The Liar's Key

“Have a care, Lord Gregori.” Grandmother from the throne, her voice low with warning.

The fellow swung round and offered a deep bow. “Meaning no disrespect, your majesty.”

Fortunately I’ve had plenty of experience in avoiding duels and Grandmother had just handed me the key to exit this one.

“I don’t pretend to know you, sirrah.” I let mild outrage colour my tone. “But since you appear to know me then you will also understand that I am a prince of Red March, a man whom if ill fortune befell this royal house might one day have to carry the burden of the crown.” I didn’t mention quite how many other heirs would have to die to make that happen. “As a veteran of the Scorron campaigns my heart compels me to meet any challenge to my honour with cold steel.” I saw him rise at that. “However, duty is a higher calling, and directs me to draw your attention to Gholloth’s Edict of Year Six. No prince of the realm shall lower themselves to meet the challenge of mere aristocrats.” I paraphrased the original and added in the “mere” to rub salt in the wound, but I knew my royal decrees in this area better than any lesson my tutors ever tried to teach me. In short he was beneath me—of insufficient rank to challenge a prince to combat.

For a moment I let him seethe, blood darkening his face until I thought he must either attack me or start bleeding from the eyes. I would have been happy to have him jump me and be cut down by the guard for his impudence, but sadly he drew a deep and shuddering breath before turning his back on me.

The pounding of my heart subsided to a point where I could hear myself talk and, now angry at being confronted in front of the court, I kicked his scabbard back at him.

“Your name, sir, and line!” I knew of no Lord Gregori.

He made a slow turn, empty hands flexing. “Lord DeVeer of Carnth, commander in chief of the Seventh Infantry. And you . . . prince, you deflowered my sister Lisa DeVeer, an act of unconscionable violation that drew my younger brother, Alain, to his death.”

“Ah . . .” I understood where the familiarity came from. He had his brother’s looks. The same overly hard skull too, no doubt. “Deflowered you say? Hardly, sir! They deflowered me if anything! I’ve never known sisters with such appetite!”

Again Gregori seemed on the very edge of throwing himself upon me, his rage so hot it left him unable to form words—then suddenly he lowered his hands.

“They? They you say? They! Your own brother’s wife . . . my little Micha?”

“No!” I yelped the word before regaining control. “No, don’t be more of a fool than you have to be, Lord DeVeer. Sharal of course.” A man shouldn’t name names but there were only three sisters in question. I couldn’t help looking away for a moment to picture the lovely Sharal, hair reaching her hips, tallest of the three, always wanting to be on top . . .

“Sharal . . .” He said it with a tone of satisfaction that drew my attention back to him. Of the reactions I expected, “pleased” was very far down the list.

I flicked my fingers at the man, shooing him toward the bronze doors. “If your business is complete, DeVeer . . .”

“Oh don’t worry, Prince Jalan. My business is complete. I shall retire.” He bowed to Grandmother. “With your permission, highness.” And receiving the nod he bent to scoop up his scabbard—a nice piece of work decorated with plates of black iron. “I will however pause at the city home of Count Isen. You may know the man?”

I didn’t grace him with a reply. Everyone knew of Count Isen, the reputation he’d cut for himself down south had spread even beyond Red March’s borders. In the lands he held for the crown his private army harassed smugglers and even pursued pirates across the sea to the very shores of the Corsair Isles.

Gregori offered me a curt bow. “Sharal is now engaged to be married to the good count. I’m sure when he hears how you pressed your lechery upon my sister, leaving her no options for resistance, that he too will wish for satisfaction of his honour . . . and I think you’ll find that when a count comes knocking you will no longer be able to hide behind the late King Gholloth’s skirts.”

Gregori made a final bow to the throne and strode out.

•   •   •

It was only Gregori’s departure that led my eyes to the Silent Sister, standing in the deepest shadow to the left of the great bronze doors, bone-pale and wrapped in cloths that looked to have been applied wet and dried in place like a wrinkled second skin.

“So, Reymond’s boy.” My grandmother’s voice turned me back to the throne. “Where have you been?”