The Dagger's Path

by Glenda Larke

  She didn’t waste time asking him why, or what he was thinking of doing; she just nodded, picked up Piper and left.

  He liked that about her. Sweet Va, there was so much he liked about her…

  He fumbled for the leather thong around his neck, on which he’d hung his piece of carved bambu. Easing the stopper open, he sheltered the contents from the wind, then teased out one of the barbs before restoppering the others safely inside the bambu. He looked up into the sky. There was only one bird nearby, a sea-eagle. It was ideal–a strong flier with sharp eyesight.

  Closing his eyes, he tried to remember the words the unseen guardian of the Chervil Shrine had planted in his head, the day he’d been given a witchery. All creation is one entity. You, the land and the sea–you know in your heart they are all one, and therein lies duty and power and salvation. You will surrender your will, again and again. It is a harder road than you ever dreamed.

  Sorrel returned without Piper and gave him the fish, then disappeared to find the other items. The sea-eagle spiralled down in lazy circles in answer to his call, to land on the bulwarks as he sent soothing thoughts its way. The swabbie on deck cleaning the scuppers shook his head in disbelief.

  He approached the bird slowly and laid the fish down next to its foot. It accepted the offering, anchored it with its claws and began to tear at the carcass.

  The bird showed no fear as it ate, and no interest in him. He glanced down at the wisp of feather he held, and tried to think how he could use it to enhance and awaken more of a connection to the eagle.

  Sorrel returned with the remainder of items he’d wanted. Leaving the bird to eat its fill, he wrote a note to Ardhi. Then, needing both hands, he put the shaft of the barb into his mouth while he folded the note tight and wrapped it with twine. As the eagle finished the fish, he sent calming thoughts its way and reached out to tie the string to the bird’s leg.

  “Be careful,” Sorrel said, eyeing the bird nervously.

  As he bent his head down to see what he was doing, he knew the cruel curve of its upper mandible could rip his eye out in a blink. Starve your imagination, you scaremonger. He tugged the string to see if it would hold and ran a fingernail under it to make sure it wasn’t uncomfortably tight. He was just straightening up when the bird made a sudden lunge at the feather barb.

  Instinctively, he tightened his jaw.

  The bird nipped the feather in two. He jerked back, gasping, choked on the small piece in his mouth and swallowed. Wings flapped, powerful, beating the air around him. He closed his eyes and swallowed again. Sorrel shrieked. He opened his eyes.

  The sea was rushing past, several paces under him. He tilted sideways, and so did the horizon. Sunshine sparkled. Images flashed into his eye like lightning, as detailed as brush strokes on a painting. Disoriented, he wanted to vomit. Tried to call out, but no sound came. Smells overwhelmed. Water, salt, wetness, fish, nutmeg blossom, wet sand, damp forest, seaweed, feathers. Sounds: the rush of air in his ears, through his feathers…

  He didn’t have feathers.

  Did he?

  His feet weren’t on the deck. He couldn’t feel the deck. He was suspended in air.

  He started to scream, but most of the sound was all in his head.

  43

  Saker and the Eagle

  Sorrel, shocked, leant over Saker. He was lying on the deck, staring up at her in horror.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head.

  “You swallowed part of the barb. Perhaps you should try to cough it up…”

  He shook his head again, without opening his eyes.

  She looked up to watch the eagle in the sky. She’d seen it beating its wings to avoid dropping into the water; now it had found rising air and was beginning to circle, higher with every circuit.

  “Shall I fetch the cap’n?” Banstel asked. He wasn’t the only one who’d come to her aid when Saker had screamed and collapsed. She was surrounded by concerned faces.

  “Please. And bring Saker a drink of water.”

  She lifted his head onto her lap. His breathing was normal, but his face looked bloodless. She held his hand, touched his cheek, spoke to him. He didn’t react.

  When Lord Juster came, she told him what had happened and he ordered Saker carried into his stateroom. Once there, he sent everyone away except the three of them and shut the door.

  “Let me get this straight. He swallowed a part of one of these magical plumes?”

