Prince of Fools

by Mark Lawrence

  Snorri shook his head and held up a hand as if begging quarter. “Not tonight, Jal.”

  I pursed my lips, looked at him hunched before me, and swallowed all the questions bubbling on my tongue. Snorri would tell me or he wouldn’t. Perhaps he didn’t even know. Either way, it was of no great consequence for me. The North sounded more terrible by the minute, and whilst I was sorry for Snorri’s losses I had no intention of chasing dead men across the snow. Sven Broke-Oar had taken Freja and Egil to the Bitter Ice. And Snorri seemed to think his wife and son were still alive there now—and perhaps they were. Either way, that was a matter between Snorri and the Broke-Oar. Somewhere between us and the northern ice would be a means to unlock the two of us, at which point I’d be off before the G of Good-bye had cleared the Norseman’s beard.

  We sat in silence. Or almost silence, for it seemed as if Baraqel’s voice spoke just beyond the edge of hearing, gentle and full of music. After a time I lay down and set my head on my pack. Sleep took me quick enough, and as it caught hold the voice came more clearly so that in the moments before dreaming washed over both me and the voice, I could almost make out the words. Something about honour, about being brave, about helping Snorri find his peace . . .

  “Bugger that,” I replied. Words muttered half-asleep over slack lips—but heartfelt nonetheless.

  SIXTEEN

  We came to Ancrath along the border roads between Rhone and Gelleth. Snorri travelled with a native caution that kept us safe on several occasions, holding us back amidst a wood as battle-ragged troops marched south, taking us into the corn when brigands rode by in search of wickedness. I was keener to avoid such encounters than Snorri, but my senses were better honed to detecting the approach of trouble across a crowded feast hall or through the smokes of an opium parlour than on horseback across open country.

  In the town of Oppen, just a few miles into Ancrath, I bought more serviceable travelling clothes. I made sure to buy sufficient quality to mark me out as a man of distinction, though of course normally I’d not be seen dead in sturdy boots and tough-wearing garments made to withstand rough treatment. I’d rejected the idea of letting a Rhonishman fit me for cloak and hat but decided I could suffer the attentions of an Ancrath tailor. Snorri snorted and stamped so much during the fitting that I had to send him out to find an axe more suited to his tastes.

  The moment he’d gone I started to feel an unease. Nothing to do with the slight stretching of the magics that bound us, and everything to do with the certainty that the necromancer who had sought our deaths in Chamy-Nix would still be hard upon our trail. Her or that creature that had watched me from behind its mask at the opera. The Silent Sister’s trap had been set for that one. I was certain of it now. She’d been prepared to sacrifice the lives of two hundred, including some of Vermillion’s finest—including me, damn it—to burn that one monster. I could only pray the crack I’d put in her spell whilst escaping hadn’t let it free. And of course other servants of the Dead King might lurk around any given corner. Even in a tailor’s shop!

  In the end I left Oppen with a sense of relief. Being on the move had become a habit, and I wasn’t sure I would ever feel entirely comfortable settled in one place again.

  We skirted the Matterack Mountains, a dour range with none of the Aups’ grandeur, and found our way in time to the Roma Road, which I’d long argued we should have followed the whole way. “It’s better paved, safer, equipped with inns and whorehouses at regular intervals, passes through two dozen towns of note . . .”

  “And is easily watched.” Snorri guided Sleipnir out onto the ancient flagstones. She immediately started to clatter. I think of that noise, horseshoe on stone, as the sound of civilization. In the countryside everything’s mud. Give me a clatter over a clomp any day.

  “So why are we risking it now?”

  “Speed.”

  “Will it make—” I bit off the words. Would it make a difference? To Snorri it would. His wife and younger son would have been captive for months now, even before he’d been dragged in chains to Vermillion. And if they had endured all this time, labouring at some task the Drowned Isles necromancers set them to, the chances were that a few days either way wouldn’t make much difference to their situation. I couldn’t say that to him, though. Mostly because I’m fond of my teeth, but also the angel that kept whispering to me wouldn’t approve, and you don’t want to piss off an angel that lives under your skin. They’re the worst sort. “We’ve been making good time, pacing ourselves for the journey. Why do we need to travel faster now all of a sudden?” I settled on letting him say it himself. It’s harder to lie to yourself out loud with an audience. Let him tell me he still truly believed his wife and child lived.

