The Dagger's Path

by Glenda Larke

  Ardhi wore his own Chenderawasi garb. He was seated in the prow, giving hand signals to Forrest at the tiller as he guided them. Saker didn’t need to see him to know the lascar held himself like a cat gathering itself to pounce: alert, almost crackling with coiled tension, unafraid, so very alive.

  The tenth occupant of the prau was Sorrel. He hated her being there, but he’d been overruled–by Juster, by Ardhi, by Sorrel herself. She sat next to him, calmly composed, her hands folded neatly in her lap. She was dressed as a fisherman too, barefoot, with the kris in its sheath stuck through the cloth belt. When she turned her head to look at him, he thought she smiled as she bent forward to whisper in his ear. “This is for Piper. I feel it in my bones.”

  He bit back the first words that came to his tongue. He’d finally realised–dunce that he was–that his desire to protect her was not only unwanted but annoying. Instead, he closed a hand over hers and said, “Come back safe.”

  “You too.”

  Resisting the urge to say more, he removed his hand and turned to watch Ardhi instead.

  At first, the lascar’s skill in the dark had seemed uncanny, until Saker realised he was using the position of the port leading lights to guide them. They approached head on to Sentinel’s bowsprit, almost invisible to anyone on watch. There wasn’t much wind, and their progress was slow.

  The helmsman, Forrest, had done well. Four days back, he’d never seen a prau, but there wasn’t much anyone could teach him about the wind and the waves and how to coax a craft into doing his bidding. He brought the boat to a gentle halt under the projecting bowsprit.

  They were out of sight of any sailors on the main deck, but were now illuminated by the bow lantern hanging from the bowsprit, and it cast enough light for an alert sailor on one of the other ships of the Lowmian fleet to see them.

  Luck… or bad luck. He tried not to think about that. Sometimes you just had to hope.

  Ardhi seized the rank-smelling rope dangling from the port latrine hole. Even hampered by the bundled rope ladder he carried over his shoulder, he hauled himself up faster than Saker would have thought possible. A moment later he’d altered the position of the bow lantern so that it no longer shone on the prau, and immediately afterwards the rope ladder came snaking downwards into the boat.

  Forrest grabbed the end and hooked it under the boat’s gunwale. Saker climbed up to join Ardhi, clambering from the wooden rungs on to the tiny prow foredeck in front of the forecastle. Here the wall of the crew’s forecastle quarters cut them off from a view of the rest of the ship, but they were standing in the lantern light right where anyone might come to relieve themselves during the night.

  “All’s quiet,” the lascar whispered in his ear. “No one on watch in the bows, no one in the crow’s nest.”

  No sooner were the words out of his mouth than there was a roar close to Saker’s ear, an eruption of sound so loud that he jumped away in panic. His sword was halfway out of its scabbard before he realised the ear-splitting snorts and grunts were just someone snoring on the other side of the forecastle wall.

  Ardhi grinned at him.

  He pulled a face at the lascar before leaning over the bulwark to signal all was well to those in the prau. The next two men up had been selected to deal with the watch. Once they were on deck, all four of them climbed the steps to the forecastle deck. From there they overlooked the waist of the ship to where the aftcastle, topped by the poop deck, sat at the stern of the galleon. Beneath them, the snoring rumbled on, interspersed with grunts and breathy whistles.

  The decks were dimly lit by three brass lanterns. The green and the red of the starboard and port signal lamps did not cast much light, but the stern lamp of clear glass illuminated the poop deck and one of the men on watch. He was leaning on the aft bulwarks, looking out over the bay.

  Ardhi, with his sharp eyesight, was the first to spot the second man on watch, seated on one of the deck cannon amidships. “Diversion,” he whispered.

  Saker nodded. He’d been preparing for this since sunset. Every Lowmian ship now had seagulls quietly perched in the rigging. Focusing on a single bird sleeping on Sentinel’s mizzenmast, he woke it and prompted it to swoop silently over the head of the man on the cannon, close enough to brush his hair with a wingtip. Startled, the man yelped and leapt to his feet. The bird flew up to the poop deck, clipping the head of the second man on watch. It then sat on the taffrail. Both Lowmian sailors turned their heads to stare at it.

