The Dagger's Path

by Glenda Larke

  “Tell you one thing, Saker. We are getting out of this port as fast as we can victual and turn the ship around. I’ve already had quite enough of Javenka and we haven’t even set foot on the ground yet.”

  29

  Gerelda and the Dire Sweepers

  As Gerelda hurried along the cobbled laneway near their lodgings late one afternoon, her sopping skirt flopping around her calves like an over-enthusiastic wet puppy, she wondered why she’d once loved this town of Grundorp a scant seven years earlier when she’d been a student.

  Because she’d been in love for the first time? Perhaps. Strange to think of that. She and Saker were friends now in a way that they’d never been then. Then they’d been discovering the joys of nights between the covers and the joy was all encompassing. Nights snatched, in secret and in defiance of university rules which decreed a celibate decorum, had an intensity of pleasure that was hard to find again.

  With weather like this, no wonder we stayed indoors so much.

  A passing cart splashed mud over her boots and skirt and more rain sifted down. Oh, how she wished Lowmian convention allowed her to wear trousers! She stopped for a moment to wrap her cloak more tightly, but no matter what she did, she couldn’t keep the bottom of her skirt dry and her hat was inadequate. She hurried on.

  Above the street, as if to add an extra coating of gloom to the grey weather, bedraggled black drapes of mourning flapped wetly from window poles. They’d been erected in honour of Regal Vilmar, who had died in his sleep several sennights past.

  “Are you Gerelda Brantheld?”

  Startled, she stopped, blinking through the drizzle. It was a man who’d asked: tall, middle years, well-spoken and well-dressed. He moved his right hand slightly to draw his cloak back so that she could see the sword buckled at his side. Blue unsmiling eyes regarded her without expression from below the dripping rim of his hat.

  He wasn’t alone. Two more men were standing behind him, both broad-shouldered fellows clad in the nondescript black of retainers.

  The hair rose on the back of her neck.

  “Who’s asking?” she enquired, wondering if she ought to run. There was no one else nearby and she wasn’t wearing her sword.

  “You don’t know who I am?”

  She looked him over, taking in the polish of his black leather boots on the way. You could tell a lot from a man’s boots. His were well looked after, a good fit; bespoke probably. “No, I can’t say I do,” she said. “Should I?”

  “Yes. I think you should, seeing you’ve been asking a great many questions about me around the university, even researching my family in the library.”

  Hells. “I’ve done a lot of research lately, I fear,” she said, giving him what she hoped was a bright, unworried smile. “If your family is a prominent one, then doubtless I have encountered your name. Could you be more specific, please?”

  He wasn’t amused. “Lord Herelt Deremer.”

  “The Deremers were indeed prominent in early Lowmian history.” And damned secretive after that.

  “I have a carriage waiting.” He indicated the end of the street where a black coach was drawn up.

  Black coach, black horses. Theatrical bastard. He must have given some pre-arranged signal because the equipage began moving towards them.

  “I’d like to take you for a drive.”

  She scanned the street once more. It was growing dark and most people had already headed indoors, except for several pedestrians at the far end. “My mother always counselled against such boldness. We can talk here.”

  “It is raining and I prefer to be comfortable.”

  “I’m rooming right here.” She indicated the building next to where they were standing.

  “I know. And you have a lad waiting for you there. He’s going to have a long wait, I fear.”

  Fob it. She looked up to the window of the room they had rented and thought she saw a face behind the distortion of the cheap glass.

  “He might be better off forgetting he ever met you,” Deremer continued.

  That doesn’t sound good. She thought of running and turned her head slightly to see what his two servants were doing. They had moved close enough to grab her.

  “Don’t think about it,” he said and this time rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. The carriage drew up alongside them and she recognised the Deremer crest on it, carved wood embossed with gold portraying a mythical serpent. One of the retainers opened the door, and Deremer gestured for her to enter.

  She snatched the only chance she had. She dived into the coach, wrenching the door out of the lackey’s hand as she passed to slam it behind her. Leaping through the coach interior, she reached out for the door handle on the other side.

  There wasn’t one.

  She sighed and sank down on to the seat.

