The Dagger's Path

by Glenda Larke

  “You did not bring him into the world! I did. Indeed, Lady Friselda is right. It’s not your place, Aureen.”

  “Of course not, milady.” She hung her head. “I do forget me place summat terrible. If Your Grace will forgive me impudence, has milady had word from Mistress Sorrel?”

  “No,” she snapped, and was immediately contrite. “No, I haven’t. It is a worry, but nothing you need concern yourself with. In fact, I have news for you–good news, I hope. You are going to return to Ardrone.”

  “Oh, milady!” She dropped the brush in her surprise, and there was no mistaking the expression of delight on her face. “I dream about it sometimes.”

  Mathilda stared at her. She was happy–happy to leave, knowing she’d be leaving her princess alone, the only Ardronese at court. She thought viciously, She has no loyalty to me! None! Why should I worry about her?

  Aureen glimpsed her expression then, and hung her head, biting her lip. “Forgive me, milady. I didn’t mean that. I’d never leave you, truly. You’re me mistress and I’ll serve you as long as I’m needed. Here’s me place now.”

  This time Mathilda gave her a long hard stare. How could she trust the woman not to betray her? If the Dire Sweepers beat her, or worse, she’d talk, of course she would! And what, she wondered, would the woman do if she did return safely to Ardrone? Once she was back with friends and family around her, would she think twice about betraying Mathilda by speaking of things that should never be mentioned?

  Aureen continued to brush her hair, gently now, with soothing strokes of the brush, but Mathilda’s thoughts were dark. She made up her mind, aware she was about to take the first step on a terrible journey. “Oh!” she squealed. “Look, a rat!”

  Aureen whirled around to look. “Where?”

  “It ran under the cupboard. Oh, I knew we had rats! You saw where they chewed my slipper last week.” She shuddered.

  “I’ll call in the rat catchers tomorrow—”

  “Ugh! No.” She pulled a face in disgust at the thought. “I don’t want dirty and smelly ratters in my solar. Go down to the apothecary tomorrow in the bailey. What’s her name? Frynster Anna?”

  “Frynster Annusel.”

  “That’s right. Ask her for some poison baits. You can lay them in all the corners. But until they are all gone, I want you to sleep on the truckle next to me. Just in case they climb on my bed!”

  “Yes, milady. And never fear, I’ll tuck in your bed hangings real proper, so not even a midge can enter.”

  As Mathilda lay in her bed that night, as securely tucked in as Aureen had promised, sleep was still a long time coming.

  Abandoned, she thought. Everyone has abandoned me. Even Sorrel failed me, just like Saker.

  So much time had passed since Sorrel had left with Prince-regal Karel’s sister in her arms. In all that time, she’d heard nothing. Nothing of the baby, nothing from Sorrel, nothing from the Pontifect, no word of guidance.

  Perhaps Sorrel and the baby had never arrived in Vavala. Perhaps they’d died.

  Perhaps it would be better if they had.

  No, she mustn’t think that. But, oh, it would make things less complicated. Although… Maybe not. She needed to know if Karel was a devil-kin or not.

  She’d trusted Sorrel, and the woman had let her down. Her tears welled up, and the lump in her throat grew large and painful.

  Even Aureen would like to abandon me… I’m sure I can’t trust her, either.

  Well, I’ll show them. I’ll show them all.

  Regal Vilmar called Mathilda to his private retiring room mid-afternoon of the next day, which was unusual. When the servant delivered a message telling her she was to present herself to the Regal in his private chambers, she feared it was to tell her to deliver Aureen to his “agents”.

  Her one hold over him, her ability to pleasure him, was tenuous at best. She wasn’t foolish enough to confuse his delight at her youthful body with love. Vilmar didn’t love people; he used them. She must never forget that. Even his pride in his son was not enough to give her real power. He may have been her husband, and she was the mother of his heir, but she still addressed him as “Your Grace” and, tellingly, he’d never requested that she do otherwise.