  Ardhi and the two sailors ran noiselessly down the steps into the waist of the ship. Ardhi dealt with the man there, wrapping an arm around his head and twisting his neck sharply. The violence was silent, quick and deadly. The others ran on up the steps to the aft deck.

  It was all over in moments. Saker saw the bodies slump, without a sound from either of them. He mouthed a silent prayer for the dead, but didn’t watch while the bodies were tucked away out of sight in the scuppers; he was already retreating back to the foredeck. Leaning over the bulwarks, he signalled for the rest of the men and Sorrel to climb up on to Sentinel.

  Sorrel had practised climbing a rope ladder on Golden Petrel, and she scrambled over the bulwark with nothing more than his helping hand under her arm. He led her up on to the forecastle deck, where she took Ardhi’s kris out of its sheath and placed it on the palm of her hand. The golden threads in the blade writhed and glowed.

  One by one, the remaining three sailors from Golden Petrel passed them. The last man carried the rope ladder. They joined the others amidships and Ardhi led them down the aft companionway to find the sail locker.

  Sorrel remained unmoving until the dagger turned on her palm of its own volition. It pointed towards the stern, telling them the plumes were somewhere in the officers’ quarters. Her form shifted, quavering. She faded out around the edges, rather like water soaking into something porous as she glamoured herself. She could never entirely hide from him, but even so this uncanny ability to change before his eyes unsettled him.

  She descended to the waist of the ship, the kris pointing her unwaveringly aft. He followed, but not closely. Her safety lay in her glamour, not with him. His job was to nip any problems topside before they roused the whole ship. From now on, she was on her own.

  He watched her halt for a moment to hook open the door that led from the main deck into the officers’ quarters before disappearing inside. He could still see the glow of the dagger lighting her way, and then that, too, vanished.

  On deck, except for the snoring in the forecastle, all was quiet. Eerily so, considering all that was happening. No one was hailing them from any of the other ships of the fleet. No one had noticed the absence of the two dead men. No one had noticed the presence of the prau.

  Maybe Va was on their side. Or was that a presumptuous assumption? Blister it, Saker; you think a hanged sight too much!

  There was still another hour to go before the next change of watch when the dead men would be missed. By that time they’d all be gone and the ship would be on fire–or they’d all be down in the brig.

  Time crawled by.

  No sound came from the officers’ quarters. Nothing from below, either. He’d hear the capstan when they started it up, wouldn’t he? But no, nothing bar the lapping of waves against the hull, the half-hearted rustling of a flag at the masthead, the soft creaking of timber as the ship moved in the gentle breeze, the uneven grunts and squawks of the snoring sailor.

  Va, how long should he wait before he started to worry?

  They’d agreed that the first step was for Ardhi and the sailors to locate the sails and load up the platform, but that they wouldn’t start the capstan until Sorrel had a full ten minutes on board to find and retrieve the plumes. But who was to say when ten minutes had passed? None of them had a clock.

  There: a sound from below decks, a rumble. Not the capstan, though. It was the sound of a gun carriage being wheeled away from its pos ition in front of a gunport on the deck immediately above the orlop. He winced, waiting for
someone to hear, to come to investigate. He flattened himself deep into the shadows close to the door Sorrel had entered.

  Nothing. No alarm, no sound of anyone hearing something amiss and coming to look.

  Another sound, fainter this time. The creak of an opening of the gunport, or of someone fumbling as they propped it open. That was Juster’s cue to paddle the prau to the hull on the port beam, ready to receive the stolen canvas, so Saker wasn’t surprised to hear a faint splash from the port side a moment later. Still no reaction from any of the sleeping crew of Sentinel. Nonetheless, every sound rang in his ears like the retort of an arquebus.

  You’re as skittish as a colt in a thunderstorm…

  Maybe the ear-splitting intermittent snoring was Va-sent. If the men were used to sleeping through that, then softer sounds would be ignored.

