"The world may be wearing thin but still there are very few places where the unborn may return. The opportunities are seldom, and short-lived, hard to predict. A certain spot in a certain hour. If it is missed there may not be another window through which they may pa.s.s for months, and it might lie a thousand miles away. To bring an unborn through the veil at any other juncture requires an enormous expenditure of resource.

"The size of this city's population and the magics that are worked here make Vermillion a sp.a.w.ning ground for the unborn. My sister can give no warning, only detect and destroy the things as they emerge. The people around these events are food for the new unborn-it would use their flesh to repair itself, to build larger and more terrifying forms, and to feed its power. The only way to ensure the unborn's destruction is to burn out the nest before it realizes that it is under attack."

"But I saw it-at the opera house I saw the unborn. It escaped and pursued us north. That thing wasn't like the others. At the circus an unborn came for us, miscarried from womb to grave and bursting from the ground in the dead of night. And in the Black Fort Snorri's son, and then the captain of them . . ."

The Red Queen pursed her lips. I might almost think her impressed that I'd seen four separate unborn and yet stood before her with my insides on the inside.

"The creature you saw first was not newly returned but there to seed the event, one of two. Each unborn starts with a child killed in the womb. The longer that child stays in the deadlands the harder it is to birth into the living world, but the more it will be able to meet whatever potential lay in its blood. This was to be a very special unborn, perhaps the greatest of all of their kind. The two worst of the Dead King's servants were there to ease this one into the world: the Unborn Prince and Captain. The pa.s.sage is made less difficult by the death of a close relative. It is likely the relative they needed was among the audience. It was a rare chance to test my sister's magics against the key figures in the ranks of those armed against us and to block the arrival of a powerful new servant for the Dead King."

I swallowed, remembering again the eyes that had regarded me through the slit of a porcelain mask. Then, realizing that my role in the failure of the curse was a bad place to let the conversation rest, I carried on. "And the Unborn Prince escaped and tracked us north to stop-"

"The Unborn Prince went south," Grandmother said. "The Unborn Captain to the north. They informed the Dead King of events, no doubt, and sent agents against you, but the prince went south, to Florence, where he works against us even now."

"Ah."

"When you broke her spell my sister glimpsed a possibility. The crack you put into her working allowed the two elder unborn to escape but she saw a way for the main investment of her power to be carried between two unusual men, and that the tides of chance would bear you to our foe in the north."

"Tides of chance?" That wasn't mere chance. I've bet on some long odds at the gambling table when drunk but I've never thrown the dice at quite so slim an opportunity.

"She may have moved some of the pieces into place. Hers is an art rather than a science, and even if she were not silent I doubt she could explain more than half of what she does. Her motives are unlikely to fit within words."

"But once she interfered, once she acted on what she knew would happen to me . . . she could see no more." I paraphrased Kara. "She reached into a clear pool to change the future and left it muddy."

Grandmother c.o.c.ked her head to the side at that, as if seeking a new angle to view me from. I'd seen her offer the same look in the still-smoking ruins of Ameroth Castle fifty years before.

"We felt the curse released. We felt the unborn ended. Out in the wilds they are weaker, away from people on which to feed . . . So tell me, did Snorri ver Snagason find what he sought after he'd laid his enemies low?"

I paused. Always a bad idea if you plan to lie. Did she know what the Dead King was hunting beneath the Bitter Ice? Did she know that we found it? The important thing was not to get myself into trouble . . . and trouble could come from being caught in a lie, but also from earning myself some kind of further task. "His family were all killed," I said. True though perhaps not what she wanted to know. Snorri wasn't seeking the key in any event-neither of us were.

The Silent Sister held out her hand again, closed about something. I held my breath and refused to meet her eyes. Slowly her fingers unfolded, revealing a long black key, Loki's key.

"Ah, yes, he found that." I didn't feel safe enough to lie. A d.a.m.ned unpleasant feeling. They say that the truth will set you free, but I find it normally hems me into a corner. "Snorri has the key." This time however an immediate sense of relief flooded me. I'd told them. It wasn't my problem any more. Grandmother had armies, a.s.sa.s.sins, agents, cunning and fearless men and women who would sort things out.

