Prince of Fools

by Mark Lawrence

  Every time he paused for breath the foolishness left me and I counted myself very lucky to be warm and safe in Red March, but while he spoke a Viking heart beat in every listener’s chest, even mine.

  “North of Uuliskind, past the Jarlson Uplands, the ice begins in earnest. The highest summer will drive it back a mile or three, but before long you find yourself raised above the land on a blanket of ice that never melts, folded, fissured, and ancient. The Undoreth venture there only to trade with Inowen, the men who live in snow and hunt for seal on the sea ice. The Inowen are not as other men, sewn into their sealskins and eating the fat of whales. They are . . . a different kind.

  “Inowen offer walrus tusks, oils sweated from blubber, the teeth of great sharks, pelts of the white bear and skins. Also ivories carved into combs and picks and into the shapes of the true spirits of the ice.”

  When my grandmother interjected into the story’s flow, she sounded like a screeching crow trying to overwrite a melody. Still, credit to her for finding the will to speak—I’d forgotten even that I stood in the throne room, sore-footed and yawning for my bed. Instead I was with Snorri trading shaped iron and salt for seals carved from the bones of whales.

  “Speak of the dead, Snagason. Put some fear into these idle princes,” Grandmother told him.

  I saw it then. The quickest flicker of his glance towards the blind-eye woman. I’d come to understand it was common knowledge that the Red Queen consulted with the Silent Sister. But as with most such “common knowledge,” the recipients would be hard pressed to tell you how they came by their information, though willing to insist upon its veracity with considerable vigour. It was common knowledge, for example, that the Duke of Grast took young boys to his bed. I put that one about after he slapped me for making an improper suggestion to his sister—a buxom wench with plenty of improper suggestions of her own. The vicious slander stuck and I’ve taken great delight in defending his honour ever since against heated opposition who “had it from a trusted source!” It was common knowledge that the Duke of Grast sodomized small boys in the privacy of his castle, common knowledge that the Red Queen practised forbidden sorceries in her highest tower, common knowledge that the Silent Sister, a parlous witch whose hand lay behind much of the empire’s ills, was either in the Red Queen’s palm or vice versa. But until this brutish Norseman glanced her way I’d never encountered any other person who truly saw the blind-eye woman at my grandmother’s side.

  Whether convinced by the Silent Sister’s pearl-eyed stare or the Red Queen’s command, Snorri ver Snagason bowed his head and spoke of the dead.

  “In the Jarlson Uplands the frozen dead wander. Corpse tribes, black with frost, stagger in columns, lost in the swirl of the frostral. They say mammoth walk with them, dead beasts freed from the ice cliffs that held them far to the north from times before Odin first gave men the curse of speech. Their numbers are unknown, but they are many.

  “When the gates of Niflheim open to release the winter, and the frost giants’ breath rolls out across the North, the dead come with it, taking whoever they can find to join their ranks. Sometimes lone traders, or fishermen washed up on strange shores. Sometimes they cross a fjord by ice bridges and take whole villages.”

  Grandmother rose from her throne, and a score of gauntleted hands moved to cover sword hilts. She cast a sour glance towards her offspring. “And how do you come to stand before me in chains, Snorri ver Snagason?”

  “We thought the threat came from the North, from the Uplands and the Bitter Ice.” He shook his head. “When ships came up the Uulisk in depths of night, black-sailed and silent, we slept, our sentries watching north for the frozen dead. Raiders had crossed the Quiet Sea and come against the Undoreth. Men of the Drowned Isles broke amongst us. Some living, others corpses preserved from rot, and other creatures still—half-men from the Brettan swamps, corpse-eaters, ghouls with venomed darts that steal a man’s strength and leave him helpless as a newborn.

  “Sven Broke-Oar guided their ships. Sven and others of the Hardassa. Without their treachery the Islanders would never have been able to navigate the Uulisk by night. Even by day they would have lost ships.” Snorri’s hands closed into huge fists and muscle heaped across his shoulders, twitching for violence. “The Broke-Oar took twenty warriors in chains as part of his payment. He sold us in Hardanger Fjord. The trader, a merchant of the Port Kingdoms, meant to have us sold again in Afrique after we’d rowed his cargo south. Your agent bought me in Kordoba, in the port of Albus.”

