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

“Saddle my horse!” And, hoping that someone would convey the order to the stablemaster, I plotted an unsteady path back to my rooms, determined to pack for the journey this time. The first thing I did was to swap my old campaign blade for the dress sword at my side. The queen’s peace held on the roads to Florence but even so the old adage also held—the more used your sword looks, the less likely you’ll have to use it.

•   •   •

Horse-riding is a kill-or-cure treatment for hangovers and I managed to stay on the right side of the divide, whilst wishing not a few times for the merciful embrace of death. I cantered out of Vermillion with over-full saddlebags bouncing against Nor’s flanks and the morning sun beginning to heat the cobbles all around us.

I slowed Nor to a walk as soon as distance had diminished the city behind me to something I could block out with an outstretched thumb. It felt good to be on the move again, this time with a safe destination, a letter of authority in my pack, plenty of provisions, spare clothes, a horse, a handful of coppers, and six silver crowns. I’d left instructions for the count to be told I’d been called away on official royal business. It pleased me to think of him kicking his heels in the heat outside the Roma Hall then stomping back home. Maerus Allus could go hang too. I rode on in good spirits. There’s something remarkably uplifting about moving on and leaving your troubles behind.

I rode a day, slept at a decent inn, enjoyed an enormous breakfast of mushroom omelette and fried potatoes, and set off again. Travelling incognito through my homeland proved a liberating experience, and whilst I missed the company the Norse had provided it did give me time to think my own thoughts and watch the world go by. It turns out that’s highly over-rated.

Two thoughts started to gain prominence among all my speculation about events back in Vermillion. Namely, where were Grandmother’s riders, with Snorri a prisoner in their midst, and why the hell hadn’t I caught up with Hennan yet? How had an urchin on foot with just a day’s start on me managed to stay ahead this long? Another day of clip-clopping down the Appan Way didn’t answer either question. The sun set behind me bringing the faintest whisper of Aslaug’s presence and throwing all the valley of Edmar into shadow. The white flash down Nor’s face seemed to catch the last of the light and point the way. Warm air, the chirp of crickets rising among the vineyards lining the slopes to either side, the odd wagon or laden cart hauled by a sway-backed donkey . . . as peaceful an evening as a man could wish for. Instead I found myself wishing for the drunken riot of an evening at the Follies, followed by a drunken tumble with one of the more flexible performers (they liked to call themselves actresses) or perhaps two of them, or three. I rolled comfortably in Nor’s saddle pondering how Vermillion called to me the moment I left it despite having proved something of a disappointment after my long absence.

I wasn’t aware of the horsemen coming up behind me until the last moment—that’s another disadvantage of getting lost in your thoughts. On my left a man leaned from his saddle and drew my sword, on my right another pulled his horse across Nor’s path and grabbed the reins from me.

“If you’d be so kind as to dismount, Prince Jalan.” A voice from behind me.

Leaning around, I saw three more men on horseback, the middle one a solid fellow, well-dressed in a high-collared cloak, the latest fashion, fastened with a thick gold chain. He looked to be about fifty, with close-cropped grey hair, dark eyes, and a grim smile. Cold hands contracted around my stomach and bladder with the realization that this was likely Count Isen. To his left a slighter figure hooded in grey, holding his reins in a single hand, to his right an ugly dark-haired bruiser much like those flanking me, only this one had a heavy crossbow levelled at my back.

I raised my hands, mind racing. “I’m on the queen’s business. I’ve no time for games—especially not for being waylaid on the highway. This is common criminality! My grandmother has men nailed to trees for this kind of thing.” I kept my voice as even as I could, choosing my words to remind the count of his duties and of mine. Challenging a man to a duel is one thing. Forcing him off the road at crossbow point is a very different matter.

“I asked you to dismount, Prince Jalan. I won’t be asking again.” The count seemed unmoved.

Slowly, so as to give no excuse to the fellow with the crossbow, I dismounted. It would just take one nervous twitch from the man, or even from his horse, and I could be staring at the hole a crossbow bolt had punched through me. I’d seen men hit by crossbow bolts at short range and very much wished that I hadn’t.