"And?" the Red Queen prompted, her face tight. The Sister's copy of Loki's key faded to a stain across the whiteness of her palm.

"He's taking it to a mage named Kelem, in his mines. Has some crazy idea to unlock a door the old man can show him . . . and . . . uh . . . get his family back."

"What?" A boom of disbelief that had me scuttling backward so quickly I stepped on my cloak and went crashing down on my a.r.s.e. As the reverberations echoed through the throne room I swear I heard a hiss issue from Silent Sister's dark mouth. "Where . . ."

Grandmother rose from her throne, looking more terrible than Skilfar ever had. She seemed to be struggling with the question, struggling to draw in air and frame her outrage. "Where is Snorri ver Snagason now?"

"Uh . . ." I shuffled further back, not feeling it safe to get back on my feet. "H-he should be about twenty miles down the road to Florence. I left him outside Vermillion yesterday noon."

Grandmother clasped her hand to her face, reaching for the arm of her throne with the other. "The key was on my doorstep? Why-"

She broke off her question and I didn't feel it a good moment to volunteer that n.o.body had ever mentioned that she wanted the d.a.m.n key.

"Marth." The Red Queen lowered her hand and looked to the grey-haired woman to the right of her throne. "Organize a hundred riders. Send them out to bring the Norseman back here. He shouldn't be hard to miss, about six foot eight, black hair and beard, pale-skinned. Is that right, boy?"

I'd been demoted to "boy" again. I picked myself up and dusted down my cloak. "Yes. He's travelling with a fat ginger Viking and a blond volva from the Utter North."

"Even better. Spread the net wide. Don't lose him."

TWENTY-ONE.

Grandmother dismissed me from her throne room with no more ceremony than she had afforded the courtiers. A short walk, three sets of doors closing at my heels, and I stood once more in the blazing sun of a hot Red March afternoon. No duties, no calls on my time, no responsibilities-"Hennan!" I remembered the boy and with surprise found that it gave me a sense of purpose I welcomed.

"Ballessa!" Back in the slightly cooler confines of Roma Hall I set to finding Hennan, and that meant finding Ballessa first. The doughty mistress of my father's household knew where each pin lay. "Ballessa!" I'd been striding through the ground floor rooms shouting for a while now and, tired, I flomped down in one of the leather armchairs in Father's study. Innumerable worthy tomes on theology crowded the shelves. The books held no interest for me, excepting that I knew Father had hollowed out the twelve-volume works of St. Proctor-Mahler to hide whisky, two long salt-glazed earthenware jugs of it, stoppered tight. Also the legends on the top row may read "The path to Heaven" and "Saving the fallen, one soul at a time" and the like, but the etchings within were perhaps the most p.o.r.nographic to be found in the city.

"Jayne!" I saw the housemaid trying to sneak past un.o.bserved.

"Yes, Prince Jalan?" She straightened up and faced me.

"Ballessa-bring her here would you? I need to find out about the boy."

"You mean, Hennan, sir?"

"That's the one. Little fellow. Dirty. Where is he?"

"He ran off, sir. Ballessa put him to work in the kitchen garden and an hour later he was gone."

"Gone?" I stood up out of the chair. "Gone where?"

Jayne raised her shoulders, almost insolent. "I don't know, sir."

"Dammit all! Tell Fat Ned I want the boy found. He can't have got far!" Though in truth he could have got quite far. The palace was hard to get into. Getting out was much less difficult, providing you weren't carrying an armful of valuables.

Jayne went off to find Ned-in no great hurry it should be added. A sigh escaped me and I pulled a book from Father's desk to distract me. Hennan would probably have gone in pursuit of Snorri, heading southwest along the Appan Way where it exited the River Gate. With any luck he would see Grandmother's riders bringing the others back and follow them in. I didn't fancy explaining the boy's absence to Snorri. Especially not after Grandmother had taken the key off him.

