The Dagger's Path

by Glenda Larke

  “Not–not exactly. All he will be able to see is whether Prince-regal Karel has been touched by something… corrupted. If there is no sign of such, then the Pontifect suggests checking again in a few years’ time, just to make sure.”

  “And if he is, as you put it, corrupted?”

  “The Prince-regal will grow up a perfectly normal child for about twelve years, possibly more. During that time, the Pontifect will find a way to cure him so the corruption never manifests itself. You have her promise on that.”

  “How does she know all this?”

  “After he left Ardrone, Witan Rampion, together with some Lowmian clerics, was working on the matter of devil-kin and twin births here in Lowmeer.”

  She leaned back against her chair. A reprieve. If this woman was telling the truth. “Did the Pontifect give you a letter for me?”

  “She did not dare to write down her advice in case the letter fell into the wrong hands. She told me to emphasise that Your Grace is not alone and that she will pursue this matter to a satisfactory conclusion for everyone concerned. For both your children and yourself. She also said you must put your trust in Va and the Way of the Oak or the Flow. There will be a solution.”

  “Perhaps,” she said, losing her composure, “she should explain to me why Va allowed this–this abomination of devil-twins to occur in the first place.”

  “I am not a cleric, Your Grace. That is a question for a person who has studied such things. For now, what the Pontifect recommends is that you allow Peregrine to look at your son. Depending on what he finds, the Pontifect will make decisions.”

  “My daughter–is she to be examined by this Peregrine too?”

  “When she returns to the Va-cherished Hemisphere, certainly.”

  “But only one of them will be this… this—” But she couldn’t continue.

  “We don’t really know. I’m sorry, Your Grace, that we can’t give you a more definitive answer at this time. The Pontifect has asked me to investigate the history of this whole question of Lowmian twins and devil-kin. That is the second reason that I was chosen for this job. I have already spent some time perusing documents kept inside Faith House. I didn’t find much that was useful. The librarian did tell me that there are more books and papers and scrolls here in the castle library. I was wondering if it might be possible for me to have access to them. The Pontifect feels that answers may be found in Lowmian history.”

  Lowmian history.

  Appalled, Mathilda froze. Sorrel knew about Bengorth’s Law, of course; she’d been there when the Regal had informed her about the whole horrible deal between the first of the Vollendorns and A’Va. Sorrel was supposed to tell the Pontifect, but she hadn’t yet met the Pontifect. She might have told Saker though, and he might have written it in the message to the Pontifect. Words committed to paper could damn her to the chopping block or the torture chamber. She tried to swallow back her growing terror.

  So, the Pontifect might already know, but would she have told this woman about it?

  Is that what this canker-worm of a female wants to research? Sweet Va, if the Regal ever finds out I told anyone, I’m dead, broken on a wheel and left for the birds to peck out my eyes.

  “What else did the Pontifect tell you?”

  Gerelda frowned slightly, as if the question puzzled her. “Is there something else I should know about, Your Grace?” she asked. “If we can pinpoint just how it happens, this process of subverting a twin into a devil-kin, perhaps we’ll understand how to cure it.”

  “A cure.” Her voice whispered oddly, like the steel of a blade drawn from a scabbard. A cure for Bengorth’s Law? Or just for a devil-kin baby? She didn’t dare ask.

  “The Pontifect believes all things are possible in Va’s name,” Gerelda said, meeting her gaze without flinching.

  “I’m not sure I know what a devil-kin is.” She chose her words carefully. “I mean, people gossip. But really all they say is that devil-kin serve A’Va. How?”

  “To separate the folk tales from the reality is one purpose of my research. One of the few things we know for a fact is that when twins are separated at birth, one of them, sometimes both of them, appear to be perfectly normal all their lives. The other often dies of the Horned Death, and possibly seeds those around him–his family, his village, his street in the town–with the same plague when he or she reaches the age of twelve or thereabouts. Unfortunately, a lot of the research evidence disappeared when the Institute of Advanced Studies was burned.”

