Red Queen's War: The Liar's Key Part 25

"Never!" I let him guide me in and draw out a chair for me at one of the reserved tables near the centre beneath high awnings. "Not even death could keep me from your hospitality, Marco!"

"What can I bring you, my prince?" A genial smile on fat and pockmarked cheeks. The man generated a miasma of good humour, his ugliness somehow charming, and if the fact that I owed him the best part of fifty crowns in gold bothered him . . . well none of it showed on the surface.

"A good Rhonish red," I said.

"Ah, your tastes have broadened, Prince Jalan! But all Rhonish reds are good. Which to choose? Bayern? Ilar Valley? Chamy-Nix? Don P-"

"Chamy-Nix."

"As you say." And with a bow he was off. Soon a boy would be scurrying to the cellars in search of my wine.

I leaned back. Todd and Ronar had taken themselves to the shade of a large maple not far outside the part of the plaza roped off for Roth's customers. The slow ebb and flow of the world pa.s.sed by as shadows lengthened. My wine came and I sipped it, washing the flavour over my tongue. Relaxed, warm, safe, respected. It should have felt better than it did. After a while the wine began to erode my sense of discontent but from time to time I would see some or other long and rolling horizon from my travels, stretching away, full of secrets waiting to unfold. I tried to shake off the sensation and remind myself how awful it had been from beginning to end.

"Prince Jalan! How are you? You must tell us about your adventures." A man, catching my eye from a neighbouring table. I frowned a moment taking him in, thin, weasel-like, balding, a port-wine stain beneath his eye as if he'd been crying blood . . . Bonarti Poe! A dreadful social climber and a fellow I would normally cut dead, but lacking company, and remembering how pretty his sister was, I gave him the slightest nod and with a twitch of my finger beckoned him and his cronies over.

Before Roth's sons had the lamps lit I was in my cups, a bottle and a half to the good, and lying my way through the first leg of my trek north. I steered clear of unsettling detail and made no mention of the Dead King, but even so surprised myself by discovering that for once the lies were merely window-dressing and the truth provided a decent backbone to the tale.

"Two dozen of the brigands, pursuing us up into mountains as steep as any you'll find around the Aral Pa.s.s!" I drained my goblet, shaping the mountains in question with my spare hand. "Edris Dean at their head-as foul a murderer as ever-"

The conversation waned around me, not dying as if a man had walked in carrying a severed head, but fading as if every person there suddenly didn't want to be noticed. From the looks on the faces around me, all aimed my way, I thought for a moment that perhaps Edris Dean was standing behind me exactly as I had described him.

"Prince Jalan, how good to see you." A soft voice, slightly nasal, one might almost call it boring.

I turned, having to crane my neck awkwardly. "Maeres Allus." I managed not to stammer, though immediately I felt as though I were tied to that table of his, waiting for Cutter John to redesign my face with a sharp little knife.

"Don't let me disturb you, my prince." Maeres laid one of his small and neatly manicured hands upon my shoulder. "I just wanted to welcome you back from your travels. I believe that Count Isen is to pay a call to the Roma Hall tomorrow, but if you are available after that then it would be a pleasure to see you at the Blood Holes again and discuss matters of business."

The gentle pressure lifted and Maeres moved away without waiting for a reply. He left me feeling uncomfortably sober and all of a sudden wishing for the security of the palace walls.

"d.a.m.n fellow." I stood up, brushing at my shoulder where he'd touched me. "Remembered I've a thing at the palace. Royal . . . reception." I didn't feel drunk but my lying was below par. I have on occasion placated wronged husbands with the most ridiculous of excuses-the art is in the delivery. Said with enough conviction even "I dropped my cufflink down her bodice, gift from my mother don't you know, and she needed help getting it out," can be made to sound temporarily plausible. n.o.body at this table however thought for one moment that I was leaving for any reason other than Maeres Allus.

I hastened away through the tables, making a waiter stumble to avoid disaster, and veering away as Marco hoved into view, no doubt to discuss his own matters of business and the purchase of four fine bottles of Chamy-Nix '96.