I stared at the book spines for an empty moment, sighed again, and moved to check the strong-box in the corner, hoping to find a few coins. It was locked of course but I'd figured how to jig the mechanism long ago. All it took was a bent nail and some patience. It turned out that my reserves of patience weren't equal to the task but that a bent nail and some frustrated cursing would also do the job.

"c.r.a.p." The box proved disappointingly coin-free, though lifting a spare cardinal's cape I found unexpected treasure. Father's fone and holy stone lay wrapped in velvet. Two symbols of his office, second only to the cardinal's seal. The fone was a thin and battered tablet of plasteek and gla.s.s that would fit easily in the hand. A tracery of silver wire held the thing together, preventing the dark and fractured gla.s.s escaping. The priesthood told it that the Builders could speak to anyone they chose through such devices, and draw on the knowledge of the great and ancient libraries of the world. The clergy themselves put their fones to more pious use, speeding their prayers to G.o.d and, so they claimed, hearing his replies. I'd listened myself on several occasions but sensed no connection.

The holy stone looked for all the world like a small iron pineapple, its surface divided into squares by deep grooves, a tarnished silver-steel handle or lever held tight to the side. In ancient times the pineapple was ever the symbol of welcome, though the church used the objects in a different way. Apparently, each theological student of good family and destined for high office was given one on beginning their training and forbidden from pulling the lever on pain of excommunication. A test of obedience they called it. A test of curiosity I called it. Clearly the church wanted bishops who lacked the imagination for exploration and questioning.

I toyed with the thing. Let he that is without sin cast the first stone . . . and set it aside, knowing Father would disinherit me if I broke it. Treasures, but sadly too valuable and too difficult to p.a.w.n. I wondered briefly at their significance. As a rule, Father never let them from his sight. Perhaps he feared if he took them to Roma with him the pope might strip them from him by way of chastis.e.m.e.nt for his failings in office.

I closed the box and returned to my seat, plucking a book at random from the shelves. The Prodigal Son. Bible stories aren't my strong point but I had a feeling the prodigal son had been feasted and celebrated on his return, despite being a waste of s.p.a.ce. Here I was, with actual accomplishments to my name and all I'd got was a plaque on the outside of the family church, and a telling off for not wresting from a giant Norse killing-machine something that I didn't know Grandmother wanted in the first place. Add to that Micha married to an undeserving Darin, Sharal promised away to a man who looked set to carve me up for sport, and Hennan running off to the road as if trudging through the dust was better than life in the palace of Vermillion.

"I'm going out." I tossed the book down. My life in Vermillion had always centred on its less salubrious spots, its flesh-pits and h.e.l.lholes, the racetrack, the bordellos . . .

First to my rooms to find something suitable to wear for town. I found the place in a terrible mess and pursed my lips. It was entirely possible I'd left my gear scattered when I left-but I expected it tidied away by . . . someone. I wasn't sure who did such things, but they happened. Always. I made a note to complain to Ballessa about it. It almost looked as if someone had rummaged through my belongings . . . With a shrug I selected a fine waistcoat, pantaloons with slashed velvet revealing a scarlet silk liner, a dark and expensive cape with a silver clasp. A glance in the mirror. Ravishing. Time to go.

Down in the guardhouse I rousted out the two old men Father a.s.signed to my personal protection: Ronar and Todd, both veterans of some war not worth a song. I'd never enquired after their family names. They got up, grumbling, and clattered along after me as if it were some great imposition after spending the last six months on their a.r.s.es playing battamon in the barracks.

From Roma Hall I led off aiming for the guest range to gather up some of my old cronies. I cut through the Field, a poorly named courtyard where in my youth I spent many unhappy hours being drilled in all the military arts. I pa.s.sed Uncle Hertet, almost lost amid his retinue. Into his fifties and wearing his years poorly he cut a gaudy figure in a high-necked tunic sewn with enough gold thread to found an orphanage. I spotted cousins Roland and Rotus in the mix but none of them so much as spared me a glance. They seemed to be coming from the direction of the Inner Palace-perhaps another formal visit where the heir-apparently-not checked in to see if his mother had had the decency to die yet.

