Mark Lawrence - The Wheel of Osheim

“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-atarms 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.

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 chair.

“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!”