"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.

"s.h.i.t."

I nudged Ronar over with my foot. His head lolled, eyes gla.s.sy, 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 p.i.s.sed 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 doc.u.ment 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 sc.r.a.ped 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.

"Saddle my horse!" And, hoping that someone would convey the order to the stablemaster, I plotted an unsteady path back to my rooms, determined to pack for the journey this time. The first thing I did was to swap my old campaign blade for the dress sword at my side. The queen's peace held on the roads to Florence but even so the old adage also held-the more used your sword looks, the less likely you'll have to use it.

Horse-riding is a kill-or-cure treatment for hangovers and I managed to stay on the right side of the divide, whilst wishing not a few times for the merciful embrace of death. I cantered out of Vermillion with over-full saddlebags bouncing against Nor's flanks and the morning sun beginning to heat the cobbles all around us.

I slowed Nor to a walk as soon as distance had diminished the city behind me to something I could block out with an outstretched thumb. It felt good to be on the move again, this time with a safe destination, a letter of authority in my pack, plenty of provisions, spare clothes, a horse, a handful of coppers, and six silver crowns. I'd left instructions for the count to be told I'd been called away on official royal business. It pleased me to think of him kicking his heels in the heat outside the Roma Hall then stomping back home. Maerus Allus could go hang too. I rode on in good spirits. There's something remarkably uplifting about moving on and leaving your troubles behind.

I rode a day, slept at a decent inn, enjoyed an enormous breakfast of mushroom omelette and fried potatoes, and set off again. Travelling incognito through my homeland proved a liberating experience, and whilst I missed the company the Norse had provided it did give me time to think my own thoughts and watch the world go by. It turns out that's highly over-rated.

Two thoughts started to gain prominence among all my speculation about events back in Vermillion. Namely, where were Grandmother's riders, with Snorri a prisoner in their midst, and why the h.e.l.l hadn't I caught up with Hennan yet? How had an urchin on foot with just a day's start on me managed to stay ahead this long? Another day of clip-clopping down the Appan Way didn't answer either question. The sun set behind me bringing the faintest whisper of Aslaug's presence and throwing all the valley of Edmar into shadow. The white flash down Nor's face seemed to catch the last of the light and point the way. Warm air, the chirp of crickets rising among the vineyards lining the slopes to either side, the odd wagon or laden cart hauled by a sway-backed donkey . . . as peaceful an evening as a man could wish for. Instead I found myself wishing for the drunken riot of an evening at the Follies, followed by a drunken tumble with one of the more flexible performers (they liked to call themselves actresses) or perhaps two of them, or three. I rolled comfortably in Nor's saddle pondering how Vermillion called to me the moment I left it despite having proved something of a disappointment after my long absence.

I wasn't aware of the hors.e.m.e.n coming up behind me until the last moment-that's another disadvantage of getting lost in your thoughts. On my left a man leaned from his saddle and drew my sword, on my right another pulled his horse across Nor's path and grabbed the reins from me.

"If you'd be so kind as to dismount, Prince Jalan." A voice from behind me.

Leaning around, I saw three more men on horseback, the middle one a solid fellow, well-dressed in a high-collared cloak, the latest fashion, fastened with a thick gold chain. He looked to be about fifty, with close-cropped grey hair, dark eyes, and a grim smile. Cold hands contracted around my stomach and bladder with the realization that this was likely Count Isen. To his left a slighter figure hooded in grey, holding his reins in a single hand, to his right an ugly dark-haired bruiser much like those flanking me, only this one had a heavy crossbow levelled at my back.

I raised my hands, mind racing. "I'm on the queen's business. I've no time for games-especially not for being waylaid on the highway. This is common criminality! My grandmother has men nailed to trees for this kind of thing." I kept my voice as even as I could, choosing my words to remind the count of his duties and of mine. Challenging a man to a duel is one thing. Forcing him off the road at crossbow point is a very different matter.

"I asked you to dismount, Prince Jalan. I won't be asking again." The count seemed unmoved.