From the Field I led my two layabout bodyguards to the guest range, a sprawling arm of the Inner Palace, secured from the royal quarters and home to a fluid population of visiting n.o.bility, diplomats, trade delegations and the like. Barras Jon's father, the amba.s.sador from Vyene, held a suite of chambers on the second floor. Vyene might be the capital of a broken empire but the memory of its former glory lent its amba.s.sadors a certain gravitas-further bolstered by the quality of the Gilden Guard who once served the last emperor and now protected the dynasty of officials he left behind.

Quite why Grand Jon had been at court for three years now n.o.body seemed to know. The empire had a hundred fragments as large as Red March and while the Vyenese amba.s.sadors would certainly call in at each of them from time to time, few stayed to take up residence. Barras only said that his father, having negotiated a truce between Scorron and the March, now refused to leave for fear it would fall apart the moment his back turned.

I led the way through several long corridors, stairs up, stairs down, and stairs up. At last we reached the correct doors and I hammered for admission.

"Barras!" He came to the chamber doors half-dressed, though it took an age after I'd sent the doorman to get him. Rollas came up behind him, a hefty fellow, competent with fists and blade, good company but you never forgot he was there to protect the amba.s.sador's son from the consequences of his own recklessness.

"Jalan! It's true! We thought the opera killed you." He grinned, though with a nervy air. He'd b.u.t.toned his shirt wrong and had what looked like bite marks on his neck.

"It was touch and go for a while," I said. "But I got out during the intermission. Had a bit of an adventure up north, but I'm back and ready for trouble. We're hitting the town tonight."

"Sounds good . . . Who is 'we'?" He rubbed at his neck, eyes flicking to Rollas who'd come to crowd the doorway, giving me a friendly nod.

"We'll get the Greyjars, winkle Omar out of his studies, head down to Davmar Gardens and spill a little wine . . . see where the night leads us." A flicker of satin skirts caught my eye and I peered past Barras to the corner at the end of the hallway behind him. "Entertaining a young lady in there, Barras? What would the Grand Jon say?"

"He, ah . . . he'd give me his blessing." Barras looked at his feet, frowning. "I, um."

"He got married," Rollas said. "When you 'died' it shook him up a bit. Started thinking about what his plans were, what he might leave behind him if something cut him short too." He gave a shrug as if this were a stage all men went through.

"You old dog!" I tried to sound cheerful about it. Though it's hard to cheer the loss of a good man. "Who is she? Someone rich I hope!"

Barras still couldn't look me in the eye. Rollas cleared his throat.

"Oh for Christsake . . . not Lisa?" My voice came out louder than intended. "You married Lisa DeVeer?"

Barras looked up sheepishly. "She was very upset when you . . . when she thought you'd died with Alain. I thought it my duty to comfort her."

"The h.e.l.l you did." I could see him "comforting" her right now. "Poor Jalan. I expect he's in a better place now . . ." shuffling closer to her on the chaise longue, "There, there!" arm creeping around her shoulders. "Dammit all." I turned on my heel and started to stride away.

"Where are you going?" Barras called after me.

"To find Roust and Lon. I expect you'll try and tell me the Greyjars are married now?"

"Gone back to Arrow," he shouted as the distance between us grew. "Their cousin has taken the country to war. They're part of the invasion of Conaught now!"

"Omar then!" I roared back.

"Returned to Hamada to study at the mathema!"

