Mark Lawrence - The Wheel of Osheim

I hung there, gasping, so nearly torn away with the pair as they fell. Time passed and at last the thunder of my heart ceased to fill the world. I stared at the raw stone where the gargoyle had broken away from the wall. It had been waiting to fall since before I was born. Sometimes the difference between saving a life and taking one is just a matter of timing- the right moment and the wrong.

Dry-mouthed, I struggled up through the Silent Sister’s window, trembling in every limb.

I saw nothing until I stepped to the side and let the moonlight flood in after me. A small and empty antechamber. The dark steps spiralling down to the foyer below. The door to the Silent Sister’s room stood closed, one tall-backed chair beside it. A second chair, twin to the first, had been moved to the middle of the antechamber, halfway between the door and the arch to the staircase. On it rested a goblet, moon-washed and silver, a strip of linen, and a boot.

“What the hell?” I staggered forward, my left leg hurting unaccountably and my right foot cold against the stone floor. I looked down. The giant hadn’t released his grip on me-the sole of my boot had torn off in his hand. Blood ran freely down my left leg from a gash above the knee- one of the gargoyle’s horns must have torn me as it came free.

I took the linen and bound my leg. The boot looked suspiciously like a new version of the one I was wearing. Ridding myself of the remnants of the old boot I slipped the new one on. A perfect fit. The goblet stood three-quarters full of water. Some must have evaporated in the two weeks since my great-aunt placed it there. A black fly floated in it.

“I’m not that thirsty!” A hoarse dry whisper. I took the goblet and flicked the fly corpse clear. I wasn’t even fooling myself, and I’m good at that. I drained the cup and wiped my mouth, wondering if the old witch had weakened the joint that held the gargoyle to the wall. I felt weak and dizzy, sweaty with exertion and fear.

How much had she seen? “Do you ever get it wrong, old woman?” A short laugh burst from me as I wondered if there were other such tableaux set against foreseen events that never happened. If I’d never climbed the tower I wouldn’t know she got it wrong . . .

At that point another wave of dizziness swamped me and my legs gave out. I collapsed into the chair, placed in just the right position to receive me.

“Show off.”

I came to myself with a start, bewildered for a second, then guilty, hoping I had only rested in the chair a few moments. I stood and patted the empty scabbard at my hip. The room held no replacement sword.

“Surprised you there, you old witch!” I couldn’t manage a smile over the victory. It’d been a moment of madness, regretted almost immediately. Still, I hoped Martus had survived. How else would I take the credit for it at every opportunity for the rest of our lives?

“Lisa!” I meant Micha and Nia as well, but it was Lisa’s name that broke from me as the sudden realization hit me and I was off and running. If Hertet had gathered every guard in the compound to his side then the Inner Palace would be the place to go for safety. The DeVeer sisters would be there, sheltering under the new king’s wing with Darin’s child.

Nobody in the dark hall of the Poor Place foyer, no guard on the door. I took the front steps in one leap. The landing reminded me how badly my knee hurt. A sprint-hobble took me across the courtyard, through a passage, and across another courtyard bringing me to the Inner Palace. I angled for the guest wing.

“Stop!” A booming voice. “Stop right there!”

I halted ten yards shy of the entrance to the guest wing and turned to see a tall palace guardsman approaching, a squad of a dozen wall guards at his back, spears over their shoulders.

“I need to see-”

“Nobody can break the curfew.” The man’s voice was the kind of deep that sounds as though it must hurt. “By order of the king!”

I eyed him. Young, thick-thewed, a gleaming breastplate, his face the variety of handsome that declares an unabashed lack of imagination. “Your name, Guardsman?” I tried to sound in charge. Technically I was.

“Sub-captain Paraito.”

“Look, Sub-captain, I’m Prince Jalan.” I hadn’t the energy to put on my royal roar. “I need to check on my family, then I’m going to see Hertet so-”

“Put him in the cells with the other dissidents.” Paraito waved his men forward. Four of the chain-armoured wall guards came forward. I reached for my absent sword, something that was becoming both a habit and a liability.

“Look!” I found my roar as the four men reached for me. “I’m the marshal of this entire fucking city, appointed by the Red Queen herself , and in case you hadn’t noticed-Vermillion is under attack. Half of it’s burning and there are dead things stalking this very palace.” I slapped away the closest hand. “So if you plan on living to see the dawn I strongly advise you to bring me before my uncle. Right now!”

The sub-captain stared at me as two of his minions took my arms. The frown on his handsome brow suggested that I might perhaps have put a small dent in his surety. “We’ll take him to the court and let the king decide if he wants to see him.” He turned and led off.

“Wait!” I dug in my heels but started to walk as it became clear they would drag me. “Wait! Where are we going?” The palace man had set off back across the courtyard, directly away from the Inner Palace.

“The king has made court in Milano House.”

“But . . . that’s insane.” The palace was compromised and Hertet had set up as king in his old house? The Inner Palace had been the seat of kings for generations. Spells and wards layered the place thicker than any rugs or tapestries: it was a place of safety against dark magics. For all I knew any dead thing crossing its threshold would burn or turn to dust . . . or simply become the more traditional kind of corpse, cut free of the necromancer’s strings. I very much doubted Milano House enjoyed the same protections. Still, Uncle Hertet had been practising to be king beneath that roof for longer than I’d been alive. Perhaps he felt safest there. Perhaps the Red Queen’s throne scared him. It would me. Especially if my claim were premature . . .

Passing by Scribes’ Row I saw the wiry form of a mire-ghoul, stark against the moon, just for an instant as it crested the roof.

“There!” I twisted to free an arm and failed. “Up there, a ghoul!”

“Don’t see it.” Sub-captain Paraito glanced upward without breaking stride.

“Aren’t you at least going to send men to investigate?” I managed to shake off one of the guards. “Unhand me, you buffoon, my uncle is exactly who I want to see. I don’t have to be dragged there!”

“The king has ordered all men-at-arms to defend Milano House. Our patrols are to round up traitors and forewarn of any attack. We’re not to go chasing shadows.”

I shook my head and carried on walking. In all honesty the shadows would probably eat Paraito and his squad if they ventured into them.

I didn’t make another break for it until we passed within sight of Roma Hall. In one of the upper rooms a faint light escaped the shutters. I twisted free and took a stride. One more stride and I would have made it clear, but one of the wall guards, either by accident or design, got the haft of his spear tangled between my legs and I went down with two men piling on top of me.

They dragged me up, spitting grit from the flagstones.

“Bind the prisoner!” Sub-captain Paraito nodded to one of his squad.

“I wasn’t trying to escape, you idiot!” An echo of berserker rage rang through me and more guardsmen stepped in to help hold my arms. “Prince Darin’s wife and child are alone in Roma House with a necromancer.” I took a deep breath as they looped the rope about my hands. “I’ll remind you again. I’m a prince, and the marshal of this whole damn city! If you let my sister-in-law die . . . Wait! The necromancer! He’s a threat to Hertet-the king, I mean. It’s your duty to-”