  Deremer opened the door once more and climbed in. “I’m not a fool, Lawyer Brantheld,” he said. “It would be a grave mistake on your part to think so. I should also like to point out that your young companion is at the moment free and unmolested. Should you prove recalcitrant, that might change.”

  She inclined her head, but kept silent. Her heart beat uncomfortably fast. The carriage door was closed, leaving them alone, and after a moment they began to move. Leather blinds drawn over the glassless windows made an interior lamp necessary and one had already been lit.

  “Have you nothing to say?” he asked. “Aren’t you interested in where we are going?”

  “If you want me to know, you’ll tell me. If you don’t want me to know, a question won’t help.”

  “True. So let me tell you what I know about you. You are a lawyer and you are employed by the Pontifect. You are particularly interested in the Dire Sweepers, devil-kin, twin births, the Horned Death and the Fox family. And the Deremers, which latter interest is your undoing.”

  Va-damn, is there anything he doesn’t know?

  The carriage rattled over the cobbles and swayed as the horses picked up speed. She listened for anything that would tell her where they were headed, but there was a tiresome monotony to the sound of cobbles under the wheels, and little else to be heard.

  “Your misfortune,” he continued, “is that you have connected my family to the Dire Sweepers.”

  This is becoming worse and worse. “Whatever makes you think that?”

  “I have a lot of spies, and I pay them well. Sometimes years pass, and I never hear anything from a spy. And then…” He made a vague gesture with his hand. “Over the past month I’ve heard a lot about you and your activities at the university, your research in the library, your lad out on the streets listening at corners.”

  “So?”

  “In the past, whenever someone made a connection between the Deremers and the Dire Sweepers, they usually disappeared. For ever.”

  “And nowadays you have conversations instead of murder? How civilised of you!”

  “Oh, make no mistake about it. I’m a killer. We all are, we Sweepers. I assume you know that much. We kill the innocent along with the guilty for the greater good.”

  She said nothing. Inside her stomach was churning. A man who thought the greater good justified any means scared her senseless.

  “Do you know why we did it?” he asked.

  Past tense. Interesting.

  “Because your liege lord asked it of you.”

  “Partly. The Deremers helped Bengorth usurp power. Thanks to the support of a whole line of Regals, my family went from being obscure landholders in Grundorp to being the richest dynasty in the whole of Lowmeer. Thanks to a policy of secrecy and assassination, we are also one of the least well-known. Naturally it has been in our interest to keep the Vollendorns on the throne ever since. But there’s more to it than that, as I’m sure you have found out.”

  “Perhaps. If you are so murderous, why are we talking?”

  “There has been a change of late.”

  Yes, and one you wouldn’t like one little bit. The Regal is dead. You’ve lost your pa
tron and your paymaster, you weasel.

  He was sitting opposite her, leaning back against the soft black leather of the studded upholstery. Now he leaned forward. She resisted an impulse to cringe. He said, “The Regal is dead and a fox has gone mad. I’m sure you’re aware of these things.”

  She didn’t speak. The sound of the wheels changed, rumbling hollow; they must be crossing the Ust River bridge.

  “Do you know what it is like to be raised as I was raised?” he asked. “To know from the time you are ten or twelve that your life’s work is to kill. To murder cleanly and humanely, but without hesitation. To kill babies, one of whom you know is innocent. To kill anyone who knows too much, or finds out too much. I killed my first child when I was thirteen. My induction. Had I failed it, my uncle would have killed me. I followed in illustrious footsteps: my father and uncles, my grandfather, my great-grandfather and his father. Back in a line of Deremers to the time of Regal Bengorth. Murderers all. Men–and women too–who kept a great evil at bay by being efficient killers and spies. If the thought bothers you, think of us as an army, protecting the populace. No different from a real army. We came to terms with killing, just as soldiers must.”

  Beggar me, having heard all this, there’s no way he’s going to let me get out of this carriage alive. “I appreciate your, um, consideration in letting me know why you are going to kill me. You must know lawyers love information.”