Slowly, so as to give no excuse to the fellow with the crossbow, I dismounted. It would just take one nervous twitch from the man, or even from his horse, and I could be staring at the hole a crossbow bolt had punched through me. I'd seen men hit by crossbow bolts at short range and very much wished that I hadn't.

"Easy now. This is madness! You only had to wait-"

"." The count waved at the two men who had dismounted as I did. I shook my head but couldn't make sense of the words.

"Hey now!" They grabbed my hands and secured them behind me with disturbing swiftness, having a rope noose already prepared to loop around both wrists.

The count glanced back down the road then stood in his stirrups to look ahead. Satisfied we weren't about to be disturbed in the next minute or two he sat back. "And the mask." Neither man shifted. The count placed his palm over his mouth, "!"

A rustling behind me and hands reached around me to press something heavy across my mouth.

"No!" I started struggling but the man in front, tall as me and thick with muscle, punched me in the stomach, right in that spot that tells all the air to leave your lungs fast as it can.

While I doubled up they secured the gag, forcing the leather bit between my teeth as I gasped for breath. The thick leather straps reached out across my face and round the back of my head like the fingers of a hand, partly blocking my nose and half-covering my eyes. A common liar's mask of the sort used to transport seditionists and madmen. I would have smiled if I could. Count Isen had gone far too far. Grandmother wouldn't stand for anyone bearing her name to endure such humiliation. Dragging me through Vermillion like this might sully my reputation somewhat but the count would be lucky to escape with his lands and t.i.tle, certainly there would be no question of me having to duel him.

"Up!" The count waved his hand at the pair manhandling me and with distressing ease they lifted me back onto Nor. I slipped my boots into the stirrups and held on tight with my knees. Falling off a horse with your hands tied behind your back is a quick way to break your neck.

The third of the Slavic men lowered his crossbow and removed the bolt. I guess the trio didn't speak the Empire tongue, though why the count would employ such men I couldn't- "No!" Is what I would have said. Instead I made a m.u.f.fled scream around the gag. The man on Isen's other side had raised his hood. He released his reins to do it since he only had the one arm. The hood slipped from a bald white skull, pale eyes stared into mine from a fleshless face that somehow, despite seeming nothing but skin stretched over bone, managed to look pleased to see me. How the h.e.l.l did Maeres Allus's head torturer, Cutter John, come to be riding with Count Isen? I tried to urge Nor into a trot but the bully beside me had tight hold of the reins and the other punched me in the leg, hard enough for me to lose feeling in it.

"Steady now!" The count raised a hand. "You left it a little late to run, Prince Jalan." He smiled without humour. "I see you've recognized John. I'm Alber Marks, and my a.s.sociates' names are unimportant. What is important is that they won't understand anything you say to them and have no idea who you are. I mention this only to save you breath when trying to bribe them or otherwise sway them from their purpose."

s.h.i.t. s.h.i.t. s.h.i.t. Maeres Allus had sent one of his best lieutenants after me. Alber Marks had a reputation for ruthless efficiency. Here I'd been thinking that only social niceties and royal duty stood between me and being run through with the count's longsword. But the real threat had been re-acquaintance with Cutter John's pincers-and anything that stood between me and being tied to a table in one of Maeres's warehouses had slipped away when I stopped paying attention. I should have known it wasn't the count. Isen was said to be a small man and even on a horse, dwarfed by henchmen, Alber Marks hadn't fit the bill.

"Come." Alber tilted his head and led off toward a gap in the verge where a tiny track angled away from the highway. The Slavs rode two in front, one behind, corralling me. They led me after Alber and Cutter John at an unhurried pace. It took a minute or two to get out of sight of the road among the vine rows and the dividing hawthorn hedges.

The men lifted me from Nor's back again and Cutter John came over to check my bonds, running a cold and long-fingered hand over each of the five straps about my head-an intimate touch that made me shiver with revulsion. A moment's fiddling at the back of my head and I heard the snap of a lock. Cutter John came back into view, dangling a small key before dropping it into his pocket. He smiled, displaying narrow teeth and pulled open his cloak to show the stump of his arm, ending in an ugly ma.s.s of pale scar just above the elbow. The last time I'd seen Cutter John blood had been pulsing from the wound-Snorri having sliced the arm off just moments before-and I'd given him several good kicks in the head while he lay unconscious, and I rather hoped, dying. I wished now I'd staved his skull in with a table leg.

