The Dagger's Path

by Glenda Larke

  Saker scanned the deck. No Sorrel, no Ardhi. He looked for the ship’s boy, Banstel, who might have been able to tell him what had happened to Sorrel, but couldn’t see him either.

  Where in all the wide ocean is that wretched lascar?

  He thought of dashing for the rail and plunging into the sea. But how long would he live with his hands tied behind his back? He could swim, and swim well, but he didn’t like his chances of escaping when there was a whole shipload of men armed with muskets and cannons, not to mention boats, that could be sent after him.

  Instead, he reached out for his witchery and began to call the birds. Surprise surged through him at the sheer number that answered. A rich abundance of avian thoughts whirled in his mind. He steadied himself, focused his mind to single out the seabirds, to call them with gentle persuasion. He was aware of huge wingspans tilting, tails turning like rudders. Water slipped from slick backs as diving birds rose to the surface in answer. Flocks of pipers roosting on the shore lifted their heads in unison in answer to his summons and took off in swirling assemblies. Sea eagles, skimmers, petrels, lumbering pelicans, elegant terns, argumentative sea gulls, those he couldn’t name and had never seen: he called them all.

  He bade them fly high into the sky overhead the ship. He felt their initial resistance to his call, and coaxed them to acquiescence. Some, curious, came to investigate with only a little prompting; a few came gladly, with a sense of comradeship. For a disconcerting sliver of time he viewed the world through their alien thoughts, feeling the wind through their feathers. No one appeared to have noticed the birds gathering far above, and he did not look up.

  Seamen beside him prepared the hempen cordage for keel-raking. He strove in vain for detachment. They were manipulating the rope under the keel of the ship so that it could be let down on one side and hauled up on the other–with him tied in the middle. At least they were planning to haul him across the ship, not lengthwise.

  He took a deep breath. He needed to stay calm and plan because he was certain of one thing: if he was keel-raked, he would die, one way or another. Which meant he had to act first. What he didn’t know was how to free his hands so he could swim properly, or how he was going to get from the ship to shore by swimming anyway, not when he could be so easily seen from the deck of Spice Winds.

  Confound the clear waters of this bay!

  He closed his eyes, focused his thoughts.

  When he opened his eyes again, he knew if he lived through this it would be because of trust. He had to trust Va, trust the Chenderawasi magic. Trust the kris.

  He looked up, and there, on the yardarm almost directly above his head, was Ardhi.

  19

  The Handmaiden and the Privateer

  Sorrel held out her arms to take Piper from Banstel. Trembling, his eyes wide, the lad surrendered the baby into her care. There was blood everywhere, spattered over Piper, over Banstel, over herself. Piper quietened as soon as she was in her arms again, but her stare was angry. With a defiance that seemed adult to Sorrel, she stuck a bloodied fist into her mouth and sucked.

  Shocked, Sorrel stared at her. The thought that entered her head was unheralded and unwanted.

  Devil-kin.

  Then common sense reasserted itself. A baby sucked her fist for comfort; she was just a babe in arms with no knowledge of right or wrong–or what had just happened in the boat.

  This was no time for megrims. “Head towards that beach on the island over there,” she said, forcing back her nausea.

  He didn’t move from where he was.

  “Please, Banstel.”

  “You-you—You were an animal. Or s-s-something.”

  “No. It was a glamour witchery, that’s all. I’m just a woman with a Va-given witchery and a child, a woman who wants to live long enough to see that child grow up.”

  “What–what are you going to do?”

  “I’m not going to hurt you. I want to dump this fellow Voster on the island. It’s either that, or I kill him right now by throwing him into the sea while he’s still unconscious.”

  “He’s not dead?”

  “Not yet. Will you do as I ask or not?”

  He stared at her and asked again, “Who are you?”

  “Nobody special. I didn’t ask to be aboard Spice Winds. I’ve not harmed anybody.”

  “You killed Fels!”

  “I didn’t have much choice in that. And Captain Lustgrader condemned me to death first. Well, I’m not going to die, not now, and not here. I certainly don’t want to harm you because I’m sure you’re just as innocent as I am. Can you get this boat to the beach?”