  Sorrel, hurry up!

  And then it began: the rumble of a small capstan turning. A steady sound, not something to waken a man in a panic, but for a man already awake? Another matter entirely, surely!

  His sword slid from its scabbard into his hand. He tensed, waiting for the alarm to be raised.

  Nothing happened.

  The capstan halted. Everything fell quiet. He was just beginning to breathe again, when he heard the squeak of a door, or perhaps a hatch cover. Men speaking. Not from the officers’ quarters, but somewhere in the bows.

  Oh, pox, whatever you do, don’t start up the capstan again…

  He ran quickly across the midships and up the steps to the forecastle deck. He saw no one, but could still hear the voices.

  “Tell you what it was: old Pult and his blasted snoring. That’s what you heared!”

  “Him? I wake up when he stops snoring!”

  He expelled the breath he’d been holding. It was just two men on the foredeck, peeing into the bay. Nothing to worry about–yet. Perhaps it had been the sound of the capstan that had woken them, but they hadn’t realised it. Even as he listened, they returned to their quarters. The snoring continued unabated. He stood still until he heard a door close and was certain the men had returned to their hammocks.

  When he moved again, it was to look over the bulwarks. By the faint red glow cast by the port lantern, he saw the boat nestling close to the hull. A bundle of canvas was being lowered into the stern from the open gunport directly overhead.

  But where was Sorrel? There was no sign of her!

  He turned away and started down the steps to midships, just as Ardhi appeared at the top of the aft companionway, on schedule to tell him they were all ready to leave Sentinel. Which meant two shrapnel balls had already been set with their slow burning fuses. They had less than ten minutes to leave the ship before it blew up.

  He’d no sooner had that thought than deep within the bowels of the vessel the world changed. One moment he was raising his hand to acknowledge Ardhi, the next he was cartwheeling through the air, struck by a rush of wind so strong it was a solid blow to his body. Light blinded him. Heat shrivelled his skin. Noise burst in his ears, bruising rather than being heard.

  Va-damn, he thought. I’m dead.

  33

  The Death of Sentinel

  When Sorrel left Saker, she was glad he didn’t follow her. He had to learn she could and would care for herself. It was time he acknowledged that her glamour was her protection and that she had become more and more skilled in its use as time went by.

  I can do this, she thought.

  It was even darker away from the open deck, but the glow emanating from the dagger, although faint, was sufficient. Four doorways led off the companionway, one on either side and two at the end. The dagger guided her to one of the end doors. Someone was lying on the floor in front of it.

  You are not visible. You are just part of the wooden panelling. You cannot be seen…

  She padded up to the recumbent shape, trying not to wonder if the dagger’s light was glamoured into invisibility too. In the end, it didn’t matter. The person on the floor was a lad of twelve or thirteen, and he was sound asleep. A ship’s boy, she guessed. Indignation welled up inside her; what kind of a man demanded that a lad sleep on boards like this, just to be at his beck and call in the middle of the night?

  Resigning herself to the necessity of stepping over him in order to enter the room, she reached out to unlatch the door. Only then did she notice there was a line of light showing underneath it. It was hardly likely anyone would have fallen asleep with a lamp or candle lit; she knew enough now about shipboard life to know no one was careless with a flame.

  She stood still, listening. Nothing. No snoring, no deep breathing, no sound of movement. She didn’t have time to waste. With precise, careful movements, she lifted the latch on the door and eased it partially open. She stepped over the sleeping lad, but halted in the doorway.

  The part of the room she could see was compactly furnished, every inch put to good purpose. A braided dress-coat and a loden cloak hung on the wall to her right, with the tricorne hat of a naval captain on top. A sea chest occupied the floor space beneath. A sword belt, scabbard and sheathed sword lay on the lid. Next to the chest, a washstand was bolted to the wall, holding a basin, jug and wooden shaving-kit box in its recessed niches. On the stern wall the bunk, neatly made up, ran the length of the cabin under the aft window.