Rummaging somewhat awkwardly in an inner pocket Cutter John drew out a pair of iron pincers. "Remember?" he asked.

I hadn't forgotten, though Lord knows I'd wanted to. The d.a.m.n things had featured regularly in my nightmares for the past six months.

"I'll be waiting," he said, and moving behind me he caught the tip of one of my fingers in the pincers, squeezing hard. I roared behind the gag and threw myself about in the Slavs' grip and somehow my finger came free though with so much pain I couldn't tell if he'd snipped off the fingertip or not. The whole hand pulsed with agony and I hauled air in and out through my nose, s...o...b..r escaping the gag.

Alber Marks rode closer and leaned in. "John and I will be leaving now. It wouldn't be sensible to risk getting caught with you in our possession. We'll arrange a discreet entrance into the city for you and if I don't meet you again . . . well, I'm sure that John will." He straightened up. "Safe journey, Prince Jalan." And with that they both rode off at a trot, Cutter John bouncing along like a man unused to the saddle.

I sat struggling to draw breath past the mask, eyes swimming with tears, and with my finger ablaze with agony as if it had been dipped into hot acid. Even so my heart hammered slightly less frantically with each yard that opened up between us. It might seem small comfort but however dire my circ.u.mstances were the fact that Cutter John was riding away just made everything that bit better.

The relief proved short-lived. With a grunt one of the three Slavs tugged Nor's reins and we started back toward the Appan Way. I blinked a few times to clear my eyes and glanced around at the guards as we rode. They shared the same coa.r.s.e features, their faces each comprising a set of broad planes: heavy brow above a small nose, prominent cheekbones from which sallow skin stretched down to a square jaw. I judged them to be brothers, possibly even triplets, for there was little to tell them apart. Without the mask and the language barrier I might stand a chance of talking my way out of it, but something about their eyes-that flat and unimaginative look they all had-told me they would be hard to turn from their course even then.

The first three times we pa.s.sed people on the road I immediately started struggling and trying to call out. It earned me looks of disgust and jeers of derision from the travellers as they pa.s.sed by, and cuffs around the head from the Slavs once they were out of sight. The fourth time I tried the carter's mate threw a rock at me and the largest of the Slavs punched me in the kidneys hard enough that I'd be p.i.s.sing blood come morning. I gave up after that. The liar's mask made me near impossible to recognize even if our household servants were to walk on past. Moreover it marked me as an enemy of Red March whose untruths were poison. Most would a.s.sume I was being taken to trial and would probably lose my tongue once found guilty, or perhaps if the judge were lenient merely have it split to the root.

We made camp at the side of the road, far enough back into a field of maize to hide us from view. The relief I'd felt at being separated from Cutter John once more had quickly eroded as we reduced the gap again, making steady progress toward Vermillion. I hadn't any ideas about how to escape and being ridden through my own kingdom past dozens of loyal subjects, unrecognized and unable to ask for help was maddening.

Squatted in a flattened circle of maize and hemmed in on all sides by the tall green legion of undamaged crop, we were well hidden. Even the horses wouldn't be seen, heads bowed and crunching away on the nearly ripe cobs. One of the Slav brothers hammered a wooden stake into the ground and attached the back of my mask to it with a length of chain already bolted to the stake. This done, the brothers broke out cold rations and settled to eat-black bread, a tub of greyish b.u.t.ter, and a length of dark red sausage mottled with white lumps of fat and gristle. They devoured it in silence save for the constant chewing and occasional unintelligible word as they exchanged foodstuffs. None of them paid me the slightest attention. I tried to think of an escape plan whilst trying not to think how much I needed to p.i.s.s. Neither attempt proved successful and it began to seem like the only way to alert the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds to my toileting needs would be to wet myself.

