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The sun watched from the west as I climbed the long hill to the outer gate of the Tall Castle. I’d soaked off the road stink at a bathhouse, leaving the waters black; had my hair cut and tamed; and calmed my head with some powders the barber swore were good for the easing of pain, also beneficial in cases of plague and dropsy. Finally I had purchased a fresh linen shirt, adjusted to my size with a few well-placed stitches; a cloak of brushed velvet, trimmed with something claimed as ermine and probably squirrel; and a silverish clasp mounted with a piece of rubyish glass to round it off. Not quite princely garb, but enough to pass muster as gentry on casual inspection.
Snorri hadn’t turned up. I considered going on without him but decided against it. Apart from the show of having a bodyguard, I’ve always been in favour of having one, for guarding my body. Especially a maniac over six and a half foot tall, packed with muscle and with a vested interest in not letting me die.
It took perhaps another half hour before I saw the Norseman on the broad street below. He had Sleipnir and Ron in tow but at least hadn’t managed to have any of the Brothers tag along.
“You should have left the nags where they were.” I knew better than to upbraid him for being late. He would just grin and slap me on the back as if I were joking.
“I thought only beggars arrived on foot in these flat countries.” Snorri grinned and ran a hand through Sleipnir’s mane. “Besides, I’ve grown fond of the old girl, and she’s carrying all my stuff.”
“Better to let them think I’ve a decent horse stabled somewhere nearby than to march up to the gates with this mangy pair and suffer the pity of guardsmen.”
“Well—”
“Look, never mind, just pretend they’re both yours.” I walked on, letting him follow at a respectful distance.
I presented myself at the appropriately named Triple Gate to the most senior of several chain-armoured guards standing to vet potential visitors. There’s a certain arrogance expected of aristocracy, and a life of service had trained men such as the ones before me to respond to it. My brother Martus had a marvellous way of looking down his nose at even the tallest of underlings, and I do a decent job of it myself. I summoned my reserves and radiated disdain. Snorri would of course assert, and frequently did, that I’d never let go of my royal superiority—though his turn of phrase would run something along the lines of “still got the sceptre up your arse”—but he’d yet to see me in full flow.
“Prince Jalan Kendeth of Red March, scion of the Red Queen, heir deximal to Vermillion and all its domains.” I paused to let the “prince” sink in. “I’m travelling north and have detoured from the Roma Road to pay a courtesy call on King Olidan. In addition to the normal pleasantries, I will be offering to bear back to the Red Queen any diplomatic correspondence subsequent to the recent visit of my brother, Prince Martus.” For once in my life I had cause to be thankful that Martus and I looked so alike.
“Welcome to the Tall Castle, Your Highness.” The man, a sturdy fellow with steel-grey hair escaping his helm, took a step towards me. He ran his beady black eyes over my attire and peered pointedly behind me as if looking for my retinue.
“I’m travelling in haste. This man here is my personal guard. We’ve rooms down in the Old Town.” I left hanging the suggestion that more retainers might be occupying those rooms.
“Of course, Prince—” He frowned. “Jalan?”
“Yes. Jalan. Now tell Olidan I’m here and be quick about it.”
That got his attention. There aren’t many who’d lose King Olidan his title when face to face with his guards. Even fewer who would want an audience with the king under false pretences. By all accounts King Olidan was not the nicest of men.
“I’ll send a messenger immediately, Your Majesty. Perhaps you would like to wait in my chamber in the gatehouse. I can have a man stable your . . . horses.”
I considered waiting in the shade of the wall. It promised to be a nice night, but if he kept us waiting too long we’d be standing on our dignity to the amusement of gawkers. “Lead on,” I said. It’s always better to sit on your dignity in private than to stand on it in public.
We followed on beneath the gates to a small door in the thickness of the wall. The stairs behind led upwards. The Captain of the Triple Gate had himself a garret above the entranceway, tucked behind the fearsome winding gear and the recesses in which the three portcullises rested when not keeping people out. It proved clean and boasted a table and chairs. I doubted many foreign princes had been entertained there, but probably rather few arrived unannounced and all but unaccompanied.