  “If–if I help you, the captain’ll have me guts hanging from the yardarm for them mewling gulls to eat.”

  “No one is going to tell him what you did. You can make up any story you like when you get back to the ship. But I can promise you one thing: if you don’t help me, I’ll kill you. And you know why? Because to me, Piper needs to live. And for her, I’ll do anything. Understand?”

  He regarded her, wide-eyed.

  “You’ve seen my witchery. I can kill you.” And I hope you don’t realise I’m bluffing.

  He nodded and capitulated. “I ’ave to fix the sheet so’s I can look after the sail ’n’ the tiller at the same time,” he muttered and scrambled forward to untangle the lines.

  Later, while he sailed the boat towards the tiny little beach between the two rocky promontories, she kept a close eye on the unconscious Voster. When she lifted his eyelid, he didn’t react. His clothing was blood drenched, but the wound on his head was no longer bleeding. Once Banstel had brought the boat up on to the sand, the two of them hauled him out and dragged him further up the beach.

  “You can come back and pick him up again if you want to,” she said. “If he’s still unconscious, he’ll never know exactly what happened to me, or Fels. If he mentions a monster, tell him it was all his imagination because he was hit on the head. Tell him I tried to push Fels out of the boat, and we both fell in and drowned.”

  He looked blank, not understanding.

  “What you are really going to do is take me where I want to go. After that, you can do what you want.”

  The scared look on his face made her feel sick. “Where’s that, mistress?” he asked, barely able to get the words out.

  “To the Ardronese ship anchored in Karradar Bay. Golden Petrel.”

  If anything, his fright deepened at her words. “But–they say that there ship’s a pirate vessel. Wicked man he is, their captain. They say he’s got the evil eye and when he lays his look on you, there’s naught you can do. They say he takes men to his bed, two or three at once. He’s a wicked dog.”

  “You shouldn’t believe everything you hear, especially when it’s other sailors telling you a tale. I’ve met Lord Juster, and I assure you he’s not so very terrible. Now let’s get back to the boat and set sail.”

  His eyes widened. “You met a lord? An Ardronese one? A pirate? But you’re just a nobody!”

  She raised a sharp eyebrow at him. “Everyone is somebody, Banstel. You, me, Lord Juster, everyone. Now, head for Golden Petrel.”

  Lord Juster sat at ease in the wardroom, a tankard in one hand, a plate of tropical fruit in front of him. He was chatting to Finch Aspen, his grizzled and arthritic first mate. Juster was an aristocrat, while Finch had been born in a hovel along a shabby lane on the waterfront of Throssel, incidentals of birth that made little difference to either of them. Finch was deferential on board ship to his captain; on shore, if not on the ship’s business, he regarded himself as an equal to any man, and Juster was wise enough to agree.

  “The crew,” Finch was saying, “don’t like looking across the bay at that Lowmian fleet without being able to do something about them.”

  Juster took a sip of his wine. “I know, I know. Tell them to look the other way. Their time will come, once they have filled their holds with nutmeg.”

  “They mislike the waiting.”

  “Keep
’em busy, Finch.”

  “Them bastards are taunting us, cap’n. Some of their swabbies were onshore last night, mocking our men at the Bickles Tavern. Luckily, old Pegrim got our lot calmed down and out of there before they blew up like a busted cannon, but it won’t last.”

  “Kesleer’s second Spicerie fleet should be here any time,” Juster replied. That fleet had left Ustgrind on its way to the Summer Seas before Golden Petrel had even been completed, and they’d seen no sign of it yet. If he had his calculations right, the Lowmian fleet of three merchant ships would soon be calling in, laden with spices. He grinned. “We’ll be busy then.”

  The Lowmians’ normal route on the way back was to sail direct from Kotabanta to Karradar, bypassing Javenka in Pashalin because the rulers there would tax their cargo. After revictualling in Karradar, Kesleer’s fleet would probably try to sneak out on the tide one night, bound for Ustgrind, and he would follow as soon as the authorities allowed him to sail in pursuit. Karradar law demanded that merchantmen had twelve hours’ start before a privateer was permitted to leave port.