"s.h.i.t on it all!" And I was past earshot, taking the stairs three at a time. I paused for breath at the main doors and let the injustice of it all sink in. I had definitely been going to ask Lisa to marry me. Lisa, whose memory sustained me in the icy wastes, kept me going despite pain, hardship and the suicidal nature of our quest. Lisa, who my mind kept returning to in the empty wilderness. Married! To my friend Barras! I gave the doorpost a vicious kick and hobbled out into the blazing sun. I made the Poor Palace my next stop. I hadn't intended to but with things at a low ebb I set out across Victory Plaza and went up to see what old Garyus had to say for himself. I used the stairs, it being too hot for climbing. In any case such activities were beneath the dignity of a prince returning from staring death in the eye on margins of the Bitter Ice.

"h.e.l.lo?" n.o.body stood in attendance and the door lay half-open.

No answer.

"h.e.l.lo?" I leaned in. "It's me. Jalan."

The lump on the bed turned ponderously. With a sigh and an effort that set him trembling Garyus raised his head, as ugly and misshapen as I recalled, but older and more tired.

"Young Jalan."

"I'm back." I took the chair by the bed and sat down uninvited. With the curtain drawn I could make out little save for the furniture.

"I'm glad of it." He smiled, his lips wet, a trail of drool drying on his chin, but a genuine smile.

"You're the only one." I bent to rub my toes, still smarting from kicking the wall. "Grandmother just roared me out of the throne room over some key . . ."

"Loki's key." It didn't seem to be a question. Garyus watched me with mild eyes.

"Probably going to be Kelem's key soon enough." A silence stretched. "Kelem is-"

"I know who he is," Garyus said. "Anyone with business interests knows old Kelem. Not so many years ago it might just as well have been his face on every coin of Empire."

"And now? I thought he owned every bank in Florence." What was it Snorri had said? Something about the beating heart of commerce.

"They call him the father of the banking clans, but if a father lives too long his children are apt to turn on him." With effort Garyus waved his arm at correspondence piled on the desk behind his bed. "There's trouble brewing in Umbertide. Finance houses seeking new partners. Some have even looked as far as the Drowned Isles. These are interesting times, Jalan, interesting times."

"The Drowned Isles? The Dead King is interested in gold as well as corpses?"

Garyus shrugged. "One often follows the other." He lay back, rasping in a breath, apparently exhausted.

"Are you . . ." I hunted for the right word, obviously he wasn't "well." "Can I get someone for you?"

"Tired, Jalan. Old and tired and broken. I . . . should sleep." He closed his eyes. There were a thousand questions I'd wanted to ask him on my journey. But now, seeing him frail and ancient none of them seemed so pressing. Quite how we ended up talking about banks I wasn't entirely sure but I hadn't the heart to challenge him over any of my suspicions-they seemed silly now I sat here before him.

"Sleep then, Uncle." Almost a whisper. I turned to go.

He spoke once more as I stepped through the door, voice thick with dreams. "I am glad . . . to see you, Jalan . . . knew you had it in you, boy."

"Just you and me for the now, boys."

Ronar and Todd waited for me, lounging in the shade, at ease in the way only old soldiers can manage. They seemed neither excited nor disappointed by the news, simply straightening themselves up and preparing to move out. They didn't look much, both grey, grizzled and carrying pot bellies, and I didn't expect much of them either, remembering how quickly they faded away that last time in the Blood Holes when Maeres Allus came over for a word.

Off we set, through the Surgeons Gate out into the sullen heat of late afternoon, a dirty haze above the city's roofs and a threat of distant thunderheads cl.u.s.tering above the Gonella Hills to the south. I felt somewhat deflated, but there's nothing like a skin-full of wine to reflate a man's ego, so I led my guards out along the Corelli Line which mirrors the curves of the Seleen, set back on a ridge from where the waters can be glimpsed between the houses. Merchant dwellings and the town houses of minor aristocracy give way in time to the squares and plazas of Little Venice, divided and bracketed by innumerable ca.n.a.ls. We crossed a few of the many humped bridges and came to the Grapes of Roth, a wine-house I knew well. Old Roth had died years ago but his sons inherited his flair for selecting good vintages and keeping the hoi polloi out.

"Prince Jalan!" The elder son danced between the tables, graceful despite the swing and sway of his belly. "We thought you had abandoned us!"