  “You know.” He gave me a dark look.

  “Tell me anyway,” I said.

  “The voices. We need to get this over and done, get that bitch’s curse off us, before the voice I’m hearing stops suggesting and starts telling.”

  That left me with my mouth open and nothing to say. Ron clip-clopped his way up another twenty yards of the Roma Road before I found the presence of mind to press my lips together.

  “You’re trying to tell me you’re not hearing a voice?” Snorri leaned around in the saddle to scowl at me. He could manage the sort of scowl that reminded you he named his axes.

  I could hardly deny it. The voice that had whispered beyond the edge of hearing in Compere had grown more distinct day by day, and its directives more frequent. It grew loudest each dawn. At first I had imagined that this was what people like Cousin Serah meant when urging me to listen to my conscience. I thought perhaps that too much fresh air and a lack of alcohol had opened me up to the nagging monologue of conscience for once in my life. Morning after morning of pious lecturing had me doubting my theory, though. Surely everyone couldn’t go around with some sickeningly moral voyeur hectoring them each moment of their life? How would they stay even vaguely sane? Or have fun?

  “And what does this voice say to you?” I asked, still not admitting to anything.

  Snorri returned his gaze to the road ahead, showing me broad shoulders. “I’m dark-sworn, Jal. Cracked through with it. What kind of secrets do you think the night whispers?”

  “Hmm.” That didn’t sound good, though frankly I wouldn’t have minded swapping. Unsavoury suggestions bubbled out of the darkness at the back of my mind all the time. Most I ignored easily enough. Being upbraided on my own moral shortcomings at every turn, on the other hand, was proving most annoying. “Does your voice have a name?”

  “She’s called Aslaug.”

  “She? You got a woman?” I couldn’t keep the complaint from my voice. Nor did I try.

  “Loki lay with a jötnar, a beauty with a spider’s shadow.” Snorri sounded self-conscious, no hint of the storyteller now, hesitating as he repeated unfamiliar details. “She birthed a hundred daughters in the dark places of the world, and none of them ever stepped out into the light. Old Elida used to tell us that tale. Now one of those daughters walks in my shadow.”

  “So you got a beauty with a dirty mind, and I got a pious killjoy. Where’s the justice in that?”

  “Called?” Snorri glanced back at me.

  “Baraqel. I expect my father used to drone on about him from the pulpit. Damned if I know the name, though.” I was sure Baraqel would be eager to burden me with his lineage if I gave him the chance. He seemed to be a disembodied voice who liked the sound of his own pronouncements. Fortunately his visitations were limited to the few minutes between the sun cresting the horizon and clearing it—the rest of the time I could pretty much ignore him. And what with me being almost entirely made of sins that needed to be vilified, it didn’t leave much time for other matters.

  “Well,” said Snorri. “It’s pretty clear we need to make haste, before Baraqel makes a decent man of you. And before Aslaug makes a bad one of me. She’s not fond of you, Jal, you sho
uld know that.”

  “You should hear what Baraqel has to say about my choice of heathen travelling companion.” Not a bad return shot, but annoyingly my angel held Snorri up as something of a paragon during our morning chats, so it was better that the Norseman didn’t hear after all.

  We rode all day and for once the sun blazed. It appeared that Ancrath was enjoying the summer so long denied to us on our trail. Perhaps the weather skewed my judgment, but I have to say that Ancrath struck me as a fine corner of the empire: free of the Rhonish taint, fertile lands well farmed, pleasingly humble peasants, and the merchant classes as servile as you like in the hunt for coin.

  I kept close watch on Snorri all that day for any signs of evil, though what I’d do about it if I spotted any I hadn’t a clue. Being shackled to a battle-hungry Viking on route for a suicidal rescue mission had been harrowing enough. Now I was shackled to one who might become a creature of the night at the drop of anyone’s hat.