  She looked down at Karel. Twelve years… No, no. It’s not you, is it? It’s her. The girl… It must be. “Was there no further message from the Pontifect?” she asked, glad to hear how calm she sounded.

  “She told me to say that any transactions with A’Va are anathema to her. She believes your courage is unparalleled, and you will triumph because Va is on your side. Your line will continue, and she offers every support.”

  Va rot you! Did you just tell me the Pontifect has suspicions about who fathered the Prince-regal? She sat back, her fingers drumming on the padded arm of her chair as she breathed in, dragging air deep to keep her agitation from showing. Don’t be such a dewberry, Mathilda. Of course the Pontifect knows about Saker. Fox would have told her, even if Saker hadn’t–a pox on that whoreson of a Prime.

  “And you want me to arrange for you to work in the castle library,” she said, her voice level.

  “Actually, Prime Mulhafen has applied to the castle librarian on my behalf. We are awaiting his reply. If you feel your support would help—”

  “I doubt it. What reason did you give for this research?”

  Gerelda gave her the faintest of smiles. “We are approaching the four hundredth anniversary of the ascent of the first Vollendorn to the Basalt throne. The Pontifect suggested that there be a celebration throughout the pontificate in honour of the Vollendorn line and their pious support of Va-faith and the Way of the Flow through the cen turies. Officially, my job will be to look at the history of the Basalt Throne in order to select the highlights for celebration.”

  “I see.” She shrugged, as if she were only half-convinced. “If Prime Mulhafen doesn’t obtain consent, I will broach the matter with the Regal.”

  “Thank you. Now, with your permission, shall I fetch Peregrine?”

  Peregrine looked around the room full of women, appalled. He felt as clumsy and as unattractive as a turnip in a bowl of perfumed roses. The ladies-in-waiting clustered around him, wanting to know who he was, why he was there, where he came from, and everything else about him and Gerelda. His hands and feet were suddenly larger than normal. He stumbled over the leg of a chair, only saving himself by grabbing the nearest of the ladies by the elbow. A flush of heat rose from his neck to his cheeks.

  At a loss about what to say, knowing he mustn’t betray any secrets, he stuttered and stammered over noncommittal answers. He thought he detected disapproval and suspicion.

  The aroma of the room overwhelmed him; not of the perfumes, but of scents he did not recognise. Tangy smells, pleasant but not sweet. When he glimpsed a lady with a pomander dangling from her wrist, he knew he was smelling spices that supposedly prevented the plague.

  Still they hounded him with questions. “You’ve come from the Pontifect?”

  “You’re not Lowmian, are you?”

  “Where do you come from?”

  “Why did the Pontifect send a boy like you here?”

  Flustered, he said, “I was born in Sistia.”

  The old lady stepped forward then. “Leave the lad alone! Where are all your manners, plaguing him so?”

  The other women quietened in deference to her and he breathed a sigh of relief, thinking the interrogation would stop. He was wrong. The old lady was more subtle, but just as probing. Worse, he had the idea her interest was not just curiosity. She was suspicious. Tongue-tied, in the end he said nothing at all.

  When he finally heard Gerelda’s voice from the doorway asking for his presence, he bolted to he
r side and happily shut the door behind him as he left the room.

  “We want you to give your attention to the baby in the cradle,” Gerelda said, “and tell us what your witchery feels.”

  This was the moment he’d been dreading. Ever since he had entered the castle, he’d deliberately blocked his witchery from his thoughts, determined to feel nothing of the black smutch, even if it was there, until he was asked.

  She led him forward to the crib and he looked down at the sleeping child wrapped in soft wool blankets and lace, fabrics so delicate and beautiful he felt it would have been sacrilege to touch them. He lowered all his barriers and reached out with his witchery sense.

  For a sliver of time, this was just a baby, smelling of milk and lavender, the picture of contentment. Then he felt it, the tendril of contamination, of foulness. It was the most delicate of touches, nothing comparable to the foul heat of pitch-men, or to the deep darkness of Valerian Fox. This was just the merest breath of pitch, the softest of hints that all was not well. For one horrible moment, he was aware of a slurring, a warping, a twisting of innocence, and then it was gone. The child was just a baby, nothing more.