  She hurried downstairs to his solar, to find him alone, which was odd. He was sitting in the most comfortable chair in his retiring room and he indicated the hard straight-backed chair next to him. “Sit here, my dear.”

  She curtsied deeply, smiled prettily, seated herself and touched his hand where it rested on the arm of the chair in a gesture of fond affection. In truth, she hated the feel of his dry skin, creped with criss-crossed lines, loosely wrinkled over the bones of his knuckles, but nothing of that ever showed on her face.

  Saker, I’m glad I have the memory of that night…

  “I have spoken with the Privy Council,” Vilmar said, his dry, quavery tones a match to his desiccated skin, “about procedures to be followed were I to die before Prince-regal Karel reaches his majority.”

  Relief flooded through her, and she did her best to stop it showing on her face. “Your Grace demonstrates to all that your wisdom and courage is unmatched.”

  “They have agreed that the Council will make all the decisions, but you will be the one to sign them into law on the behalf of the Prince-regal. He will be proclaimed Regal-apparent by the Privy Council on the day of my death. You follow that so far?”

  I’m not a child, you toadspotted, fusty old stick. “Yes, Your Grace.”

  “On the same day, you will be declared the non-legislative regent. This means you can have no say in law-making, but if you refuse to sign something, it will not become law. That way, you will be able to annul anything that impinges on the integrity of the work of the Dire Sweepers, or anything which would be antithetical to Bengorth’s Law. If such a situation were to arise, I suggest you tell the Council you will not sign because Regal Vilmar would not have wanted it. And, of course, you must not let them press you to do otherwise.”

  “No, Your Grace.” She put on her most earnest face. “If this unhappy state of affairs should ever come to pass, I shall continue to serve you and the cause of the Vollendorns, for our son. You can be certain of that.” Without allowing her grave expression to slip, she revelled in her internal wave of joy. The muckle-headed man was so sure women were idiots and that she in particular was a ninnyhead, he was giving her a way to paralyse the Privy Council if she cared to do so–never dreaming she would use that power to further her own ends.

  He continued, “Each member of the Council has sworn before Va and Prime Mulhafen to uphold this decision and they signed a declaration to that effect. There were some protests, men who felt I should not give such power to any Regala, and least of all one born an Ardronese princess, but they were outvoted. Most were pleased that it would be the Privy Council that governed, and not just the Lord Chancellor, the Lord Treasurer and the Secretary of State, as they had expected.”

  He gave a self-satisfied smile, and she knew he had played them skilfully, tricking them into voting the way he wanted without them ever realising they’d been cozened.

  “When those few protested, I allowed them to make an exception of any laws pertaining to matters of Lowmian relations with other lands.” He snorted in contempt. “I reassured them that all that concerns you is the welfare of our son, and this will be all that you wish to protect. In other respects, you will of course be guided by them. In fact, if truth be known, you will never have to challenge them and all will be well.”

  She nodded and held his hand between hers. “Indeed. I have no wish to involve myself in tiresome affairs of state! Let us pray for Va’s grace to grant that you live long enough to see Karel not only grown, but the father of many sons himself, and for me to be spared such matters.” She allowed a slight frown to crease her brow. “Although perhaps you ought to tell me which councillors were less than… obliging. Just so I know who to be watchful of in the future. What do you think?”

&n
bsp; Later, when she returned to her own solar, her mind was seething with plans. She knew now which councillors had not wanted her as regent, but that knowledge was not enough. Growing up in the Ardronese court had taught her much about how power was wielded, and she knew that here she was as weak as a kitten.

  I have to know more about the court; I have to know who has secrets, and what those secrets are. The women: I must make more friends among the court ladies. I must have the Lady Friselda on my side.

  Inwardly she sighed, knowing that she would have to appear more compliant and sweet-natured to impress the wards-dame.

  But for power? Yes, she would do anything, and she had been far too lax up until now. That, she decided, was about to change.

  One day I will rule this court and then they’ll know that an Ardronese princess is not to be dismissed so lightly.