It turns out that wetting yourself is quite difficult, going against a number of key instincts as it does. Even so, with enough time you'll get there. I was on the point of soiling myself when one of the Slavs got up and took a peculiar metal hook from his pocket. Without warning he grabbed the back of my head with one arm and forced the hook past the gag, snagging me by the corner of the mouth like a fish. Then, preventing my struggles simply by holding the hook, he took out a funnel and jammed its point into the end of the hook-which turned out to be a hollow tube.

"." He reached for a water skin and started to fill the funnel. From that point, until he stopped, the business of not choking to death kept me fully occupied. The incident made two things clear-firstly that they didn't have the key to the mask, and secondly if I were ever going to be fed again it would be after we reached Vermillion.

The "watering" solved the other problem I'd been having, my bladder losing all its shyness as I choked. The effect was at first a not-unpleasant warmth, fading fairly quickly to the less pleasant sensation of cold wet trousers.

The sun set and though I imagined Aslaug whispering amongst the dry voices of the corn I couldn't make out the words and she offered no help. In fact, it sounded almost like laughter.

Two brothers settled down to sleeping, leaving the third to watch me, and eventually I lay down on the bed of flattened maize stalks to try to sleep. My finger, or what I imagined might be left of it, pulsed with hurt, and without being able to bring my arms forward I could find no position in which they didn't ache, the mask was a misery and bugs emerged in the darkness to explore every inch of me. Even so, at some point in the night I pa.s.sed out, and ten seconds later, or so it seemed, my captors were shaking me awake with the sky hinting grey above us.

I watched them break their fast, choked down more water, and was hoisted onto Nor's back once more. We resumed our journey toward Vermillion, clattering along at a gentle pace past the day-to-day traffic of wagons, messengers, carriages bound for distant destinations, and peasants making shorter visits on laden carts or leading over-burdened mules along behind them. The road rose among some stony ridge of hills that I didn't recall from my outward journey, and farmland gave over to a dry forest of cork oaks, beech, and loose-limbed conifers. The morning haze burned away and the sun beat down again, seemingly harder than before, raising a stink from the manure piles punctuating the Appan cobbles and making me yearn unexpectedly for the cool clean winds of a Norseheim spring. I lolled in the saddle, sweating, thirsty, and wretched, wondering how many flies were cl.u.s.tered around the aching ruin of my finger and laying their eggs in the glistening wound.

"That's him!" A man's voice, strident and triumphant. "Or at least it's his horse. Certain of that. Look at the flash."

I unglued my eyes and tried to focus. Four men on horseback had moved to block our way.

"It can't be him." A different man, dismissive. "A prince of Red March wouldn't-"

"Check him, Bonarti." This from the man on the largest horse, a real monster.

The last of them urged his steed toward me. The Slav brothers tensed but made no move to prevent his advance.

"Definitely his horse." The first man, daring anyone to disagree with him.

Relief flooded me. If I'd not been gagged I would have shouted for joy. Every ache vanished in the instant. Grandmother, Martus . . . someone . . . had learned of Maeres's intentions and sent out a rescue party. A rescue party including a man who'd taken note of Nor's peculiar markings-that jagged white flash down the velvety blackness of his nose. His distinctiveness had drawn me to buying him-I'd wanted to look good riding back into my hometown and, even though a connoisseur of horseflesh like myself shouldn't be guided by such frippery, I had let it guide me. And it must have guided Maeres's men too. If I'd only chosen a plain dun nag and worn a hood I would have been crossing the border into Florence instead of a day's hard ride from Vermillion and neck deep in the mire.

The thin man closing in on me leaned forward in his saddle to peer at me, his eyes narrow, one with the red stain of a birthmark just below it. It was Bonarti Poe! I'd last seen him at the Grapes of Roth just before Maeres showed up to ruin the evening. He might be an oily fellow with a pointy face that seemed to beg for slapping, but at that moment I'd never been so pleased to see anyone I knew. I didn't even begrudge him all the Rhonish red he'd swigged at my expense that night.