  He drew in a shuddering breath.

  “Well?” the Regala snapped. “What do you see?”

  He shot a desperate glance at Gerelda.

  “The truth, Perie,” she said.

  “There–there is s-s-something. Something not right. A touch of pitch buried deep, not yet awoken. B-b-but it is there. I am sorry, Your Grace.”

  For a moment he thought the Regala might faint. She gripped the edge of the cradle tightly, her eyes closed. Then she snapped them open and her gaze switched from him to Gerelda and back again, a look filled with terrible rage.

  He took a step back. Gerelda clutched his shoulder in warning.

  “Is he one of the devil-kin?” the Regala asked.

  He quailed before her. “I d-don’t know anything about devil-kin. I’ve never met one. All I can say is that he has a shadow within him. B-b-but right now, he’s just a baby.”

  For a long moment, no one spoke. He held his breath, waiting… for what? He wasn’t sure.

  The Regala’s grip on the cradle had slackened, but there was nothing relaxed about her. She stood, deep in thought for several minutes and neither of them was brave enough to interrupt her thoughts.

  When she did straighten and stand back from the cradle, her eyes glittered with an intensity he found unsettling. Regala Mathilda may have been young, but when he looked at her he was afraid.

  She said, switching her penetrating gaze from one to the other, “You hold the safety of my son, the security of the heir of the Basalt Throne in your keeping. One careless word from either of you could mean his death. So there is one thing I wish you to know: if my son suffers because you tell the wrong person or people of what you have seen or heard here today, I personally will see to it that you are locked in a cell under the ground with the rats, in the dark, for the rest of your lives. That is my promise to both of you.”

  The coldness with which she spoke sent shivers down his spine. She meant every word.

  She continued, “Agent Gerelda, I will see to it that you have whatever you require to help you. You must be careful. If anyone suspects the kind of research you are doing, they may wonder about things that are better not wondered about. Do you understand me? The librarian answers not to me, but to the Regal and his advisers. So remember what I said. And believe me when I say I will stop at nothing when it comes to the welfare of my son. Nothing.” She switched her gaze from Gerelda to Peregrine. “Remember my promise. I can make you regret the day you were born.”

  Peregrine only just managed to stop himself from shivering.

  16

  Breaking the Spell

  Captain Lustgrader, seated at his desk in his cabin, sighed and turned his head to stare out of the stern window that ran lengthwise above his bunk. The view included the Regal’s galleon, Sentinel, anchored on a sea as flat as bathwater.

  That afternoon, the winds had been contrary as the ships beat their way through the scattered outer islands, the so-called Calves of Karradar, only to drop away to nothing once the fleet slipped into the leeward shelter of the largest of these islands. The sudden calm had ensured that none had reached the port anchorage closer to the shore. Four of the ships, including the galleon with its array of cannon, now rode at anchor several miles short of Port Karradar on the main island, Bull Karradar. The fifth ship, the ageing carrack Spice Dragon, was out of sight, doubtless becalmed somewhere among the Calves.

  The first time Lustgrader had come to Karradar, he’d thought the islands had been named after cattle. Now he knew better; they referred to the basking bull seals and their offspring strewn like sea-washed boulders along the islands’ many beaches.

  As he gazed outwards, seabirds skimmed by, hunting scraps. A diverse array of boats clustered around the stern of Sentinel with all the busyness of water beetles on a pond. Lustgrader pursed his lips in distaste. Leprous lot of scum, trying to sell their cloyingly syrupy fruit and their poxy light-skirt women. Va, how he hated foreign ports! He heaved a sigh, knowing that keeping sailors away from such evils was a well-nigh useless endeavour.

  In the morning, if there was a wind, he would signal for the pilot to come and guide all of them into a safer port anchorage. Once there, he would organise the revictualling of the fleet and some shore leave for the crews. No captain could keep seamen on board when there were grog houses and brothels and gambling dens within sight. Port Karradar was lawless and Va-less and far too foreign for his liking, full of Pashalin traders, lascar seamen and Ardronese pirates. The lookout had already told him there was at least one Ardronese ship at anchor. Va grant that it didn’t belong to that bastard privateer Lord Juster Dornbeck, that botch of nature, with his fancy clothes and flamboyance.