  Grandmother must have been hunting far and wide for these tales—Red March had no tradition of slavery and I knew she didn’t approve of the trade.

  “And the rest?” Grandmother asked, stepping past him, beyond arm’s reach, seemingly angled towards me. “Those not taken by your countryman?”

  Snorri stared into the empty throne, then directly at the blind-eye woman. He spoke past gritted teeth. “Many were killed. I lay poisoned and saw ghouls swarm my wife. I saw Drowned men chase my children and couldn’t turn my head to watch their flight. The Islanders returned to their ships with red swords. Prisoners were taken.” He paused, frowned, shook his head. “Sven Broke-Oar told me . . . tales. The truth would twist the Broke-Oar’s tongue . . . but he said the Islanders planned to take prisoners to excavate the Bitter Ice. Olaaf Rikeson’s army is out there. The Broke-Oar told it that the Islanders had been sent to free them.”

  “An army?” Grandmother stood almost close enough to touch now. A monster of a woman, taller than me—and I overtop six foot—and probably strong enough to break me across her knee. “Who is this Rikeson?”

  The Norseman raised an eyebrow at that, as if every monarch should know the tawdry history of his frozen wastes. “Olaaf Rikeson marched north in the first summer of the reign of Emperor Orrin III. The sagas have it that he planned to drive the giants from Jotenheim and bore with him the key to their gates. More sober histories say perhaps his goal was just to bring the Inowen into the empire. Whatever the truth, the records agree he took a thousand and more with him, perhaps ten thousand.” Snorri shrugged and turned from the Silent Sister to face Grandmother. Braver than me, though that’s not saying much—I’d not turn my back on that creature. “Rikeson thought he marched with Odin’s blessing, but the giants’ breath rolled down even so, and one summer’s day every warrior in his army froze where he stood and the snows drowned them.

  “The Broke-Oar has it that those taken from Uuliskind are excavating the dead. Freeing them from the ice.”

  Grandmother paced along the front line of our number. Martus, little me, Darin, Cousin Roland with his stupid beard, Rotus, lean and sour, unmarried at thirty, duller than ditchwater, obsessed with reading—and histories at that! She paused by Rotus, another of her favourites and third in line by right—though still it seemed she would give her throne to Cousin Serah before him. “And why, Snagason? Who has sent these forces on such an errand?” She met Rotus’s gaze as if he of all of us would appreciate the answer.

  The giant paused. It’s hard for a Norseman to pale but I swear he did. “The Dead King, lady.”

  A guard made to strike him down, though whether for the improper address or for making mock with foolish tales I couldn’t say. Grandmother stayed the man with a lifted finger. “The Dead King.” She made a slow repetition of the words as if they somehow sealed her opinion. Perhaps she’d mentioned him before when I wasn’t listening.

  I’d heard tales, of course. Children had started to tell them to scare each other on Hallows Night. The Dead King will come for you! Woo, woo, woo. It took a child to be scared. Anyone with a proper idea of how far away the Drowned Isles were and of how many kingdoms lay between us would have a hard time caring. Even if the stories held a core of truth, I couldn’t see any serious-minded gentleman getting overly excited about a bunch of heathen necromancers playing with old corpses on whatever wet hillocks remained to the Lords of the Isles. So what
if they actually did raise a hundred dead men twitching from their coffins and dropping corpse-flesh with every step? Ten heavy horse would ride down any such in half an hour without loss and damn their rotting eyes.

  I felt tired and out of sorts, grumpy that I’d had to stand half the morning and more listening to this parade of nonsense. If I’d been drunk too I might have given voice to my thoughts. It’s probably a good job I wasn’t, though the Red Queen could scare me sober with a look.

  Grandmother turned and pointed at the Norseman. “Well told, Snorri ver Snagason. Let your axe guide you.” I blinked at that. Some sort of northern saying, I guessed. “Take him away,” she said, and her guards led him off, chains clanking.

  My fellow princes fell to muttering, and me to yawning. I watched the huge Norseman leave and hoped we’d be released soon. Despite the call of my bed I had important plans for Snorri ver Snagason and needed to get hold of him quickly.