  The day passed peacefully enough and Snorri showed no inclination towards the traditional demonic pursuits, though I did convince myself that his shadow was rather darker than everyone else’s and found myself peering into it every now and again, searching for any hint of his new mistress.

  My own little blessing from the Silent Sister woke me at the instant of sunrise just as the cocks were throat-clearing for the first crow of the day.

  “The heathen has become a servant of darkness. You should denounce him to some suitable member of the church inquisition.” Baraqel spoke quiet enough, but there’s something about a voice behind your eardrum that’s hard to ignore. Also he had a very irritating tone about him.

  “Wh—what?”

  “Have him arrested.”

  I yawned and stretched. Pleased to find myself in a bed for once, albeit unaccompanied. “I thought Snorri was your golden boy. Everything I should strive to be?”

  “Even a heathen can embody character traits that may be admired, and good role models are hard to come by in the wilds, Prince Jalan. However, his lack of true faith left him open to possession and he has been tainted beyond salvation. The rack and fire are his last best chance to lessen his sentence in hell now.”

  “Hmmm.” I scratched my balls. Unfamiliar fleas were a small price to pay for the comfort of a bed. “I doubt he’d thank me for the favour.”

  “Snorri’s wants are not of importance, Prince Jalan. The evil that has possessed him must be burned out. She must be cast into the fire and—”

  “She? So you know Snorri’s passenger, do you? Old friend of yours?”

  “You endanger your soul each time you mock me, Jalan Kendeth. I am God’s servant on earth, descended from heaven. Why wou—”

  “Why would God create fleas? Did he ever tell you? Ah! Got one, you little bastard!” I cracked it between two fingernails. “So, what’s coming up today, Baraqel? Anything useful I should know? Let’s hear some of that divine wisdom.” It wasn’t so much that I didn’t believe he was an angel, and I certainly wasn’t about to dispute the existence of such—my neck still bore the trace of bruises where a dead man tried to throttle me—it was just that I felt Baraqel must be a rather poor example. After all, angels should tower above you in gold and feathers carrying flaming swords and speaking wisdom in tongues. I didn’t expect them to hide away and nag me to get up each morning in a voice suspiciously like my father’s.

  Baraqel remained silent for several moments, then a cockerel let out a raucous hallelujah to the morning close by, and I decided my angel had taken his leave.

  “Dark travellers on the road. Born of flame. A prince has sent them. A prince of evil, of darkness and revenge, a prince of lightning. A thorn prince. They are his work. Messengers of the doom to come.”

  The pronouncement startled me awake again. “That’s the sort of nonsense I could have off Dr. Taproot’s old fortune-teller for half a copper.” More yawning, more scratching. “What prince? What doom?”

  “The thorn prince. He whose line will spill heaven into hell and rip the world asunder. His gift is the death of angels, the death of . . .” And blessedly he trailed off, the sun having cleared the horizon somewhere out beyond the musty confines of my room.

  I stretched, yawned, scratched, contemplated the end of all things, and went back to sleep.

  We left the inn after a breakfast of liver and fried potatoes washed down with small beer. So far the famed cuisine of Ancrath had proved the least appealing aspect of the country, but riding a horse day in, day out for weeks on end gives a man an appetite of the kind that’s ready to try anything. Even horse.

  Joining the Roma Road once more from the dirt track to the inn, I fell into my customary daydreaming, the sort that’s apt to get you killed in the wilds but is the kind of luxury civilization affords us. I realized simultaneously that I had no idea what a liver was for and that I also didn’t ever want to eat one again, especially not for breakfast with garlic.

  Snorri stopped me pursuing that line of thought any further by drawing up in the road directly ahead of me. A ragged group of travellers were heading north towards Crath City, blocking the road, some pulling handcarts, others labouring under their possessions, others still flapping along in just the tatters they wore. And amongst them not a clean limb showed: All were black with filth of some kind.

  “Refugees,” Snorri said.

  Dark travellers. An echo of Baraqel’s prophecy ran through my mind.

  As we caught them up I saw many bore wounds, still raw and open, and each of them—man, woman, child—was black with soot, or with dried mud, or black with both. Snorri nudged Sleipnir in amongst them, offering apologies. I followed, trying not to let any of them touch me.