  “Yes, and so did the eagle. I think–we don’t always have much say in… in what the magic does.”

  “What do you think happened?”

  Oh, vex it, no matter how I explain this, he won’t like it. She didn’t answer his question. Instead she said, “I think we have to find Ardhi.”

  He groaned. “I thought we’d finally left all this sakti sorcery stuff behind. Are we never to be free of it?”

  With a sinking heart, she realised he’d put his finger on the truth: they would never be free, at least not Saker, not Ardhi, not Mathilda’s twins and not herself either. Hundreds of years in the past an evil man had sown the seeds of a canker, and no one had ever rooted it out.

  “We’re the unlucky ones,” she whispered. “We have to destroy the blight. And we need the sakti to do it. We need Ardhi’s dagger.”

  Juster didn’t reply. He poured brandy into a glass, swallowed a draft as if it were water, then sat on his bunk. He raised Saker’s head and pressed the glass to his lips. “Drink up, my lad. I think you need this.”

  With liquid poured into his throat, Saker spluttered and swallowed. More coughing followed, but at least it had the effect of opening his eyes. He looked at them both, then whispered, “I’m flying. Sorrel, I’m in the air and the sea is… is… way down there. What if I fall? Juster, I’m flying.”

  Juster threw up his hands. “Have you been smoking my supply of Pashali kif?”

  “Find Ardhi,” Sorrel said. “Fly on until you find him, Saker. Give him the note you wrote.”

  “Not you too,” Juster said with a groan. “That’s it. That kif goes into the ocean!”

  Ardhi hated looking at Eka. The man wore an expression so stark, so forged with dislike and contempt, so unbending, it could have been a mask. Luckily, as Eka was at the tiller of the prau, Ardhi could avoid looking at him as the boat skimmed its way through the islands.

  It was the morning after they’d left Bandar Ruanakula. He had no idea where this journey was going to end; he could only hope that the kris would use its sakti to find the other wisps of Raja Wiramulia’s regalia, the ones Saker and Sorrel had. None of this had worked out the way he wanted, but he didn’t see quite how he could have done anything differently.

  It was about two hours after dawn, and they were still hours away from being able to intercept the route of Golden Petrel. One of the helang laut, the eagle fisher-kings of the air, appeared overhead. It spiralled down with the boat at its centre, casually moving no more than a feather or two to alter direction. Ardhi watched it and wondered. When the blade of the kris moved in his hand, he knew there was sakti involved. He held the kris up into the air in full view.

  “Halt the boat,” he ordered.

  Wordlessly, Eka swung the tiller over to spill air from the sail, and the boat slowed.

  “Just sit quietly,” he said.

  The bird made one pass over the prau just above the mast. He watched it, gazed into its unblinking eye. On its next pass, it extended its powerful legs, dipped lower than the boat so that its wingtips almost brushed the water, then rose slightly, reaching forward with its feet. Its momentum hauled its body upward until it gripped the gunwale and stood erect. It ruffled its wing feathers into a neat fold at its back and eyed Ardhi. Eka’s friends, wide-eyed, scrambled out of the way.

  The glare was uncanny. It sent a shiver through Ardhi, raised the hair on his arms.

  “It’s got something on its leg,” Eka whispered. He had stayed at the tiller
, refusing to show any fear, but his voice quavered anyway.

  Ardhi wrenched his gaze away from that penetrating eye. Saker had sent him a note.

  Slowly, taking every care not to startle the bird, he reached out. Using the kris, he cut the twine and retrieved the piece of folded parchment. He read what was written there, then turned to the others to say, “Golden Petrel will meet us at Pantai Emas on Pulau Dena.”

  He looked back at the eagle and shivered. Saker? Shells, he could see Saker in its eyes. “We’ll be there,” he murmured. “Before sunset, if the winds are kind.” He lowered his voice even more. “Courage. The sakti will guide and guard you. I promise.”

  The bird stared, and he wondered if what he read there was not hate. Then, in a human gesture, the sea-eagle nodded and launched itself into the air.

