The Liar's Key

Passing along the grand streets around the palace we drew a few curious looks. Guards at the gates of mansion grounds narrowed their eyes and threw out their chests. Servant girls out on errands stared in surprise. In my country squire’s garb I cut a rather different figure to the kinds of visitors these houses were used to, and the pale beggar boy behind me added a further pinch of the exotic.

We clipped and clopped along the Kings Way, across the broad plaza before the palace, and at last came up to the Errik Gate, where once my thrice-great-grandfather Errik the Fourth came back in procession from the port of Imperia carrying the heads of Tibor Charl, Elias Gregor, and Robert the Black, the worst pirate lords the Corsair Isles spawned since the Suns. I remember their names because Martus once put three artistically decorated cabbages under my bed and claimed they were the severed heads of the trio, taken from the spikes on the Errik Gate, and that if I told or tried to move them they would come alive again. Bastard.

The guards before the Errik Gate came forward sharp enough, two of them ready to see me off, one standing further back with his pike lowered. On the gate towers archers paid an interest. The Errik Gate is for the highest of visiting dignitaries, for royal households, and it is seldom opened.

“Be off. If you’ve business at the palace you’ll want the Scullion Door, round past the old castle. See?” He aimed a finger at the Marsail keep.

At that point it occurred to me I should have bought a hood so I could have thrown it back dramatically and announced myself. As things stood I was starting from the position of having already gone unrecognized.

“I’m Prince Jalan Kendeth returned from the Utter North and I’ll have the head of any man who denies me entrance to my grandmother’s palace.” I let it come out with an air of weary irritation while praying none of them would call my bluff.

“Uh.” The younger of the pair, proclaimed the senior in rank by the star upon the shoulder of his tunic, sucked in his lips in consideration. I guessed that nobody had ever ridden up to the gates falsely declaring themselves related to the Red Queen. Perhaps some drunk too deep in his cups for self-preservation may have, but not a sober young man on a horse. A moment’s more cogitation and he frowned up at me. “I’ll go and check. If you could wait here, sir. Cogan, let them rest in the shade.”

And so we waited in the shadow of the walls, in silence save for Nor guzzling water from the trough. Not quite the entrance I’d hoped to make but Vermillion had a goodly number of princes and these weren’t my household guards.

It took longer than I felt it should but eventually the sub-captain returned with a familiar figure.

“Fat Ned!” I shouted, striding toward the man, arms spread.

Fat Ned, looking skinnier than ever, took one step back, then another. Overhead I heard the creak of bowstrings.

“It’s me, Ned.” I spread the fingers of both hands toward my face and gave him my winning smile.

“No?” Ned shook his head, loose skin flapping around his bones. “But you’re dead, Prince Jalan . . . is it . . . is it really you?” He tilted his gaze, looking more closely with those tired old eyes of his.

I lowered my arms. I hadn’t been intending to hug the man in any event. “Really, truly. And not risen from the grave either.” I thumped my chest. “Hale and hearty. Reports of my death have been much exaggerated!”

“Prince Jalan!” Fat Ned shook his head in amazement, drawing his hands down across his face. “How—”

The gate captain emerged now from the postern gate, hastening across to us, sword rattling in its scabbard. “Prince Jalan! My apologies! We were told that you’d died. There was a day of mourning . . .”

“A day?” One lousy day . . .

“By order of the queen for all the victims of the great opera house fire. Many highborn died that day—”

“One day?” And not even just for me. “Wait—did my brothers survive?”

“You were the only member of the royal family in attendance, my prince. Your brothers are well.” The man bowed his head and took a step back, gesturing to the postern gate, inviting me to precede him.

“A prince of Red March doesn’t return from the dead to re-enter the palace after six months by a side gate, captain.” I waved to the Errik Gate, my voice imperious. “Open it.”

The guardsmen exchanged a glance or two at that. The captain, looking somewhat uncomfortable, cleared his throat. “The key to the Errik Gate is kept in the treasury, Prince Jalan. It has to be released by special order of her majesty, and—”