  “I haven’t seen no signs of the rat,” Aureen said to the maid, Klara, as the two women were folding the Regala’s clean linen to put away in the cupboard later that afternoon.

  “Did you get the poison baits from Frynster Annusel?”

  “Yes. I just put some at the back of the linen chest, under the cupboard likewise, and along the wainscoting, but there’s no sign of droppings anywhere. Nary a one.”

  “I’ve not smelt them nowhere, neither.”

  “Just as well, I reckon. Her Grace can be real particular.”

  Klara smoothed out the petticoat she was holding and began to fold it neatly. “Reckon you’re right. She’s a snippy one, the Regala.”

  “And you’re an impudent one,” Aureen snapped. “Not for us to use language like that when talking about royal folk. Not wise neither. You could find yourself without a place here, nor nowhere.”

  “Well, you was the one who said she was particular! An’ it’s true! All this ’bout wanting you to sleep in the truckle bed now? ’Tain’t right. If anyone is supposed to sleep in their mistress’s chamber, it’s the maid. We’re supposed to wait on ’em hand and foot, and chambermaids is supposed to look after the bedroom and the bedding and the cleaning and chamber pots and such. And now she tells me I’m to sleep with them kitchen girls, while you have the truckle? What’s all that about then?”

  “She wants me close by, ’cause she’s scared of rats. Leastways, it’s never our business why the Regala wants things a certain way. Our place is just to do what she wants.”

  And that was the truth of it, always. She heaved a sigh and picked up the freshly laundered pile of linen to put away in the drawer of the wardrobe.

  That night, long after midnight, Aureen woke. Unused to her new bed, she was disoriented and not sure where she was. Her sleep-stupefied mind struggled to make sense of her surroundings and the voice that was calling her.

  Princess Mathilda.

  She scrambled out of the truckle bed, her bare feet hitting the cold of the floorboards before she remembered why she was there in the bedchamber. “Milady?”

  “Bring me my robe, quickly. I heard something.”

  The tiny flame from the night lamp was sufficient for her to find the woollen wrap draped over the bedpost. She held it open so that Mathilda could slide out from between the bed-drapes straight into its warmth.

  “The rat, mayhap?” Aureen asked, her wits still befuddled.

  “No, something much noisier. Not in the bedroom. Out there.” She waved one hand at the door that led into the rest of her solar. Her other hand seized Aureen by the wrist, her clutch as cold as ice. “Light a candle, quickly.”

  “Milady, why don’t you climb back into bed? You’ll catch your death of cold. I’ll go look.” The Regala pushed her away with an unprincess-like snort. “I’m not delicate! Light the candle.” She was already fitting her feet into the slippers beside her bed as she spoke. “I want to see what that noise was.”

  Aureen removed a candle from the candelabrum and lit it from the night lamp. “Milady, perhaps you should stay here and let me get the guard.”

  Regala Mathilda was scornful. “I’m not so moonish as to be scared of a noise.”

  Without another word, she opened the bedroom door and walked through into her drawing room. Aureen peered around her shoulder, but could see little. The fire in that room had long since died out.

  “I think I can hear something in the retiring room,” Mathilda said in a whisper. “You go first with the candle.”

  “Milady—”

  “Go!”

  She couldn’t hear anything at all, but she obliged, almost certain it was all the Regala’s imagination. Holding the candle high, she crossed the threshold, and saw one of the windows was open.

  “How odd,” she said. “I’m sure it was closed this evening. What witless dunce would open the window on a wet night like this? That’s what you could hear, milady. The window banging in the wind!”

  “Very likely. That’s a relief! Here, give me the candle. You close the casement.”

  The window had swung fully open, and now banged against the outer stone wall. This side of the keep overlooked the castle bailey, so the walls were not as thick here, but even so, Aureen had to balance herself on the wide stone sill as she reached for the window catch. Her feet left the floor and she laughed as the wind whipped her hair every which way.

  She felt Mathilda grip her ankles and wondered at her bothering to do such a thing, for she was in no danger. The sill was broad and most of her body was still inside the room. She had a brief moment of puzzlement.