"Prince Jalan?"

I nodded vigorously making gurgling noises that I hoped sounded affirmative. Bonarti continued to peer at me closely, shifting his head from side to side as though it might help him see past the straps across my face. "It's him all right!" Then in a quieter and puzzled voice. "Prince Jalan, why are you-"

"He's hiding, obviously! A ruse to smuggle himself back into the city un.o.bserved." The man on the enormous horse cut across Bonarti's question. My attention though was on the Slav brothers-given half a chance they'd cut my saviours down and carry on to Vermillion as if nothing had happened. I gestured urgently toward them with my head making gurgling noises that I hoped sounded a strong note of warning.

"Stop this foolery! Get down from there, sir! And face me like a man! Face me as you should have had the decency to do when you first received my challenge!" The man on the big horse had my attention now, his face red with fury around a neat grey moustache and the narrow slit of his mouth.

"His hands are bound, Count Isen!" Bonarti, leaning around me.

"Prisoner!" the Slav brother closest to me declared.

"Nonsense!" Count Isen-the real article this time-was having none of it. "Enough of this farce. Cut him loose and get him down. I've no time for such foolishness. A day wasted on the road when I could have been doing something useful . . ."

Bonarti took his knife, a small bejewelled thing, and cut my wrists free.

"Prisoner!" the Slav repeated but with no small amount of the traffic having stopped to watch the entertainment the brothers would be fools to try anything.

I brought my hands forward, rubbing both wrists and making a close study of my mutilated finger. It proved less injured than I'd imagined, with only the nail ripped away and the exposed flesh crusted over with black scabs. Part of me was pleased the damage wasn't irreversible, the other part horrified that so much pain had come from so small an injury. Even with the Count of Isen ready to slice me into quivering chunks I managed a shiver at the thought of what Cutter John could achieve given his leisure with a man.

"Get down, sir! I mean to have my satisfaction without delay!" And Count Isen swung himself from the saddle of his vast horse, to vanish entirely behind it. He emerged from its shadow, hands on hips, glaring up at me. He was as small a man as I'd seen in my months on the road, with the exception of Dr. Taproot's dwarf, dressed in the finest possible travel attire and trailing a sword at his hip that might have sc.r.a.ped the floor even if it hung from my own.

I reached up to my mask and tugged at it, pointing at Bonarti then at the back of my head.

"Yes, I bought Bonarti as your second. Mine's Stevanas over there." Isen waved a hand at a solid warrior glowering toward me from his horse. Sir Kritchen here will adjudicate to ensure fair play. Now get down, sir, or so help me I'll have you dragged from the saddle."

I met Isen's stare for the first time. Beneath neatly barbered hair and well-manicured eyebrows the eyes of a maniac stared up at me. A small maniac, granted, but somehow scary as all h.e.l.l even so. I got off Nor's back sharp enough, tugging at the mask and discovering the heavy lock at the rear. Dismounting wasn't an act of bravery. The thing about horses is that they're great for running away once you're actually running away, but they lack a touch of initial acceleration so if you're right next to a threat and looking to escape, you may well find you're better off on foot. By the time Nor got up to speed and broke clear of my various captors, enemies, and would-be murderers, a least one of them would likely have stuck a sword through some part of me that I'd rather keep. Instead I tugged meaningfully at the straps and pointed at my mouth.

"Enough of this mummery! Defend yourself!" Count Isen drew his over-long sword and pointed it my way.

I held out my empty hands. "I haven't even got a sword you tiny madman!" is what I tried to say, though it emerged as a long string of "ung" sounds.

"Sir Kritchen." Isen kept those little black beads of insanity fixed on my face. "Give the prince his sword. I see the fellow behind him has two blades."

And while I made further protests Sir Kritchen, a tall elderly fellow I remembered from somewhere, dismounted to retrieve my sword from one of the Slav brothers. With the gathered crowd growing by the minute the man had little option but to hand it over. He didn't look happy. Probably wondering if his homeland was far away enough to avoid Maeres's wrath if they didn't get me back to him in Vermillion as charged.