “He’s a handy man to have in your pocket.”

Makin frowned. “Better to put a scorpion in your pocket. I’ve been asking around. That glass tree you felled the other day. It wasn’t a trinket. He grew it.”

“He’ll forgive me.”

“He grew it from the stone, Jorg. From a green bead. It took two years. He watered it with blood.”

Behind us Rike sniggered, a childish sound, unsettling from such a giant.

“His blood,” Makin finished.

Another of the brothers snorted laughter at that. They’d all heard the story of Sir Galen and the glass tree.

Sageous stopped a yard in front of me and cast his gaze across the brothers, some still handing over their steeds, others pressed close at my side. His eyes flicked up to take in Rike’s height.

“Why did you run, Jorg?” he asked.

“Prince. You’ll call him Prince, you pagan dog.” Makin stepped forward, half-drawing. Sageous took him in with a mild look and Makin’s hand fell limp at his side, the argument gone from him.

“Why did you run?”

“I don’t run,” I said.

“Four years ago you ran from your father’s house.” He kept his voice gentle, and the brothers watched him as though charmed by a spinning penny.

“I left for a reason,” I said. His line of attack unsettled me.

“What reason?”

“To kill someone.”

“Did you kill him?” Sageous asked.

“I killed a lot of people.”

“Did you kill him?”

“No.” The Count of Renar still lived and breathed.

“Why?”

Why hadn’t I?

“Did you harm him? Did you hurt his interests?”

I hadn’t. In fact if you looked at it, if you traced the random path of four years on the road, you might say I had furthered Renar’s interests. The brothers and I had nipped at Baron Kennick’s heels and kept him from his ambitions. In Mabberton we had torn the heart from what might have been rebellion . . .

“I killed his son. I stuck a knife in Marclos, Renar’s flesh and heir.”

Sageous allowed himself a small smile. “As you came closer to home, you came under my protection, Jorg. The hand that steered you fell away.”

Was it true? I couldn’t see the lie in him. My eyes followed the scriptures written across his face, the complex scrolls of an alien tongue. An open book, but I couldn’t read him.

“I can help you, Jorg. I can give you back your self. I can give you your will.”

Tags: Mark Lawrence The Broken Empire Fantasy
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