Hertet looked lost in the dark grip of his throne, swamped by a voluminous robe of cloth-of-gold, worked all over in elaborate whorls and spirals of the Brettan kind. I followed in Roland’s wake, noting my uncle’s unhealthy pallor as he sweated beneath the crown, more haggard than he had been at Father’s funeral that morning.
‘Father!’ Roland’s slight speech impediment managed to put a comic edge on most words. A kinder sire would have changed his son’s name to John when the problem with ‘r’s became apparent. Roland pushed past another couple of lords and raised both his hand and his voice. ‘Father! I’ve found Prince Jalan, come to swear to you!’
Roland stepped aside to present me, his gaze falling to my bound wrists for the first time, with some confusion, now taking in the torn and blood-spattered clothes.
‘Nephew. I commend you for being the first of Reymond’s boys to bend the knee … but you’ve come before me in rags and ropes? Some new fashion perhaps? Heh? Heh?’
His barked laughter sparked the court-in-waiting into sycophantic echoes, tittering at the state of me. I supposed they might now just be called ‘the court’ since the waiting appeared to be over.
Hertet raised both hands, a tolerant call for quiet. ‘So where are those brothers of yours? Martus should be offering his fealty. He’s head of your house now, no? Until the pope’s new cardinal evicts the lot of you at least!’ More laughter at that.
‘Martus holds the enemy before the palace walls at your command … Uncle.’ I couldn’t call him king, not yet. ‘I last saw him about to charge a rag-a-maul. I don’t know if—’
‘A what?’ Hertet asked.
The Duke of Grast stepped in before I could reply, cold eyes upon me. ‘A rag-a-maul, majesty. The peasants’ word for the dust-devils that blow up from time to time. They hold them to be haunted.’
‘Heh! Heh! That boy! I always said he’d fight wind if he hadn’t anyone else to battle! Didn’t I say that, Roland? Didn’t I?’ Hertet wiped the grey straggles from his forehead as the dutiful laughter followed.
‘I don’t know if Martus survived.’ I raised my voice. ‘And Darin is dead, killed behind the city walls by dead men who over-ran the Appan Gate. The outer city is burning. We have—’
‘Yes. Yes.’ Hertet’s brow furrowed beneath the crown, irritation showing in his voice. ‘Aren’t you the marshal, Nephew? Shouldn’t you be out there putting a stop to all this? Or are you unequal to the task?’ He looked nervous as much as angry, twitchy in the throne.
I sensed a weakness in him. I would never get the help needed at the gate if I let them laugh me from the court, so I attacked. ‘How did you get the crown, Uncle?’ The sparkle of the diamonds captured my eye. ‘It was locked in the royal treasury.’ My father had told me about the iron vault. The first Gholloth spent a small fortune to defend a large fortune. Turkmen master smiths travelled from the east to build it in situ. In time the vault might be breached – but so quickly? ‘The Red Queen keeps the key.’
Silence followed the scattered gasps at my temerity. Hertet reached into the golden collar of his robes and drew forth Loki’s key, making slow rotations on the end of a twisted silver chain. ‘It didn’t take any effort to wrest this from that ugly old man she keeps in the tower. Much safer with me, and so good at opening doors! You wouldn’t believe the secrets I’ve found or how much gold dear Mother had stashed away…’
‘You took it?’ Of course he had. Garyus wouldn’t give it to an idiot nephew, not while he was steward. ‘It’s a bad idea to take that key from anyone. It needs to be given.’
‘Nonsense.’ He twitched, then forced a smile. ‘I’m king and I’ll take what I like. It’s mine by right. And none of your concern. Take those silly ropes off and bend the knee. Then you can get back to what you’re supposed to be doing. Or shall I appoint somebody more competent?’
Every instinct tried to put me on my knees but one question kept me standing. ‘Is Garyus … alive?’
Hertet frowned. ‘Of course he is. I’m no monster. He’s locked up safe until he sees things my way. Some—’ He shot a glance into the glittering line of courtiers closest to the throne. ‘Some advised a sudden and sharp solution. But those times are behind us now. I am not my mother.’