  Juster believed any Lowmian captain, once they realised the speed and the firepower of Golden Petrel, would heave to rather than be blown out of the water. Especially as he had a reputation for generosity to ships prepared to do so. Sinking a trader, or leaving them nothing to show for their voyage, was not in anyone’s interest.

  Before Finch could comment, there was a knock at the door. One of the crew on watch put his head in, saying, “Cap’n, sir, sorry to interrupt, but the watch officer requests your presence on deck.”

  “That’s Grig Cranald,” Finch said.

  “Interesting,” Juster muttered as he rose to his feet. “Not much happens that he can’t handle.” Grig was the third mate and also his willing companion in his bed, with one particularly estimable virtue: he never let his private life interfere with his duties or his adherence to shipboard discipline.

  Up on deck again, Juster was even more puzzled by what he saw. A small sailboat was pulling away from the ship’s side. The name on the transom, painted in the stark, unadorned lettering of the Lowmians, was Spice Winds. A woman was standing on the deck of Golden Petrel, dressed in the blood-spattered togs of a sailor, jogging a howling baby up and down in her arms.

  Juster arched an incredulous eyebrow in the direction of Cranald, signalling his need of a credible explanation.

  “She asked for you by name, sir. Says she knows you,” Cranald said. “Lad in the boat dropped her and made off as fast as a frightened minnow.”

  Juster switched his gaze back to the woman. He didn’t recognise her. “Knows me? I think not, lady.”

  She spoke then, with an authority he hadn’t expected. “Introductions can wait. What is more important is that I lack the wherewithal to feed this child.” Her accent proclaimed her Ardronese; the modulation of her voice told him she was someone of wealth, or standing, or education.

  Juster was intrigued. He turned back to the third mate, who was looking at him expectantly. “Well, Mister Cranald, what are you waiting for? Milk for a baby takes precedence over everything, does it not? Hurry along, man! We have that goat on board; get someone to milk it. And after that, send some men ashore with a handful of coins in search of a wet nurse. There must surely be someone in need of money in Port Karradar who is also in a position to help.”

  An appalled expression flickered across Cranald’s handsome features. “A wet nurse.”

  “Yes.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.” He eyed the nearest swabbie. “You heard the cap’n! Get that goat milked.” He looked back at Juster. “Does it have to be a respectable woman, cap’n?”

  “Indeed she does,” Sorrel said.

  Juster turned back to the woman, amused. “Forgive me, mistress, for my social solecism. I am not accustomed to forgetting a face, especially one as lovely as yours, but alas, I do not recall that we have ever met.”

  “I am sure you can be forgiven. We have never been appropriately introduced, my lord, and you will certainly be unfamiliar with this face, which–although properly mine–is not the one which you encountered previously. You knew me as Celandine Marten, handmaiden to the Lady Mathilda, Princess of Ardrone.”

  Shocked, he cocked his head, searching his memory. And then he had it: the woman who had come to the aid of Saker Rampion during the witan’s court case. She’d spoken up for him. A grey mouse of a woman, demurely dressed, if he remembered correctly. Not this blood-spattered creature clad in a seaman’s culottes and shirt, nor yet a woman with a head of rich dark hair, blue eyes and a face that spoke of strength and determination, not timidity.

  Astonishment robbed him of speech. Was his memory really so poor? And if she was Celandine Marten, what the soused herrings was she doing here?

  “Madam,” he managed finally, “I cannot conceive of any scenario that would adequately explain the words you just voiced. But I have to admit that there is no way I shall ever allow you to disembark from this vessel before I have heard one!” He bowed with an elaborate flourish. “Do you think you could possibly halt the distressingly noisy emanations from that scrap of humanity in your arms long enough for me to hear such a tale?”

  She smiled slightly and, while he watched, her face changed. One moment, she was a grubby, windswept woman of striking appearance; the next she was an unremarkable mousey creature, as undistinguished as a servant one passed by without noticing.

