Mark Lawrence - The Wheel of Osheim

“By definition if we’re attacking them. But why are they the enemy?”

Again the frown, but this time relaxing into a smile as he remembered the fact he’d been hunting. “Harbouring a person of interest.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know, Prince Jalan.”

“You’re dismissed, sub-captain.”

“But, my prince. We should escort-”

“I made it from here from the deserts of Afrique, sub-captain. I should be able to negotiate the next three hundred yards in my own home without mishap.”

The first two hundred and ninety yards went well. It was approaching the front steps of the Roma Hall that I ran into difficulty.

“Jalan? By Christ!” An angry roar from behind me. “It is you! Where the hell have you been you bankrupt little weasel?”

I paused. My big brother Martus. A man I’d not had to endure since that audience in the throne room the day I first laid eyes on Snorri. I made a slow turn and found myself in Martus’s shadow as he loomed over me.

“Killing people, brother.” I met his gaze squarely.

It took a moment for the words to sink in, another for him to take in the crimson state of me, one more for him to put the two together and take a sharp step back. “Dear God . . .”

“My debts have been paid in full.” I turned back and walked on up into the house.

Not strictly true but the arm-aching weight of gold remaining in the coffer I held before me would pay off the various wine merchants, tailors, and bawdy houses still holding my credit notes. It would be good to be free of the burden.

I won’t say the Roma Hall seemed small, because set against the places I’d been laying my head of late it was huge-but somehow it felt smaller than my memories of it. Fat Ned and young Double stood on guard at the front door, the former blanching at my approach and shaking so much the loose folds of his skin jiggled around his old bones.

“It’s Prince Jalan, Ned.” Double elbowed the old man, his dark eyes taking in more than just the gore drying across me. He bowed, the black locks of his hair falling across his face, eyes still studying me from behind this veil.

I favoured them with a brief nod and pushed on through, Fat Ned still gaping at me.

A couple of servants in the entrance hall ran off screaming murder, but Ballessa stood her ground, her expression disapproval and concern in equal measures.

“No errant peasant boys to take care of this time, Ballessa. Clean clothes will suffice.”

A frown at the memory of Hennan’s brief stay, then Ballessa gave a nod, rotated her matronly bulk and set off down the corridor to order up a bath and fetch a collection of suitable garments from my wardrobes.

I washed off the blood and left the water pink, the last of Maeres Allus swirling around, diluted, sluiced away, and beneath it Jalan Kendeth, clean and without stain. I’d killed a man with intent, done it in cold blood, or as cold as any human’s blood can be at such a moment. An evil son of a bitch, true enough, but it didn’t feel good, it didn’t feel right. No part of me felt the hero. I called for more water and washed again- though water will only take the stains you can see.

The clothes Ballessa brought still fitted me. They wrapped me, comfortable, familiar, rich, a second skin that completed my disguise-I stood before the mirror and Prince Jalan stared back at me, surprised. I looked the part, every inch of me, and every inch felt the impostor. Every step of my journey had taken me further from home, no matter the direction I took, and now, standing in my father’s house, I was further away than I’d ever been.

I made to turn away and in the last moment caught a flash of blue that drew my gaze back to the mirror, staring past myself into the room behind, the doorways, the windows, the shadows. There’d been a flicker of motion. I was sure of it. I wanted to whirl around and check that nobody stood at my back. Instead I stood there, without motion, studying the reflected room, hunting it, looking for that blue.

Finally I turned the mirror to the wall then did the same for the three others hung in my rooms. I hadn’t forgotten about the Lady Blue and much as I wanted her to forget about me that was unlikely to happen. She and Grandmother still had their war-and when the Red Queen crushed the witch the loudest cheer would come from me. She had the blood of my great-grandfather on her hands, a crime I could perhaps overlook, but the blood of my unborn sister, and the blood of my friend, Tuttugu, could not be washed away. Part of me, more than a small part, the pieces still burning with the memory of taking Maeres Allus’s corrupted life, wanted to be the one to stick the knife into the Lady Blue, and twist it.

An hour later I stepped from the Roma Hall, fresh and clean, wearing my old clothes and my old smile. I doubted there’d be much to mark me from the Jalan who sneaked back from the DeVeer mansion at dawn on the day of the opera, though it felt like half a lifetime ago.

Walking away from my old home I felt a curious sensation of being watched. Not the adoration or curiosity a returning hero might expect but a crawling sensation on the back of my neck, as if I were the object of a close and cold scrutiny. Feeling distinctly uncomfortable, I picked up my pace and crossed the courtyard with a brisk stride.

I went to the palace. Not Grandmother’s main doors, but to the guest wing, up the stairs to the Great Jon’s suite. The guards at the ground floor informed me Barras still occupied the rooms, presumably now the headquarters for the search for his misplaced wife.

Knocking on the door I found my heart pounding harder than it had in the Blood Holes in the moment I realized I had murder on my mind.

“Good afternoon, sir.” A short doorman, immaculately groomed, offered me his bow. “Who may I say is calling?”

“Jalan?” Lisa’s voice calling from somewhere off the reception hall. She came running, holding her skirts at both hips to keep from tripping. Barras nearly as fast behind her, pale, dark lines beneath both eyes.

“Jalan . . .” Lisa pulled up short of throwing herself into my arms, hands going to her face as if I were still wearing all the gore I arrived at the palace with. “Are you . . .” She studied my face, leaving me wondering if perhaps I had changed rather more than I suspected.

“Jal!” Barras showed no such hesitation and threw himself into my arms with no pretence at a manly hug. “Jal! Thank you, Jal! Thank you!”

“Steady on!” I waited for a loosening of his grip then slipped free. “The bad news is you owe me two camels-” I caught Lisa’s look of outrage. “Three! Three camels. Good ones!”

“Same old Jal!” Barras laughed, punching my shoulder.

“No, really. I’m not jo-”

“Thank you!” And he was back to the hugging.

When I finally untangled myself it seemed as if the moment to ask for my camels’ worth had passed. Barras stood, running his hands back across the short brown shock of his hair and looking in happy amazement from me to Lisa and back again. “We have to celebrate . . . A feast!”

“I’ve been on the road too long to turn down a feast.” I held up a hand to forestall him. “But right now I have an urgent meeting with our monarch.” I looked to Lisa, lovely in her powders and jewels now, though I liked her looks just as much out in the wilds. “Do you have the package I gave you for safe-keeping?”

Barras looked confused and raised the tempo of his Jalan-Lisa-Jalan watching. Lisa nodded and pulled the velvet-wrapped key from some pocket artfully concealed in her skirts. She handed it over without even a twinge of hesitation, which meant something to me. I think perhaps it’s not a key you can give to someone who isn’t your friend without at least some measure of regret.