  “Not to mention your love of sarcasm?” He looked at her with narrowed eyes, a thoughtful, considering look. “We’re not going to progress far if we aren’t honest with one another. Let me point out first that those men you might think were my servants–the coachmen, those two retainers up on top in the rain–all three are Deremers. All are armed and all are Dire Sweepers who have spent a lifetime in the service of the Regal.”

  “By murdering babies.”

  “Amongst others. What I’m trying to say is this. You cannot escape with your life and freedom unless I wish it. You will die today if I wish it. You have one chance at life.”

  “And that is?”

  “To listen and to be honest.”

  I’m dead. “Go on.”

  He leant back against the upholstery again and was silent. She decided the look in his eyes was more bleak than cold. Herelt Deremer was not a happy man, or even a satisfied one.

  “Let me tell you a story,” he said at last. “At the end, you can tell me if I have my facts right.”

  She inclined her head.

  “I think Regal Vilmar was worried he would die before his son reached the age of discretion. So he confided in his Regala. He told her of Bengorth’s Law. A stupid decision of a man who’d lost his edge and who’d already been behaving oddly, one assumes because of the failing acumen of age.”

  She made a non-committal sound.

  “The Regala was alarmed and sent a message to the Pontifect, perhaps via a handmaiden who disappeared under odd circumstances, or perhaps some other way. It doesn’t matter. The Pontifect sends you to find out what’s going on. At the same time, a small segment of Va-faith clerics do their own investigation.” He tilted his head. “Am I right?”

  She shrugged. “Go on.” At least he doesn’t appear to know about Mathilda’s twins…

  “The Dire Sweepers murdered the clerics, and covered up their activities by blaming their deaths on the Horned Plague. Their academy was burned to the ground, taking with it any proof. What we Sweepers didn’t know then was that Bengorth’s Law had already reached the ears of Fritillary Reedling. A clever and ruthless woman, as I’m sure you know. I have a great respect for her. Did you know we were friends once?”

  Fritillary and the head of the Dire Sweepers? She had a hard time believing that. The muscles in her face hurt as she tried not to show emotion.

  “I believe,” he said, “that she sent you to find the identity of the Dire Sweepers and to kill the Regal.”

  “What?” Astonishment jerked the word out of her.

  “You are surprised that we know? As I said, we have many spies. We know you went to Annusel, the apothecary in Ustgrind Castle, asked and paid for a large amount of a sleeping draught just before you left Ustgrind.”

  “Then you must also know that was a long time before the death of the Regal!” She swallowed back bile as the implications of his accusation seeped through her shock. “I have problems sleeping and I asked for enough to last me a while.”

  “And can you produce some of that now, if we were to look in your room? And I already know the answer to that.”

  The bastard. “I wasn’t in Ustgrind when Regal Vilmar died. I was here. There are plenty of witnesses to that.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you didn’t do it yourself. It had to be someone close to the Regal. The Regala, in fact. Someone who could hand him a drink without his suspecting a thing. And guess who saw the Regala immediately after buying the sleeping draught? Gerelda Brantheld.”

  Mathilda murdered the Regal? And I gave her the means? The murdering bitch! The Pontifect will pin my hide to her door. No, wait. Maybe he’s making this up. Feeling faint, she closed her eyes, but her mind was racing. Unfortunately, it appeared to be racing in too many directions at once. Think: why are we having this conversation?

  Perhaps he wanted her to testify against the Regala in a Lowmian court. Perhaps the Deremers, or Lowmian nobles generally, wanted to control the Prince-regal themselves and rid themselves of an Ardronese Regala. Testify, and then conveniently die.

  “There’s a manservant called Torjen who has his suspicions about the Regal’s death,” he continued. “He has spoken to Prime Mulhafen of his fears. And, of course, we have our spies on the Prime’s staff.”

  Oh, Va. Gerelda, you didn’t guess half of what you should have guessed. She certainly didn’t like the idea that she’d been manipulated by Regala Mathilda. She opened her eyes. “This is ridiculous,” she said.

  “I have you exactly where I want you, Gerelda Brantheld. You could be tortured and executed in a particularly drawn-out and vile manner, alongside the Ardronese Princess, if I so wanted.”

