The Liar's Key
• • •
I needed to speak to someone who might understand what had happened to me. I considered going to Garyus but seeking advice from a man who hadn’t left his room in sixty years and had never been outside the palace walls seemed foolish. Besides, the power lay with his sisters. After half a day reflecting on the matter I decided to confront the non-silent one. I strapped on my dress sword before going. The door guard would take if off me but Grandmother would notice the scabbard and she liked to see her spawn go armed.
The walk to the Inner Palace was nearly long enough to erode my store of courage to the point where I turned back. Another hundred yards or so would have done it, but instead I found myself climbing the steps to the grand doors.
Ten of the queen’s personal guard flanked the topmost steps, enduring the heat in their half-plate. The knight at the door towered over me, made taller by his high helm and crimson plume. “Prince Jalan.” He bowed his head a fraction.
I waited for the “but you’re dead,” ready to be irritated, and found myself disappointed when it didn’t come. “I wish to see my grandmother.” She always held a noon court on Sunday after church. I’d gone to the Roma mass hoping to see her there, but she must have attended her private chapel, or skipped the whole tedious business as I normally do. Bishop James had conducted the mass at the Hall and offered thanks for the return of a lost sheep to the fold. I would have preferred “conquering lion to the pride” but at least it made my return official and meant Maeres couldn’t have me quietly murdered.
“Court is in session, my prince.” And the knight struck the door for admittance, stepping aside to let me past.
• • •
The Red Queen’s court is unlike others in the region. King Yollar of Rhone holds a sumptuous court where aristocrats gather in their hundreds to slight and bicker and display the latest fashions. In our protectorate of Adora the duke hosts philosophers and musicians in his halls, with lords and ladies attending from across his realm to hear them. In Cantanlona the earl is famed for debauched court parties that last for a week and more, draining the towns around his capital of wine. Grandmother’s court is more dour. A businesslike affair where fools are suffered only briefly and the sparkle of a new gown is seldom seen, there being no audience for such.
“Prince Jalan Kendeth.” The court officer, Mantal Drews announced me, clad in the same sombre greys he wore the day I left.
The dozen or so attendees turned my way, heavily outnumbered by the royal guard hulking around the margins in their fire-bronze mail. These latter spared me not a glance. No surprise showed on the faces pointed in my direction, not even a whisper of it muttered behind fans—news travels fast in the palace. The word would have rippled out through guards and servants overnight, confirmed that morning by the highborn who saw me at the service.
The queen herself did not look up, her attention occupied by a fellow in a purple robe too heavy for the season, hunkered before the throne and making some or other impassioned plea. Two of Grandmother’s sour old retainers flanked her, one a bony stick of a woman and the other a stout, grey-haired matron in her fifties, both in drab black shawls. I glanced around for the Silent Sister but saw no sign of her.
Gathering my resolve, I strode into the midst of the throne room, old anxieties queuing at my shoulder. I did my best to present the mask that had served me so well for so long: bluff Prince Jal, hero of the pass, a devil-may-care man’s man. I lie as well with my expression and body language as I do with my tongue and like to think I carry off the deception rather nicely. The courtiers, or rather I should call them today’s supplicants, for none of the aristocracy kept at court past the completion of their business, gave me space. I recognized a few of them: minor lords, the Baron of Strombol down from the shadow of the Scorron Aups, a gem merchant from Norrow whose daughter I’d known rather well for a night or two . . . the usual.
“And there he is!” The man before the throne concluded his petition by raising his voice past the point of decorum and pointing his finger directly at me.
“You have me at a disadvantage, sir.” I offered him a tolerant smile, pretty sure we’d not met before, though something about him looked familiar.
“You’ll get no advantage from me, Prince Jalan!” He looked to be about thirty, a solid fellow, shorter than me but wider, somewhat brutal in the cheekbones, and red-faced with anger. “I heard of your return and left my regiments immediately to discover the truth.” He started to unbuckle his empty scabbard—which caused the guard to settle hands upon hilts. “I demand satisfaction. I demand it now.” He threw his scabbard at my feet in the old way, making his challenge. “Fight me, and your reappearance can be a brief but swiftly corrected error on your obituary.”