I’d been on one knee from the moment I heard Garyus was alive. I’ve always been happy to abandon my pride if it gets in the way of ambition, whether that be escape or a tumble in a lady’s bed. Hertet could have my allegiance, it really wasn’t worth much. ‘My king, I need the palace guard at the Appan Gate, and all the men that can be rounded up from the Seventh. A battle is raging there and we are not winning. If the gate falls the palace will fall – it’s not built for defence. Our men-at-arms will serve you better at the city wall.’
Hertet tucked Loki’s key away and frowned. ‘You would leave your king unguarded? At the mercy of any dissenters who can gather a mob? That’s hardly a demonstration of your loyalty to the crown, Marshal!’
Voices rose in agreement on several sides, not just the sycophants but genuine self-interest. Sending your guards out of sight while the city burns and battle rages is never an easy sell. Rather like throwing away your sword whilst being chased it feels like a damn stupid thing to do.
I returned to my feet, awkward with my hands still bound. ‘Majesty, you fail to understand the scale of the threat. Thousands of dead men crowd the city wall, ten thousand perhaps. If they are able to take the Appan Gate and enter in force then Vermillion is lost. The palace, this house, would fall within an hour. The city wall is our only defence and it is the only place where our numbers can tell. The men outside your door are wasted – at the gate they may yet turn the tide. Prince Rotus and Princess Serah are with our forces there. They need support.’ I saw a measure of conflict on Hertet’s face. He might be stupid, but not entirely stupid. I suspected most of his current measures were the result of paranoia, the possibly valid belief that his family, or the city, or both, would reject his claim to the throne and set some younger and more capable Kendeth in the Red Queen’s seat.
‘Tell Father about the necromancer, Jalan!’ Roland at my shoulder, helpfully muddying the waters.
‘Necromancer?’ Hertet shifted forward, hands gripping the arms of his throne.
‘There’s a sub-captain in the foyer claiming there are dead men roaming the courtyards and ghouls on the rooftops!’ Some newly-arrived lord far behind me at the main doors.
I spread my hands as far as the ropes allowed. ‘It’s only a hint of what’s coming if we don’t hold the Appan Gate. These are just scouts and still the palace walls mean nothing to them!’
‘Necromancers and dead men on my very doorstep!’ Hertet rose from the throne, colouring crimson, voice rising toward a shout. ‘And you try to send away my personal guard?’
‘Vermillion will fall! You must—’
‘Must?’ Hertet swung his head left then right as if seeking echoes of his outrage. ‘Must? I am the king of Red March, from sea to sea, and there is no “must”!’
‘Listen to me!’ I shouted to be heard.
‘Put Prince Jalan in the cells. Let him cool his temper and find his reason.’ Hertet fell back into his chair, anger spent as quickly as it came. ‘Marshal Roland, gather fifty men of the grounds guard and take the situation at the Appan Gate in hand. I expect a report in the morning.’
‘This is insane!’ I made to climb the dais, but strong arms already had me, dragging me toward the exit. ‘You’ll all die here if you follow this idiot—’ A heavy fist took the treason from my mouth and the rest of the world followed into darkness a moment later.
19
As tyrants go, Uncle Hertet proved not to be too terrible. They dragged me dazed and disoriented into one of his grand drawing rooms where the ‘cells’ proved to be a collection of large, comfortable armchairs to which eight or nine well-dressed men were lightly chained. I looked a beggar next to them and a housemaid rushed to get a dustsheet before the guardsmen thrust me into my own comfy c
hair.
‘Hertet likes to keep his enemies close,’ I said, reclining with a groan. Few parts of me didn’t hurt.
‘Prince Jalan?’ A concerned voice from just behind me. ‘Are you injured?’
‘I’m fine. The worst of the pain is in my … body.’ I craned my neck to see who addressed me. Squinting against the remnants of double vision I made out a thin and balding man in the latest Rhone fashions, yellow buttons on a black velvet jacket. The two images joined to reveal him sharp featured, sporting a port-wine stain below one eye. ‘Bonarti Poe!’ On my list of likely rebels Bonarti Poe would be keeping me company in the weasel section at the very bottom. ‘What did you do? Rush my uncle screaming death threats?’