  When she realised her legs were being lifted, not steadied, but lifted higher and higher, she wasted a moment in disbelief. Princess Mathilda was teasing her? Then she shrieked, first in shock, and then in utter terror. Mathilda was pushing her legs, sliding her across the sill. She half turned, scrabbled at the inner side of the window ledge, tearing her skin.

  Even then, she thought it accidental.

  “Milady!” It was a cry for help, crying out to her mistress in her extremity. Her nails ripped and tore as she tried to dig them into the stonework, in vain.

  Even in the brief whisper of time left to her as she fell the four storeys to the grassed inner bailey, she failed utterly to accept the notion that Mathilda had murdered her.

  Mathilda leaned back against the wall, listening.

  There was nothing to hear. No alarm from the courtyard of the bailey, nothing from inside the castle.

  I’m sorry, Aureen. But they would have tortured you…

  She closed her eyes and swallowed back the bile in her mouth. I had to do it to keep Karel safe. I didn’t have a choice.

  I’m sorry…

  14

  The Pontifect’s Envoys

  Prime Mulhafen was an elderly, cadaverous man and, Gerelda decided, about as different from Prime Fox as it was possible to be. His clothing was austere, he wore no jewellery apart from the symbol of the Way of the Flow, and, as she glanced around his office in the Ustgrind Faith House, she decided its lack of comforts must be a statement in praise of frugal living.

  Fortunately, she and Peregrine had dressed in the Lowmian style, in plain garments of grey and white. Peregrine wore the black hat of a Lowmian burgher’s son, while she’d elected to wear the neat white cap more normally seen on a well-to-do burgher’s wife than a lawyer. She didn’t mind; she had grown up wearing such dull clothing. In fact, she still preferred it to the overly coloured and ornate fashion of Ardrone. What she didn’t like was the idea that it was not a matter of preference, but of proscription.

  That thought caused her an inward smile at the irony. I’m a lawyer, she thought, and we are supposed to prefer things to be orderly and planned and regulated. The unwritten rules of convention dictating that a woman must wear skirts annoyed her intensely, nonetheless.

  Right then, wearing a dark grey dress, she stood in front of Prime Mulhafen’s desk, hands clasped behind her back, with Peregrine two steps behind and to her right.

  Like being back at school…

  The Prime was reading the letter she had brought him from F
ritillary Reedling. Judging by the expression on his face, the contents were not pleasing him. He’d already read through the two pages once and was now perusing them a second time. When he finally raised his gaze to look at her, his eyes were troubled.

  “The Pontifect informs me that I should give you every aid in your research, and that I should see to it that you are admitted, with this lad here, to a private audience with Regala Mathilda. Yet it is hardly within my purview to dictate the granting of such an audience.”

  “I am sure that the Pontifect knows that, your eminence. This is a matter of considerable delicacy, you understand, between the Pontifect and Regala Mathilda. For this reason, she also entrusted me with another missive which I have here. This sealed letter is to be given into the hand of the Regala personally, by you. Once the Regala has read its contents, the Pontifect feels confident Master Peregrine Clary and I will be granted an audience.” Gerelda held out the letter.

  The Prime inclined his head as he took it from her. “Yes, her reverence says as much to me.” He placed the letter on his desk, squaring it neatly to line up with other documents there. “I shall inform you of what happens. As for your historical research…” He shook his head dolefully. “We have an extensive library here, but it mostly concerns religious history and study. You’re welcome to read whatever you will. It’s a shame the Institute of Advanced Studies was burned down after the Horned Death struck. That library would have been of much more help to you.”

  He stood, indicating the interview was coming to an end. “The Pontifect has asked that you be lodged here at Faith House. I will have you shown to your rooms. It could be several days before I have an opportunity to pass your letter to the Regala Mathilda.”

  “Of course,” she said, standing up. “I’m so obliged for your time, your eminence. Terrible disaster, the burning of a library, though, wasn’t it? Documents are so irreplaceable. What happened?”