  Skies above, he thought. Where are we going with this? The only thing he knew for certain was that he was leaving Chenderawasi for ever. He would live the rest of his life in the Va-cherished Hemisphere and it would be there that his body would be laid to rest. The thought was devastating.

  Saker had rarely felt so ill. His conscious mind had returned to his own body, but his whole being revolted at what had happened to him. His stomach heaved, but some small part of him was aware he was lying on the bed in Juster’s cabin, so he strove to quell the nausea.

  Certainty flooded his mind, unwelcome, horrifying. It will happen again.

  He sat up on the edge of the bunk to face the two people staring at him. Sorrel, who had been kneeling beside the bunk and holding his hand, quickly let go and stood up. Juster didn’t move. He was leaning against the closed cabin door, arms folded, looking thoroughly annoyed.

  “What the blistering blazes are you up to, Saker?” he asked.

  “Sorry, my lord,” Saker said, deliberately formal. “I didn’t ask for this. And I’m afraid you have a rendezvous to make, in order to pick up Ardhi.”

  “I can’t think of a single reason why I should do that.”

  “Because if you don’t, something worse may happen to your ship.”

  Juster raised an incredulous eyebrow. “Are you threatening me?”

  “No, of course not! You know me better than that. It’s a warning. Juster, I’m sorry, but this sakti–Chenderawasi witchery–has a nasty way of making things happen to achieve its ends. Believe me, I know that first-hand. I’ve just been flying around in the head of a bird. Have you any idea how–how petrifyingly scary that was?” He drew in a calming breath. “Please delay our journey long enough to find and bring Ardhi on board. If you do, I suspect you’ll have a great deal of good luck thereafter, at least with anything to do with natural forces. Such as the wind.”

  There was a long silence, while Juster considered his words. In the end he said merely, “Are you prepared to swear that this sakti is not innately dangerous to the Va-cherished Hemisphere?”

  “Yes, I am. We have to achieve a–a union of the magic of two hemispheres, because if we don’t, we will lack the weapon we need to fight something evil.”

  “Surely we can manage to defend our own interests—” Juster began.

  He interrupted, “Can we? Prime Valerian Fox is tapping into a rather nasty form of magic. He is already undermining the Shenat and their shrines.”

  “On top of that,” Sorrel added, “there’s so much happening in Lowmeer that is… sick. Regal Vilmar had first-hand experience of Chenderawasi plumes, and instead of acknowledging that anything that powerful is best left alone, he sent Lustgrader’s fleet to bring back as many as they could. And that’s just a start.”

  Juster tensed as he looked from her to Saker and back again. “Go on.”

  “The heir to the Basalt Throne is probably Fox’s son, inheriting his sorcerous blood. Imagine a sorcerer having the power of a monarch.”

  A fleeting expression of horror crossed his face. “What makes you think that?”

  “The sakti of the Rani identified Piper as inheriting the blood of a sorcerer. The Prince-regal is her twin.”

  Juster swore richly.

  “There’s also another point of view to be considered,” Saker added. “If Lowmians prevail in this hemisphere, the Chenderawasi will have to fight to maintain their—” he hunted for the right words “—way of living, their right to live that life as they want. The plumes are an integral part of their life and their witchery. The Lowmians want to own that part, and they don’t care how they attain it. Fortunately, I think we–the Chenderawasi and us–have thwarted that ambition for the time being. But we have more to do.”

  Juster winced and began to count on his fingers. “One, stop Fox. Two, stop the Lowmians in the Va-forsaken Hemisphere. Three, ensure that whoever sits on the Lowmian throne is not a sorcerer. Are you sure that’s all?”

  “That about sums it up,” he agreed.

  Juster sat down abruptly on the wooden trunk next to the bed and sank his head into his hands. “Well, that’s simple then, isn’t it? The three of us, and Ardhi. We can do that with our eyes closed.”

  They exchanged looks.

  “There’s Fritillary Reedling, too,” Saker said.

  “And Mathilda,” Sorrel added.

  “Prince Ryce?” Saker suggested.