Poe gave a high-pitched and flustered laugh. ‘No! No, never!’ He coughed into a lace-edged handkerchief. ‘The king considers me Count Isen’s man and mistrusts me.’ Another cough and he raised his voice. ‘But there’s no man more loyal to the throne of Red March than Bonarti Poe!’
‘Isen is against my uncle?’ That sounded promising. Count Isen was madder than a bag of ferrets but very capable and with a standing army of his own.
‘I’m sure the count’s loyalty is beyond reproach,’ Poe replied. ‘But he cannot yet have expressed an opinion on the matter. Even with the swiftest of messengers and leaving his hall immediately the count can’t be anywhere near Vermillion. I fear the king has simply anticipated defiance where I’m sure none exists.’
I was far less sure, but the count’s opinion didn’t matter one way or the other if he was still down at his holdings in the south. ‘So we’re doomed to live out the rest of our lives in this damn awful dungeon then?’ I sunk further back into the chair and smiled at the maid standing attendance between two guardsmen at the door. A pretty girl with red curls.
‘They’ll move us to the Marsail cells come morning.’ An ancient, crumbling lord I recognized but couldn’t name. ‘That silly boy’s too scared to spare the men right now.’
‘Hmmm.’ I tested my chain. It turns out that heavy chains are just for show. A light chain will hold a man. I had more chance of breaking off the chair leg that the other end was wrapped about. Actually, if not for the half dozen guards stationed around the walls, I could just turn the armchair over and slip the chain free. But with my sword gone, my knife confiscated, and the fact I had no intention of pitting myself against six trained guards, with or without a sword, my options were limited.
‘They seem to be having fun.’ The sounds of conversation just reached us from Hertet’s court, a low continuous rumble interspersed with the occasional shriek of laughter or outburst of applause.
‘Scared out of their wits, most of them.’ The Baron of Strombol, a portly but fierce little man governing a sizable territory in the mountains to the north. ‘Terrified of whatever is at our gates, frightened that the Red Queen won’t come back to save them, frightened that she will.’
‘She isn’t dead?’ I hadn’t believed it, not truly. I didn’t think she could die. Not a woman that tough. And the Silent Sister … she always seemed too old for death to bother with.
The baron threw up his hands, chain clattering. ‘Who knows? Hertet says she is, but I’ve had no word of it save his. Wishful thinking?’
I pursed my lips. It was perhaps the best chance the heir-apparently-not was ever going to get to wear the crown. Maybe he just decided to gamble. We both shared that weakness. I understood gambling.
We sat and time passed. I took a goblet of wine and picked at a bowl of olives. I smiled at the maid and earned a scowl for staring. A few parts of me even stopped aching, though I knew I’d be walking like an old man tomorrow, if I could even stand. It would have been quite pleasant but for the nagging of an unwelcome conscience. I’d left Darin’s wife and child in the care of a necromancer and sent just a dozen men under the command of a shiny knight to save them. Along with a barbed conscience I also had ‘overwhelming terror’ to spoil the evening for me. The certain knowledge that the forces at the Appan Gate would soon crumble if they hadn’t already, and the tide of dead citizenry would then swamp the palace walls and kill us all.
I had less than an hour’s uneasy rest before the screaming started. I recognized it immediately despite the sound reaching only faintly through the curtained windows. The death-scream, issuing from the mouths of corpses all across the palace compound.
‘What the?’ The baron shifted his bulk around in the narrow confines of his chair.
‘The lichkin is here.’ I’d intended it to be a resigned announcement but it emerged more as a squeaking whisper.
‘The what?’ Bonarti Poe looked as frightened as a man could be of something he knew nothing about.
‘A bad thing,’ I said.
By the sound of it the lichkin hadn’t come at the head of a breakthrough from the gate. The death-scream was too scattered and too quiet for that. Even so, there were many of the dead and the lichkin on its own was a thing to fear. In Hell a single lichkin had defeated Snorri ver Snagason in moments.
My chair seemed suddenly less comfortable, more like an anchor holding the lamb for the slaughter. The illumination from the new king’s candles and lamps seemed to grow more dim by the moment, as if a second sunset were upon us, one that cared nothing for the works of men, only that the light must die. Shadows lengthened and grew darker, twitching with possibility.
