The Liar's Key
“To find Roust and Lon. I expect you’ll try and tell me the Greyjars are married now?”
“Gone back to Arrow,” he shouted as the distance between us grew. “Their cousin has taken the country to war. They’re part of the invasion of Conaught now!”
“Omar then!” I roared back.
“Returned to Hamada to study at the mathema!”
“Shit on it all!” And I was past earshot, taking the stairs three at a time. I paused for breath at the main doors and let the injustice of it all sink in. I had definitely been going to ask Lisa to marry me. Lisa, whose memory sustained me in the icy wastes, kept me going despite pain, hardship and the suicidal nature of our quest. Lisa, who my mind kept returning to in the empty wilderness. Married! To my friend Barras! I gave the doorpost a vicious kick and hobbled out into the blazing sun. I made the Poor Palace my next stop. I hadn’t intended to but with things at a low ebb I set out across Victory Plaza and went up to see what old Garyus had to say for himself. I used the stairs, it being too hot for climbing. In any case such activities were beneath the dignity of a prince returning from staring death in the eye on margins of the Bitter Ice.
“Hello?” Nobody stood in attendance and the door lay half-open.
No answer.
“Hello?” I leaned in. “It’s me. Jalan.”
The lump on the bed turned ponderously. With a sigh and an effort that set him trembling Garyus raised his head, as ugly and misshapen as I recalled, but older and more tired.
“Young Jalan.”
“I’m back.” I took the chair by the bed and sat down uninvited. With the curtain drawn I could make out little save for the furniture.
“I’m glad of it.” He smiled, his lips wet, a trail of drool drying on his chin, but a genuine smile.
“You’re the only one.” I bent to rub my toes, still smarting from kicking the wall. “Grandmother just roared me out of the throne room over some key . . .”
“Loki’s key.” It didn’t seem to be a question. Garyus watched me with mild eyes.
“Probably going to be Kelem’s key soon enough.” A silence stretched. “Kelem is—”
“I know who he is,” Garyus said. “Anyone with business interests knows old Kelem. Not so many years ago it might just as well have been his face on every coin of Empire.”
“And now? I thought he owned every bank in Florence.” What was it Snorri had said? Something about the beating heart of commerce.
“They call him the father of the banking clans, but if a father lives too long his children are apt to turn on him.” With effort Garyus waved his arm at correspondence piled on the desk behind his bed. “There’s trouble brewing in Umbertide. Finance houses seeking new partners. Some have even looked as far as the Drowned Isles. These are interesting times, Jalan, interesting times.”
“The Drowned Isles? The Dead King is interested in gold as well as corpses?”
Garyus shrugged. “One often follows the other.” He lay back, rasping in a breath, apparently exhausted.
“Are you . . .” I hunted for the right word, obviously he wasn’t “well.” “Can I get someone for you?”
“Tired, Jalan. Old and tired and broken. I . . . should sleep.” He closed his eyes. There were a thousand questions I’d wanted to ask him on my journey. But now, seeing him frail and ancient none of them seemed so pressing. Quite how we ended up talking about banks I wasn’t entirely sure but I hadn’t the heart to challenge him over any of my suspicions—they seemed silly now I sat here before him.
“Sleep then, Uncle.” Almost a whisper. I turned to go.
He spoke once more as I stepped through the door, voice thick with dreams. “I am glad . . . to see you, Jalan . . . knew you had it in you, boy.”
• • •
“Just you and me for the now, boys.”
Ronar and Todd waited for me, lounging in the shade, at ease in the way only old soldiers can manage. They seemed neither excited nor disappointed by the news, simply straightening themselves up and preparing to move out. They didn’t look much, both grey, grizzled and carrying pot bellies, and I didn’t expect much of them either, remembering how quickly they faded away that last time in the Blood Holes when Maeres Allus came over for a word.
Off we set, through the Surgeons Gate out into the sullen heat of late afternoon, a dirty haze above the city’s roofs and a threat of distant thunderheads clustering above the Gonella Hills to the south. I felt somewhat deflated, but there’s nothing like a skin-full of wine to reflate a man’s ego, so I led my guards out along the Corelli Line which mirrors the curves of the Seleen, set back on a ridge from where the waters can be glimpsed between the houses. Merchant dwellings and the town houses of minor aristocracy give way in time to the squares and plazas of Little Venice, divided and bracketed by innumerable canals. We crossed a few of the many humped bridges and came to the Grapes of Roth, a wine-house I knew well. Old Roth had died years ago but his sons inherited his flair for selecting good vintages and keeping the hoi polloi out.