  Oh, beggar me witless. A glamour. He hadn’t come across anyone with a glamour since… oh, since he was a child of ten. There’d been an old man on his uncle’s estate who’d once been a spy for the old King.

  “Ah. Ah, yes, I do remember you,” he said dryly. “I commend you: a picture always tells the story better than words. I still cannot imagine what brings you here, although I’m positive it must be a fascinating account. But please, what can we do to silence the child long enough to have such a conversation?”

  Her glamour lapsed, and she reverted to her more striking appearance. He wondered if that was her true mien; she was certainly more attractive that way.

  She said with a shrug, “I suspect the babe will only quieten when I feed her.” Placing the child against her shoulder, she knelt to rummage around with her free hand in the bundle of clothing that had been deposited on the deck, and emerged a moment later with what looked like a tiny pottery teapot. A baby feeder, he assumed. She rocked the child, but it continued to wail.

  “You are full of surprises, Mistress Marten. Is the child yours?”

  “No. And my real name is Sorrel Redwing.”

  “Should I know it?”

  “Probably not, unless you happened to hear of the unimportant murder of a country landsman by his wife a year or two ago.”

  “Ah.” Once again, she had left him floundering for words. The name was unknown to him, but the story sounded even more fas cinating. “Ah. Well. Yet another intriguing tale to be told one day, but not now, I feel. Come below; this sunshine is not a place for a baby’s soft skin.”

  “Not yet, my lord. There is something I must tell you first.”

  Her tone halted him as effectively as a hold on his arm. He could read it as clearly as words on a page. She was terrified, but not for herself. Nor for the baby either. “Someone is in trouble on Spice Winds, I suppose,” he said. Then he groaned. “Don’t tell me it’s Saker Rampion.”

  It was her turn to be shocked.

  “How… how very astute of you, Lord Juster. Most of that tale can wait. Except you should know that Saker is, or was up to last night, on board Spice Winds. I have every reason to believe he may be in great danger.”

  Juster winced. “That man courts disaster like a wind-rover courts a breeze.”

  “Perhaps. Although I seem to remember a time when it was you who was closer to disaster then he.”

  The smile she gave contained not a little mockery, the minx.

  Just then, the tar who cared for the goats arrived with a mug of milk, so he said, “Allow me
to escort you to my cabin, Mistress Redwing, where you can bribe that child into blessed silence and I can hear myself think while you tell your story.”

  “You are a man of infinite good sense, my lord. I hope I can encourage you to extricate the witan from his present predicament. Although,” she added as they descended the companionway, “he is a resourceful man, with a habit of extricating himself. Still, I’m sure he’d appreciate your assistance.”

  Her effrontery amused him. Dressed as she was, with the blood still unexplained, and with her station in life apparently lowly, she addressed him as if she was an equal. He was beginning to like Sorrel Redwing. A lot.

  She seated herself on his bed under the stern windows and began feeding the baby from the tiny pot with practised ease. Her fearless calm fascinated him. She treated him with all the poise of an aristocratic dowager, reminding him of his formidable grandmother. He was none too sure who would win a confrontation in the unlikely event of such a meeting.

  “As much as I would like to know the full story on what brings you and Saker here,” he began, “I think perhaps we had better deal with first things first. What danger is Saker in?”

  “The captain of Spice Winds sent me off in that boat this morning with several sailors who had instructions to get rid of me in whatever fashion they saw fit. I don’t know what happened to Saker, but I do know that if Captain Lustgrader was prepared to murder me, he would be more than prepared to kill Saker.”

  He digested that with growing wonder. Several sailors? And where, pray, were they now?

  Deciding this was not the time to enquire, he asked instead, “When you left the ship, where was Saker?”

  “In the brig, I believe.”

  “Mistress, I don’t know that I can help. I’m a privateer, and if I were to go over to the Lowmian fleet they might well point a cannon at my boat, and a musket at my head. They certainly wouldn’t answer any questions. And any enquiry by me or my crew could make things worse for Saker, not better.”