  Grandmother returned to her throne and held her peace until the doors had closed behind the last prisoner to exit.

  “Did you know there is a door into death?” The Red Queen didn’t raise her voice and yet it cut through the princes’ chatter. “An actual door. One you can set your hand against. And behind it, all the lands of death.” Her gaze swept across us. “There’s an important question you should ask me now.”

  No one spoke—I hadn’t a clue but was tempted to answer anyway just to hurry things along. I decided against it and the silence stretched until Rotus cleared his throat at last and asked, “Where?”

  “Wrong.” Grandmother cocked her head. “The question was, ‘Why?’ Why is there a door into death? The answer is as important as anything you’ve heard today.” Her stare fell upon me and I quickly turned my attention to the state of my fingernails. “There is a door into death because we live in an age of myth. Our ancestors lived in a world of immutable laws. Times have changed. There is a door because there are tales of that door, because myths and legends have grown about it over centuries, because it is set in holy books, and because the stories of that door are told and retold. There is a door because in some way we wanted it, or expected it, or both. This is why. And this is why you must believe the tales that have been told today. The world is changing, moving beneath our feet. We are in a war, children of the Red March, though you may not see it yet, may not feel it. We are in a war against everything you can imagine and armed only with our desire to oppose it.”

  Nonsense, of course. Red March’s only recent war was against Scorron, and even that had fallen into an uneasy truce this past year . . . Grandmother must have sensed she was losing even the most gullible of her audience and switched tactics.

  “Rotus asked ‘where,’ but I know where the door is. And I know that it cannot be opened.” She stood from her throne again. “And what does a door demand?”

  “A key?” Serah, ever eager to please.

  “Yes. A key.” A smile for her protégée. “Such a key would be sought by many. A dangerous thing, but better we should own it than our enemies. I will have tasks for you all soon: quests for some, questions for others, new lessons for others still. Be sure to commit yourselves to these labours as to nothing before. In this you will serve me, you will serve yourselves, and most importantly—you will serve the empire.”

  Exchanged glances, muttering, “Where was Red March in all that?” Martus perhaps.

  “Enough!” Grandmother clapped her hands, releasing us. “Go. Scurry back to your empty luxuries and enjoy them while you can. Or—if my blood runs hot in you—consider these words and act on them. These are the end days. All our lives draw in towards a single point and time, not too many miles or years from this room. A point in history when the emperor will either save us or damn us. All we can do is buy him the time he needs—and the price must be paid in blood.”

  At last! I hurried out amongst the others, catching up with Serah. “Well, that settles it! The old bat’s cracked. The emperor!” I laughed and flashed her my cavalry grin. “Even Grandmother isn’t old enough to have seen the last emperor.”

  Serah fixed me with a look of disgust. “Did you listen to anything she said?” And off she strode, leaving me standing there, jostled by Martus and Darin as they passed by.

  FOUR

  From the throne room I sprinted down the grand corridor, turning left where all my family turned right. Armour, statuary, portraits, displays of fanned-out swords, all of them flashed past. My day boots pounded a hundred yards of staggeringly expensive woven rug, luxuriant silks patterned in the Indus style. I turned the corner at the far end, teetering on the edge of control, dodged two maids, and ran flat-out along the central corridor of the guest range, where scores of rooms were laid ready against the possibility of visiting nobility.

  “Out the fucking way!” Some old retainer doddered from a doorway into my path. One of my father’s—Robbin, a grey old cripple always limping about the place getting underfoot. I swerved past him—Lord knows why we keep such hangers-on—and accelerated down the hallway.

  Twice guardsmen startled from their alcoves, one even calling a challenge before deciding I was more ass than assassin. Two doors short of the corridor’s end I stopped and made an entrance to the Green Room, gambling that it would be unoccupied. The room, chambered in rustic style with a four-poster bed carved like spreading oaks, lay empty and shrouded in white linens. I passed the bed, wherein I’d once spent several pleasant nights in the company of a dusky contessa from the southernmost reaches of Roma, and threw back the shutters. Through the window, onto the balcony, vault the balustrade, and drop to the peaked roof of the royal stables, an edifice that would put to shame any mansion on the Kings Way.