  “What happened here, friend?” Snorri leaned from his saddle towards a tall fellow, peasant-thin, an ugly rip along the top of his scalp.

  The man offered a blank-eyed stare. “Raiders.” Little more than a mutter.

  “Where away?” Snorri asked, but the man had turned from him.

  “Norwood.” A woman on the other side, grey-haired and hobbling. “They burned it down. There’s nothing for us now.”

  “Baron Ken’s troops? Is Ancrath at war?” Snorri frowned.

  The woman shook her head and spat. “Raiders. Renar men. Everywhere’s burning. Sometimes it’s knights and soldiers, sometimes just rabble. Road scum.” She turned away, head down, lost in her misery.

  “I’m sorry.” Snorri didn’t try to cheer her or claim her lot would soon improve—but he said something. More than I would know to do. A shake of reins and he moved on.

  We made our passage through the refugees, thirty of them maybe, and picked up speed. It was a relief to be clear of the stink. I’d been poor for a day or three and hadn’t liked it one bit. The survivors of Norwood had been poor enough to start with, and now they had nothing but need.

  “They’re hoping to throw themselves on the mercy of King Olidan,” Snorri said. “That’s the measure of their desperation.”

  It still irked me just how much the Norseman knew about lands that lay across the sea from his. I’d heard of Olidan, of course. His reputation had reached even into my cosy world: Grandmother complained of his manoeuvring more than enough for that. But who ruled in Kennick and how relations stood between Ancrath and its muddy neighbour I had no idea. Snorri had upbraided me about my tenuous grasp of empire history, but I told him history’s just old news, prophecy that’s well past its sell-by date. Current affairs were more my thing. Especially my current affairs, and Crath City could improve those no end. There would be wine, women, and song, all much missed on our long and miserable trek so far—women in particular. In addition, where better to find some wise men to strike off the shackles the Silent Sister had bound me to Snorri with?

  The Roma Road bore us swifter than a river and we came in sight of Crath City as the sun plunged behind its towers, making a black architectur
e of spires and spans. I’d heard Olidan’s capital rivalled Vermillion for the grandness of its buildings and the wealth spent there in bricks and mortar. Martus visited on an embassy two years previously and described the Ancrath palace as the stump of some Builder-tower, but my brother was ever full of lies and I’d be able to make my own judgment on that soon enough.

  “We should skirt around.” Snorri had fallen behind and when I turned all his face lay in shadow, only the ridges of his brow and cheekbones catching the redness of the sunset.

  “Nonsense. I’m a prince of the March. We have agreements with the Ancraths and it’s my duty to call in on the king.” Duty had nothing to do with it. Crath City was my last best chance to break the Silent Sister’s curse. With luck King Olidan could be persuaded to help. He would have magicians in his service. And even without his help there were always spell-smiths of one kind or another tucked away in such an ancient city. I’d never set much store by such things before. Smoke, mirrors, and old bones, I’d called it. But even a prince of Red March may have to revise his opinion on occasion.

  “No,” Snorri said. I couldn’t see his eyes in the half-light, and as the shadows stretched out across the road I remembered that this would be the time she spoke to him. Aslaug, his dark spirit, would be whispering her poison while the sun fell from the world.

  “Rushing in unprepared didn’t work so well for you the first time, did it? You want to save Freya? Little Egil? Cut Sven Broke-Oar into several pieces? It’s time to use your head, to understand what we’re up against and formulate a plan.” I had to move him somehow, even if it risked provoking the Viking in him and daring the consequences. “This is Crath City. How much of the world’s lore came from this very spot? Dig down far enough into anything the wise say and there’s a document from the vaults of the Loove at the bottom of it.” I paused for breath, having exhausted everything I could remember my tutors saying about Crath City. “Wouldn’t time here be well spent? Advice on the nature of your foe? Maybe an antidote to ghoul poison. Or even a cure for the curse on us. You’re risking the Roma Road, rushing north at full tilt, hoping to make it before the dark seduces you . . . and the solution might be just behind those walls. The Silent Sister’s not the only witch in the Broken Empire, not by a long shot. Let’s find one who can help us.”