And then the lichkin drew near. I could almost taste it through the outer wall of Milano House, stalking the night. Colours died, shade by shade, leaving the room subdued, and a great sorrow fell across us, blacker than the blackest of black dog days – the certainty that joy had fled and nothing would ever be right in the world again.
It lasted an age, but at last the sensation lifted by degrees. Poe’s weeping quieted to a deep heaving. The oppression eased enough for me to wonder how bad it must have been for the men out there in the dark with just the feeble illumination of torch and moon between them and that stalking horror. It had been terrible even when safe in the light, comfort, and security of the house.
A death-scream right below the window answered my question and made me lurch in my chair so badly it nearly tipped over. Men had died out there from sheer terror, and now they tore at their living comrades, spreading horror and panic.
Glancing about me, I saw that the curtains had developed grey patches where the material had rotted. The brass handles on the doors held a tarnished look. All of us, prisoners and guards alike, looked aged, as if we’d spent a week without sleep.
‘We need to get out of here. We need to get out of here. We need—’ A skinny lord with a wispy moustache leapt to his feet, yanking at the chain restraining him. He’d turned the chair over and had managed to tug the chain from the leg before the guards beat him down.
‘Shut it! Just shut it!’ One of the guardsmen in the struggle gained his feet, raw-knuckled from punching Lord Wispy in the jaw. He looked more scared than the fallen prisoner, the deep-set eyes in his piggy face as haunted as if they’d seen the butcher coming for his bacon.
The sounds of fighting and panic reached us from outside. Screaming, both from the hungry dead and the terrified living, rang out toward the front of the house. We heard shutters splinter in the chamber next to us.
‘The windows! Barricade the windows!’ I stood up, lifted my chair, releasing the chain from around its leg, and walked with it toward the curtains. None of the guards moved to stop me: instead they looked about for anything that might aid the effort.
I reached to help two guardsmen struggling with a heavy cabinet, the treasured pottery within spilling from its many shelves. Nobody commented on the fact that the chain on my wrist now hung loose, no longer tethering me to my seat. I helped with a suit of armour and its stand then moved off to get something else to use … and carried on going.
The sounds of the fight outside were terrifyingly familiar. If I closed my eyes I could have been back at the Appan Gate. New sounds close by of breaking glass and splintering wood le
nt a little more pace to my escape. I wasn’t sure quite how far I’d been dragged after being taken from the throne room, nor in which direction to head in order to leave the building. I wasn’t even entirely sure I wanted to go outside. I opened one door onto a library, not huge, but lined with books from floor to ceiling. The windows were uncurtained – half a dozen tall, narrow arches, each sealed with a dozen plates of puddle-glass, leaded together. As I moved to pull the door closed blood splattered the entirety of each window, save the top-most panes. A wave of it breaking against the building. Despair washed over me, then lessened as the lichkin moved away again, tracking down more victims outside the house.
I slammed the door, turned, and saw Hertet hurrying down the corridor toward me, the crown askew upon his head. A group of knights followed at his back. His gaze slid across me unregistering, his face deathly pale. I noticed his cloth-of-gold robe bore a scarlet splatter across the middle as if someone had been gutted in front of him. I flattened myself to the door to let them by.
‘It wants the key!’ I shouted as he passed me. I’m not sure why I said it.
Hertet stopped, seeing me for the first time. ‘Jalan. Reymond’s boy.’ He reached out and patted my hand. ‘You were always a good boy.’ His other hand drew the key from beneath his collar. He tugged it and it came loose, though the chain looked too strong to break like that. ‘Here. You take it. You’ll know what to do.’ He folded my hand around Loki’s key and moved on without a pause or a glance back. ‘We can go to the cellars and…’ I lost his voice beneath the tramp of mailed feet as the knights swept by.
I stood for a moment in the corridor, sounds of chaos from the direction of the throne room, screams and howls ringing out at intervals from random directions. The blackness of the key held my gaze, cold and heavy in my hand. I managed to tear my attention from Loki’s gift and check both directions along the corridor, absently noting a long dark smear of blood along the wall panelling opposite and a painting, knocked from the wall, its frame splintered: the young Hertet staring out at me with heroic intent, footprints all over his face. At the far end of the corridor three women hurried by in silken finery, one old, two young, there one moment, gone the next.