  Now, I know how to fall, but the drop from the stables roof would kill a Chinee acrobat, and so the speed with which I ran along the stone gutter was a careful balance between my desire not to fall to my death and my desire not to be stabbed to my death by Maeres Allus or one of his enforcers. The giant Norseman could bludgeon me a way out of debt altogether if I managed to secure his services and make the right wagers. Hell, if people saw what I saw in the man and wouldn’t give me good odds, then I could just slip him some bonewort and bet against him.

  At the far end of the stables hall two Corinthian pillars supported ancient vines, or vice versa. Either way a good, or desperate, climber could make his way to ground there. I slid the last ten foot, bruised my heel, bit my tongue, and ran off towards the Battle Gate spitting blood.

  I arrived there winded and had to bend double, palms on thighs, heaving in great lungfuls of air before I could assess the situation.

  Two guards watched me with undisguised curiosity. An old soak commonly known as Double, and a youngster I didn’t recognize.

  “Double!” I straightened up and raised a hand in greeting. “What dungeon are the queen’s prisoners being taken to?” It would be the war cells up in the Marsail keep. They might be slaves but you wouldn’t put the Norseman in with common stock. I asked anyway. It’s always good to open with an easy question to put your man at ease.

  “Ain’t no cells for them lot.” Double made to spit, then thought better of it and swallowed noisily.

  “Wh—?” She couldn’t be having them killed! It would be a criminal waste.

  “They’s going free. Tha’s what I heard.” Double shook his head at the badness of the business, jowls wobbling. “Contaph’s coming up to process them.” He nodded out across the plaza and sure enough there was Contaph, layered in his official robes and beetling towards us with the sort of self-importance that only minor functionaries can muster. From the high latticed windows above the Battle Gate I could hear the distant clank of chains, drawing nearer.

  “Damn it.” I glanced from door to subchamberlain and back again. “Hold them here, Double,” I told him. “Don’t tell them anything. Not a thing. I’ll see you right. Your friend too.” And with that I hurried off to intercept
Ameral Contaph of House Mecer.

  We met in the middle of the plaza where an ancient sundial spelled out the time with morning shadows. Already the flagstones were beginning to heat up and the day’s promise simmered above the rooftops. “Ameral!” I threw my hands wide as though he were an old friend.

  “Prince Jalan.” He ducked his head as if seeking to take me from his sight. I could forgive him his suspicions; as a child I used to hide scorpions in his pockets.

  “Those slaves that put on this morning’s entertainment in the throne room . . . what’s to become of them, Ameral?” I moved to intercept him while he tried to circumnavigate me, his order-scroll clutched tight in one pudgy fist.

  “I’m to set them on a caravan for Port Ismuth with papers dissolving any indenture.” He stopped trying to get past me and sighed. “What is it that you want, Prince Jalan?”

  “Only the Norseman.” I gave him a smile and a wink. “He’s too dangerous to just set free. That should have been obvious to everyone. In any event, Grandmother sent me to take charge of him.”

  Contaph looked up at me, eyes narrow with distrust. “I’ve had no such instructions.”

  I have, I must confess, a very honest face. Bluff and courageous, it’s been called. I’m easy to mistake for a hero, and with a little effort I can convince even the most cynical stranger of my sincerity. With people who know me, that trick becomes more difficult. Much more difficult.

  “Walk with me.” I set a hand to his shoulder and steered him towards the Battle Gate. It’s good to steer a man in the direction he intended to go. It blurs the line between what he wants and what you want.

  “In truth the Red Queen gave me a scroll with the order. A hasty scrawl on a scrap of parchment, really. And to my shame I’ve let it drop in my rush to get here.” I took my hand from his shoulder and unfastened the gold chain from around my wrist, a thing of heavy links set with a small ruby on both clasps. “It would be deeply embarrassing for me to have to return and admit the loss to my grandmother. A friend would understand such things.” I took to steering him again as if my only desire were for him to reach his destination safely. The chain I dangled before him. “You are my friend, aren’t you, Ameral?” Rather than drop the chain into a pocket of his robe and risk reminding him of scorpions, I pressed it into the midst of his sweaty palm and risked him realizing it was red glass and gold plated over lead, and thinly at that. Anything of true value I’d long since pawned against the interest on my debts.