The Liar's Key

“Get up. Quick about it!” I snapped my fingers at Todd and Ronar dozing beneath the maple. Martus’s guard would have stood all night, not sat down with their backs to a tree trunk. “We’re going back.” I could have been talking to the tree itself for all the response I got. I kicked Ronar’s foot, hard. “Wake up! If you’re drunk I’ll have your—”

He slumped over, head hitting the paving slabs with a dull thud. Somewhere behind me a woman laughed.

“Shit.”

I nudged Ronar over with my foot. His head lolled, eyes glassy, a line of red drool running from his mouth. Maeres had had them both killed. It was the only explanation. He’d had them murdered as a warning. I set off at a sprint.

It took me about two hundred yards to run out of puff and I stood gasping for air, doubled over, one hand against the gatepost of a large house. Sweat soaked me and dripped from my hair. Once I’d stopped running and let common sense catch up with me I realized I had no reason to run. If Maeres wanted me dead I’d be dead already. I knew from my time in his warehouse that madness lurked behind his calm and reasonable exterior. He didn’t get to run half the criminals in the city by gentle persuasion, I’d always known that, but I had mistakenly thought him just another form of businessman, a pragmatist who would roll with the punches. The man I’d seen unmasked in that warehouse though—that man would consider my escape an injury to his pride and how much gold might be required to heal such an injury I couldn’t say. Except that it would be more than I had.

TWENTY-TWO

The messenger brought two scrolls to the Roma Hall and though a hangover had been driven through my head like a huge metal spike I was awake and ready to receive them at the breakfast table. Outside grey dawn had started to tiptoe along the Kings Way toward the palace. I sat looking at the scramble of my eggs, the black scroll-case, and the copper-worked one, all with equal mistrust. My stomach’s protests led me to push the plate away first. The black case bore an ivory cartouche displaying a wrecked ship in silhouette, the Isen crest. Inside would be formal announcement of his planned visit. The only question in my mind was where I was going to run to and whether to read the other message first. I had no funds to speak of, nowhere to run, and no excuse for running, but there wasn’t any question of me staying to duel the Count of Isen. It would take more than Grandmother’s disapproval to have me ready to face a lunatic like Isen in combat.

Pressing the heel of one hand to my forehead in an attempt to squeeze out the self-inflicted pain I reached, groaning, for the copper scroll-case. It bore no legend. I tried to pry the end off one-handed, cautious in case Maeres had sent me an asp. I ended up fumbling the thing to the floor and having to use two hands—both of them trembling with the aftermath of too much wine, stress, and the certainty that if there were an asp in there it would now be a decidedly pissed off one. The end cap unscrewed rather than pulled. I shook out the scroll within then smoothed it across the table. At first I had trouble focusing bleary eyes sufficiently to read the calligraphy set across the vellum. Some sort of official letter or warrant.

I fixated on a line near the top: “Davario Romano Evenaline of the House Gold, Mercantile Derivatives.” Then one near the bottom. “Bearer Prince Jalan Kendeth deputized to represent the interests of Gholloth in Afrique trade—specifically the RMS Jupiter, Mars, and Mercury.” I blinked, lifted the scroll before my face and squinted at it. “House Gold, Umbertide, Florence.”

It seemed to be a document both authorizing and dispatching me to conduct some kind of commercial negotiations in Umbertide, the banking capital of Florence. I ran my finger across the hard blob of sealing wax impressed with a complex sigil. It took me a moment to remember where I knew it from. Eight interlocking fingers.

“Garyus!” I said it out loud. Too loud. And wished I hadn’t. For a moment the piercing agony of my hangover left no room for thought. “Garyus.” A whisper. He had this symbol tattooed across the veins of his left wrist. And Gholloth must be his true name, after his father, King Gholloth II, Garyus being a diminutive, perhaps even “Gharyus”—I’d never seen it written. I looked more closely and saw that the “Jalan” appeared to overwrite some other name that had been scraped away, with another seal-mark to notarize the change.

I rolled the scroll up and tapped it into the case, then clutched it tight, hauling in a sigh of relief. I had my excuse for leaving and a place to go. Dear old Great-uncle Garyus had heard of my predicament and swapped me in for the duty. If I hurried I could be out of the palace before they dragged Snorri in, before the count turned up waving his sword and bleating about satisfaction, and before Maeres Allus knew anything about it. Better still, I was bound for Umbertide, where all the world’s money washes up sooner or later: what better place for an impoverished prince to line his pockets? I could come back laden with gold, pay off Allus and the other vultures, and hopefully find that Sharal DeVeer had talked sense into her new husband by then.