  He glanced down at the desk again, where the bambu lay, corked and sealed. It had been four days since he’d opened it, an effort of will that had kept him on his knees in prayer for hours each day. He shuddered just recalling how he’d had to wrestle his addiction to arrive at this small amount of detachment. He bit down on his lip, hard, until blood ran down his chin. He revelled in the pain. It gave him back his independence, his rationality.

  It’s time. I have to get rid of this poison. I can do it now. I must.

  It would be easier once the plume was not on the ship any more, and–if he was correct in his logic–he’d worked out just how to rid himself of its compulsion altogether.

  You wait, Reed Heron. My revenge on you and that whore and her baby is about to begin. You’re a dead man. You’ll rue the day you came on board my ship.

  “Mynster Bachold!” he called.

  By the time the young seaman on duty outside his door entered, Lustgrader had composed himself and was reaching for his hat. “Mynster Bachold, tell the bo’sun to ready the pinnace. I wish to visit Sentinel. Ask Mynster Tolbun to run up the signal flags.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  With the bambu wrapped in a piece of canvas tucked under one arm and the Regal’s letter in his hand, he made his way up on to the main deck. The sun was already low to the horizon, yet it was still sweltering hot. He ran a finger around his wilting starched collar, feeling the discomfort of the humidity. Midden heap of a place; he couldn’t wait to leave.

  While the seamen prepared the pinnace for launching, he looked to see if Reed Heron was on deck. Just thinking of the man made his heart beat faster and his stomach lurch queasily. Who was he, this factor, that he used such Va-forsaken sorcery? He ought to have had the man keel-raked or have ordered him thrown overboard en route to Karradar; instead he obeyed Heron like an obedient hound fawning before its master.

  The man wasn’t on deck, thank Va. He breathed a little easier and groped for his kerchief to mop his forehead. Pain in his chest nagged at him, begging him to stay on board the boat. One part of him wanted to think about the Va-forsaken feather, the same part that desperately w
anted to look at it again, to stroke its colours…

  He forced himself instead to watch the signal flags being hoisted up the mast of Sentinel, acceding to his request to come aboard. When the pinnace was ready, he climbed down the pilot steps so he could be rowed across a glassy sea to the escort galleon, the bambu a lead weight under his arm.

  Once on board the Regal’s ship, he pried his thoughts from the plume and focused instead on climbing on to the deck, on greeting Captain Russmon, on being escorted to the captain’s cabin, on accepting a tot of banana brandy, freshly bought from a bumboat.

  With the conversational preliminaries out of the way, Russmon remarked, “I have the cook working on this evening’s meal, using some local fresh victuals. Would the Commander honour me by agreeing to grace our wardroom for dinner?”

  “It would be my pleasure to try the culinary skills of someone other than my present cook. Most uninspired fellow; everything he cooks tastes the same. However, cadging a meal was not my purpose. I have more serious matters that need some discussion. Did you, by any chance, have a communication from His Grace, the Regal, just before we sailed from Ustgrind? Concerning the procurement of feathers of paradise birds?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes. I found the subject puzzling, because I wouldn’t have thought they were more valuable than spices, yet that is what the letter seems to imply.”

  “Ours is not to question.”

  “No, of course not. I would not presume to do so.”

  Lustgrader held up the bambu, still wrapped in canvas. “That letter put me in a position of some embarrassment, because I already had such a plume in my possession. It was given to me by a factor of the Company. Of course, I did not read His Grace’s letter until we had already sailed. I have decided it is best that I give this feather into your keeping, as it now belongs to the Basalt Throne. By relinquishing it to you as the Regal’s representative in this fleet, I hope to make it quite clear that I no longer make any claim to the ownership of this plume. Just to avoid any awkwardness, you understand. Would you please accept it in the name of the Regal and thereby witness that it is no longer my property?”