King of Thorns (The Broken Empire 2)

“Show him the thing,” said Rike, bubbling like a child, “show him the thing.”

“Later.” Ron smiled. “The weights are all stowed now. Besides, looks like your friend could put me out of business.”

Ron, or to do him justice, the amazing Ronaldo, did the circus strongman act. He earned Rike’s undying respect by the simple act of lifting a heavier weight than Rike could. It’s true that nature treated Ron to an unreasonable helping of muscle, but I think that Little Rike might be the stronger even so. Certainly I’d bet on Rike before Ron in a tavern brawl. But with the lifting of weights there’s grip and timing and commitment, and Rike faltered where Ron pressed on.

“So, where might we find the good Dr. Taproot?” I asked.

Ronaldo led us through the side flap, leaving the boy, who turned out to be a midget old enough to be going grey, to watch our horses. I took the Nuban’s bow. I didn’t trust the midget to be able to run down any thieves, and besides, I might want to shoot a circus clown or two. Just for laughs.

We skirted around the centre ring, kicking sawdust and watching three acrobats practice their tumbles out where the sun struck down through the high opening. Toward the back of the big-top, canvas divisions spaced out several rooms. Here the heavy stink from the animal cages reached in and you could hear a growl or two above the thumps and shouts of the tumblers.

Taproot had his back to me as I followed Ron in. Two of the dancer girls stood before him in slack poses, bored and rolling their eyes.

“Watch me!” Taproot said. “Hips and tits. That sells seats. And look as if you’re enjoying it, for God’s sake. Watch me.”

He talked with his hands did Taproot, long-fingered hands always flying about his head.

“I am watching you,” I said. They say Taproot got that habit from his days at the three cup game. Watch me! And the boy will dip your pockets.

He turned at that, hands plucking at the air. “And who have you brought to see me, Ronaldo? A handsome young fellow indeed, with friends outside.”

Taproot knew me. Taproot never forgot a face, or a fact, or a weakness.

“Jorg the Red,” I said. “I juggle.”

“Do you now?” He drew fingers down his jaw to the point of his chin. “And what do you juggle, Jorg the Red?”

I grinned. “What have you got?”

“Watch me!” He fished a dark bottle from the depths of his cloak of many faded colours. “Come take a seat, bring your brothers in if they’ll fit.” He dismissed the dancers with a flutter of hands.

Taproot retreated behind a desk in the corner, finding glasses from its drawer. I took the only other chair as the others filed in behind Makin.

“I’m guessing you still juggle lives, Jorg,” Taproot said. “Though in more salubrious surroundings these days.” He poured a green measure into five glasses, all of a motion without a drop lost.

“You’ve heard about my change in circumstances?” I took the glass. Its contents looked like urine, a little greener.

“Absinthe. Ambrosia of the gods,” Taproot said. “Watch me.” And he knocked his back with a slight grimace.

“Absinthe? Isn’t that Greek for undrinkable?” I sniffed it.

“Two gold a bottle,” he said. “Has to be good at that price, no?”

I sipped. It had the kind of bitterness that takes layers off your tongue. I coughed despite myself.

“You should have told me you were a prince, Jorg; I always knew there was something about you.” He pointed two fingers to his eyes. “Watch me.”

More Brothers followed on in. Gorgoth ducked in under the flap, Gog scurrying in front. Taproot took his gaze from me and rocked back in his chair. “Now these two fellows I could employ,” he said. “Even if they don’t juggle.” He waved to the three spare glasses. “Help yourselves, gentlemen.”

There’s a pecking order on the road and it helps to know how it runs. On the surface Taproot’s business might be sawdust and somersaults, dancing girls and dancing bears, but he dealt in more than entertainment. Dr. Taproot liked to know things.

A beat passed. Most would miss it, but not Taproot. The beat let the Brothers know that Makin wasn’t interested. Rike took the first glass, Red Kent the next, another beat, then Row snatched the last. Row threw his down and smacked his lips. Row could drink acid without complaint.

“Ron, why don’t you take Rike and Gorgoth and show them the thing with the barrel?” I asked.

Rike gulped his drink, made a sour face, and followed Ron out, the leucrotas next, Gog tagging behind.

“The rest of you can lose yourselves too. See if you can’t learn some new tricks in the ring.” I sipped again. “It’d be foul at twenty gold a bottle.

“Makin, perhaps you could be finding out about that rather fine bridge for us,” I said.

And they filed out, leaving me and Taproot watching each other across the desk in the dim glow of the sun through canvass.

“A prince, Jorg? Watch me!” Taproot smiled, a crescent of teeth in his thin face. “And now a king?”

“I would have cut myself a throne whatever woman I fell from,” I said. “Had I been a carpenter’s son, stable-born, I’d have cut one.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Again the smile, that mix of warmth and calculation. “Remember the times we had, Jorg?”

I did. Happy days are rare on the road. The days we had ridden with the circus troop had been golden for a wild boy of twelve.

“Tell me about the Prince of Arrow,” I said.

“A great man by all accounts,” Taproot said. He made a steeple of his fingers, pressed to his lips.

“And by your account?” I asked. “Don’t tell me you’ve not met the man.”

“I’ve met everyone, Jorg,” he said. “You know that. Watch me.”

I never knew if I liked Taproot.

“I’ve even met your father,” he said.

I am rarely uncertain in such matters, but Taproot, with his “watch me” and his talking hands, with his whole life a performance, and his secret ways? It’s hard to know a man who knows too much. “The Prince of Arrow,” I said.

“He is a good man,” Taproot said at last. “He means what he says and what he says is good.”

“The world eats good men for breakfast,” I said.

“Perhaps.” Taproot shrugged. “But the Prince is a thinker, a planner. And he has funds. The Florentine banking clans love him well. Peace is good business. He is setting his pieces. The Fenlands fell to him before winter set in. He’ll add more thrones to his tally soon enough. Watch me. He’ll be at your gates in a few years if nobody stops him. And at your father’s gates.”

“Let him call on Ancrath first,” I said. I wondered what my father would make of this “good man.”

“His brother,” said Taproot, “Egan?”

Taproot knew, he just wanted to know if I knew. I just watched him. He kept telling me to after all.

“His brother is a killer. A swordsman like the legends talk of, and vicious with it. A year younger than Orrin, and always will be, thank the Lord. More absinthe?”

“And how much support is there for the Good Prince among the Hundred?” I waved the bottle away. You needed a clear head with Taproot.