Snorri drank off his rum. He set his poisoned hand upon the table, the knife wound a livid and weeping slot between the tendons. “Mend me and you’ll have to change that tale, circus-master.”

“Of a certainty.” A quick smile lit Taproot’s face. “Kill or cure, that’s our motto. Watch me.” His hands moved around the Norseman’s, never touching, but framing it, following the line of the incision.

“Go to Varga’s wagon. The smallest, with a red circle upon the side. In the grouping close to the gate. Varga can clean a wound, pack it, stitch it. Best poultices you ever saw. Watch me! Even a sour wound may yield to them.”

Snorri stood, and I rose to go with him. It had become a habit.

“You might stay, Prince Jalan?” Taproot did not look up, but something in his tone kept me there.

“I’ll find you later,” I told Snorri. “Save you the shame of weeping before me when this Varga sets to his work. And watch out for that effelant. They’re green and like the taste of Vikings.”

Snorri answered with a snort and ducked out into the blinding brightness of the day.

“A fierce man. Watch me!” Taproot eyed the tent flap, swaying in Snorri’s wake. “Tell me, prince. How is it that you travel together? I didn’t imagine you as one for the hardships of the road. How is it that the Norseman hasn’t killed you for the pits or that you haven’t fled for your home comforts?”

“I’ll have you know I learned a sight more about hardship in the Scorron Heights than—” Something in the slow regret with which Taproot shook his head took the bluster from my sails. I feared if I mentioned my heroism at the Aral Pass, he might laugh at me. That’s the trouble with men who know too much. A sigh escaped me. “In truth? We’re bound by some enchantment. A damned inconvenient one. You wouldn’t happen to have a—”

“A mind-sworn wizard? A hidden hand that might separate you? Watch me! If I had such, this circus would be a gold mine and me the richest of all rich men.”

I had expected him to laugh at my claims of enchantment, so to be taken seriously was a relief, though hearing how hard it might prove to be to undo the magic was less pleasing.

Taproot finished his drink and put the little bottle back in the drawer. “Speaking of rich men, you might care to know about one Maeres Allus.”

“You know—” Of course he knew. Taproot knew of the Red Queen’s secret brother, too broken for the throne. He knew about goats chewing on the slopes of distant fjords. He would hardly not know of Vermillion’s greatest crime lord.

“Watch me.” Taproot laid a slim finger alongside his slim nose. “Maeres has secrets that even I don’t know. And he is not best pleased with you.”

“Perhaps a journey north would be good for my health in any case, then,” I said.