  Juster rolled his eyes. “A privateer with one ship, a disgraced witan and some birds, a woman with a glamour, a middle-aged female Pontifect, a lascar with a dagger, a spoiled brat of a princess with an interest in putting a sorcerer’s child on the throne and an ineffective prince. Yes, we shouldn’t have any trouble saving the world, should we?”

  Neither of them could think of anything to say.

  Juster groaned. “Sweet Va, we have a sorcerer’s child on board! What the slumbering beggary did I ever do to deserve all this?”

  Saker opened his mouth to reply.

  “Don’t you dare answer that, witan,” Juster said.

  “All right, I won’t. Right now, all you need to decide is whether to pick up Ardhi, or not.”

  Juster snorted. “Leak on you, Saker.” He stood up, frowning as if his head ached. “Where do we find this confounded lascar?”

  44

  The Smutch in the Sky

  “Someone to see you.” Barden, leaning on his walking stick, fixed Fritillary Reedling with an unrelenting stare telling her that whoever it was, this was someone she had better not refuse to see.

  She leant back in her chair, stretching her aching back. On the desk in front of her were two piles of reports, one heap already perused, the other higher one as yet unexamined. All of it depressing. The Horned Death outbreaks continuing, the Primordials still throwing stones at clerics affiliated to chapels, Prime Valerian Fox’s power now unassailable in Ardrone, King Edwayn ill and blind, Prince Ryce and his family holed up in a castle, the Lowmian court in turmoil as the Regala argued with her councillors–and worst of all, increasing numbers of fools joining the Grey Lancers, as they had become known.

  She looked up at Barden. “I hope whoever it is has good news,” she said.

  “I doubt it. He says his name is Lord Herelt Deremer.”

  She sat without speaking, incapable of movement, her only thought being how little she wanted to see him.

  Barden was staring at her, waiting for her reply, so she asked, “Did he say anything else?”

  “No.”

  “Any opinion about him?”

  “He has a fine tailor. Masterful bootmaker, too.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Make him comfortable in the small reception room downstairs. I’ll come down when I am ready, in about an hour. Let’s see how he takes the wait. Have some Staravale port on hand; he used to like it, I remember, although that was a long time ago.”

  “And your guards?”

  “Ah, yes. I don’t think he’ll risk an assassination in the palace, but by all means ask the guards to search him for weapons, then place five of them outside the door. Oh, and send for Agent Brantheld and Peregrine Clary. Do you know where they are?”

  “Proctor Gereld
a did say she was going to check the city defences again over the next few days to make sure the new regimen has been implemented, and Peregrine has been in the Swordsmen’s Guild for training all this month. I should be able to round them up.”

  Once Barden had gone and she could stop the pretence of com posure, she stood and started to pace the room with long angry strides. The very thought of Herelt Deremer aroused her to throbbing rage; she could feel the ire pulsing through her body like too much bad wine. And to think she’d loved the rotten weasel once upon a time. Wholeheartedly too, giving herself over to a passion she’d never felt since. What a giddy-brain she’d been back then!

  Breathe deeply; calm down, you fool.

  Who would have thought he’d turn up here after she’d ignored his call for an alliance?

  Sweet Va, she supposed it would be interesting to see how much Herelt had altered in, what, twenty-five years? He’d been a good-looking man back then.

  But first she needed to calm herself. One thing was for sure: she did not want Lord Herelt Deremer to think the idea of meeting him again had in any way agitated her.

  He was still a handsome man.

  How annoying… They were the same age, but now she looked more like sixty, while–apart from appearing to be fatigued at the moment–he had worn well. Killing babies had not left its permanent mark on his face.

  No, wait. When she looked more closely, it was there, in his eyes. The hardness of a man who had seen too many deaths. Killed too many innocents. A coldness.

  He stood up when she entered, but did not smile.

  She closed the door firmly behind her and crossed the floor towards him. “The years have treated you well, Herelt. Who would have thought I’d be the one to age so poorly! I shall have to take Va to task for injustice, I think.”