  She paused, then pushed the door open further. No reaction. No movement, no sound, no angry voice demanding who was there.

  Nothing happened.

  Glancing down at the kris on her palm, she saw the blade pointed to the area behind the half-opened door. Behind her the sleeping lad had not stirred.

  She didn’t push the door any further open. Instead, she leaned forward to look around it.

  The source of light was a brass lantern hanging from the ceiling. On the far wall of the cabin there was a desk and chair. A man, presumably the captain, was seated there in his shirt sleeves, his back to her. All his focus was on what he was holding with gloved hands.

  The plumes.

  Four of them, gorgeous, luxuriant billows of colour and movement and shifting light. They flooded the cabin with the power of their attraction, their fascination. It was an effort to think, to tear her gaze away.

  How was she ever going to seize them and escape?

  Stay calm, that’s the first thing. She stepped inside, reached behind her and gently closed the door. Breathing deep, she checked her glamour, relaxing to ease its blending into the new surroundings. She looked down at the kris, but it was just a dagger lying on her palm. Even the glow had faded.

  The captain did not turn. He just held the plumes and gazed at them, enraptured. The two pieces of bambu were on the desk. She was barely two full paces away; unlike Juster’s spacious cabin, this one was tiny and cramped.

  She ran choices through her head.

  Seize the plumes, forget the bambu, and run. Once out on the deck, Saker could fight for her while she ran down to the opened gunport. The rope ladder would be there for her to reach the prau. But how would she break the captain’s hold on the plumes? If she ripped them out of his hands, she might break the shafts. If she touched the captain, he might realise he was being tackled by a real person, not an apparition. He might see through her glamour.

  Hit him over the head with something first? She looked around to find a weapon. There was nothing useful, except the sword, a chamber pot and the shaving box. She cursed the austere frugality of Lowmian culture.

  Run him through with the sword. Or the dagger. Definitely a better solution than hitting him with a shaving box. Except she didn’t trust herself to succeed in killing him cleanly and silently. There was that lad outside the door…

  Stop dithering, woman! Use your wits! Deception. What was a glamour but a deception?

  She spoke, in a soft, seductive whisper. “Put them down. They are not for you.”

  He froze, then dropped the plumes and whirled around, almost falling out of his chair. He looked straight through her. Standing, he hesitated and took a pace in
her direction. She side-stepped nimbly, backing up against the bed out of his way and adapting her glamour as she moved. He opened the door and looked out. The ship’s boy was still asleep across the threshold. He closed the door, frowning. For a moment he stood there, looking at the desk.

  She was terrified. The cabin was too small. He could walk straight into her before she could dodge him.

  Returning to his desk, he sat down again. She flattened herself against the wall beside the door, so that if he opened it again, she would be behind it. “Put them away,” she whispered. “Put them back in the bambu.”

  This time he didn’t even look around. “No. They are mine!”

  “They belong to your liege lord. Put them away.”

  “They are so beautiful…”

  “They will bewitch you. Put them away.”

  He sat still, with his back to her, trembling. “Who–who are you?”

  “A servant of Va, who commands you.”

  “I can’t see you.”

  She adjusted her glamour. “Then look.”

  He turned. This time he saw a woman, ethereal, fascinating, demurely clad in Lowmian clothing but, or so she hoped, so beautiful her beauty would appear otherworldly.

  He stared, jaw dropping. She changed the glamour again, fading the image into the wall behind her, vanishing before his eyes.

  “Put the plumes away,” she whispered. “Leave them inside the bambu on your desk and go to sleep. All will be well.”

  He was weeping now and trembling like a leaf.

  Va, I hate this.

  Still he didn’t move.

  Are my ten minutes up? Move, you clay-brained man!

  Any more of this and she’d be the one trembling. She clasped the kris in her hand, ready to stab him if he didn’t move to obey her.

  “Yes,” he murmured. “Yes, lady.” He turned away and picked up the larger of the two sticks of bambu.

  Va, he was so slow!