Mark Lawrence_The Broken Empire 01 by Prince of Thorns Page A

hooks burned in my flesh once more. “A prince of the realm, slain.” Broken like a toy.
    â€œAnd there is a price to pay.” Lundist paused, one hand against the door, leaning as if for support.
    â€œThe price of blood and iron!”
    â€œRights to the Cathun River, three thousand ducats, and five Araby stallions.” Lundist wouldn’t look at me.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œRiver trade, gold, horses.” Those blue eyes found me over his shoulder. An old hand took the door-ring.
    The words made sense one at a time, not together.
    â€œThe army . . .” I started.
    â€œWill not move.” Lundist opened the door. The day streamed in, bright, hot, laced with the distant laughter of squires at play.
    â€œI’ll go alone. That man will die screaming, by my hand.” Cold fury crawled across my skin.
    I needed a sword, a good knife at least. A horse, a map—I snatched the one before me, old hide, musty, the borders tattooed in Indus ink. I needed . . . an explanation.
    â€œHow? How can their deaths be purchased?”
    â€œYour father forged his alliance with the Horse Coast kingdoms through marriage. The strength of that alliance threatened Count Renar. The Count struck early, before the links grew too strong, hoping to remove both the wife, and the heirs.” Lundist stepped into the light, and his hair became golden, a halo in the breeze. “Your father hasn’t the strength to destroy Renar and keep the wolves from Ancrath’s doors. Your grandfather on the Horse Coast will not accept that, so the alliance is dead, Renar is safe. Now Renar seeks a truce so he may turn his strength to other borders. Your father has sold him such a truce.”
    Inside I was falling, pitching, tumbling. Falling into an endless void.
    â€œCome, Prince.” Lundist held out a hand. “Let’s walk in the sunshine. It’s not a day for desk-learning.”
    I bunched the map in my fist, and somewhere in me I found a smile, sharp, bitter, but with a chill to it that held me to my purpose. “Of course, dear tutor. Let us walk in the sun. It’s not a day for wasting—oh no.”
    And we went out into the day, and all the heat of it couldn’t touch the ice in me.

    Knife-work is a dirty business, yet Brother Grumlow is always clean.

10
    We had ourselves a prisoner. One of Marclos’s riders proved less dead than expected. Bad news for him all in all. Makin had Burlow and Rike bring the man to me on the burgermeister’s steps.
    â€œSays his name is Renton. ‘Sir’ Renton, if you please,” Makin said.
    I looked the fellow up and down. A nice black bruise wrapped itself halfway round his forehead, and an over-hasty embrace with Mother Earth had left his nose somewhat flatter than he might have liked. His moustache and beard could have been neatly trimmed, but caked in all that blood they looked a mess.
    â€œFell off your horse did you, Renton?” I asked.
    â€œYou stabbed Count Renar’s son under a flag of truce,” he said. He sounded a little comical on the “stabbed” and “son.” A broken nose will do that for you.
    â€œI did,” I said. “I can’t think of anything I wouldn’t have stabbed him under.” I held Renton’s gaze; he had squinty little eyes. He wouldn’t have been much to look at in court finery. On the steps, covered in mud and blood, he looked like a rat’s leavings. “If I were you, I’d be more worried about my own fate than whether Marclos was stabbed in accordance with the right social niceties.”
    That of course was a lie. If I were in his place, I’d have been looking for an opportunity to stick a knife in me. But I knew enough to know that most men didn’t share my priorities. As Makin said, something in me had got broken, but not so broken I didn’t remember what it was.
    â€œMy family is rich, they’ll ransom me,” Renton