  “Do I detect a note of reluctance?”

  “Perhaps. Suppose you tell me what you know about the so-called Bengorth’s Law.”

  “And if I were to say I know nothing?” Hells, he really has me over a barrel.

  “I wouldn’t believe you,” he said. “No matter. Let me tell you what it is. Bengorth’s Law states that the Vollendorn line will prosper and the land will thrive if the Regal gives A’Va the right to own the body and soul of one of any pair of twins born in Lowmeer.”

  “Have you any idea how ridiculous that sounds?”

  “According to the story handed down in my family, A’Va used to demonstrate his power to regals through one of his devil-kin. Minions. My ancestor, Aben Deremer, saw people killed by supernatural power and was convinced by what he saw, hence my family’s involvement. Bengorth asked him, Aben, to help curtail A’Va’s power by setting up the Dire Sweepers to kill twins.”

  “Thereby denying A’Va his minions. Do you really believe such twaddle?”

  Lord Herelt looked away from her to raise the blind on the carriage window. “It’s still raining,” he remarked.

  She glimpsed the railings of the Ust River bridge before he let the blind drop. That was odd. She could have sworn they had already crossed the river.

  “So, Gerelda, do you have anything to say?”

  “Herelt,” she said, dropping his honorific as he had hers, “if I’d been around in Bengorth’s time, and someone had told me that story, I would have laughed and told them not to be so gullible. Lawyers like statements backed up by facts. Especially when there are supernatural elements. I’m more inclined to believe in sleight of hand than A’Va.”

  “And yet I assume you believe in witcheries.”

  She smiled slightly. “You have me there. But then, I’ve seen proof of witcheries again and again. What do you personally believe is the reality of Bengorth’s Law?”

&
nbsp; “As a child my father took me to see what happened after the devil-kin’s demonstration to Vilmar on the day of his coronation. I saw the remains of the dog forced into a fire by the stare of a devil-kin. Vilmar was shaking like a leaf in the wind, but it wasn’t just his obvious shock that impressed me. It was the awful darkness left behind in that room. I don’t know how to explain it, but believe me, in that moment, I was fully prepared to believe that A’Va existed and that one of his devil-kin had been there. It was like looking into an absence of light and decency. I believed then.”

  Past tense again. “If A’Va is so powerful, how is it that he has allowed the Dire Sweepers to exist, thereby diminishing his potential army of devil-kin?”

  He gave a half-smile.

  “Well, well. You don’t believe in Bengorth’s Law,” she said, certain she was right.

  “Not any more. At least, not in the A’Va component of it. I think it was just a way to fool a long line of regals into not looking hard enough for what was really going on.”

  “So what was going on?” When he didn’t immediately reply, she said, “You still killed twins.” And you scare me more than anyone else I’ve ever met.

  “Devil-kin twins who spread the Horned Death are real. They do have to be stopped. What we didn’t know was the devil-kin were only a small proportion of all twins, that in fact much of the killing we did to stop the spread of the Horned Death was unnecessary. We were fooled into it. It never had anything to do with A’Va.”

  “So where do the Horned Death and the devil-kin come from?”

  “Sorcery.”

  “Does all this sound as bizarre to you as it does to me? Bengorth’s Law makes no sense! It never did.” The coach gave a sudden lurch and she had to put a hand out to stop herself falling sideways. “It makes even less sense to me if A’Va doesn’t exist.”

  He smiled, and she knew then that they had arrived at the point he’d planned for when he’d seized her. He leant forward again, and his voice dropped. She had to strain to hear over the sound of the wheels.

  “I can tell you two things. The Fox who started all this, Ebent Voss, was the instigator of it all. He was the one who prompted Bengorth into seizing the throne and who prodded my ancestor into founding the Dire Sweepers. I know those things because Aben Deremer wrote it all down in our family history. And my family histories also tell me Ebent Voss lived to be a hundred and thirty-eight years old. When he died, the family changed its name. Several hundred years later they started to hint at Shenat origins. I’m not sure why, but it might have had something to do with the fact that the head of the family always seemed to be long-lived.”