The Fall of the Dagger (The Forsaken Lands)

by Glenda Larke

  They all looked at him, and Saker paled. “I can’t say why they did what they did. If they hadn’t, maybe everyone with a witchery would have been murdered by Grey Lancers, and all the oak shrine trees been cut and burned. If that happened, there would never be another witchery granted. That would mean the end of all healing, for a start. Which one of us has never used a healer?”

  “Maybe that’s why healers didn’t hide,” Sorrel said. “They were safe because even Grey Lancers and Fox’s clerics use healers. The lancers wouldn’t want them dead.”

  Saker nodded. “I want to talk to some of the clerics; and another witan if I can.”

  “What is the difference between a witan and a cleric?” Ardhi asked.

  “Well, all witans are clerics, but not all clerics are witans. A witan is always one of Shenat background, with a close connection to the Way of the Oak or the Way of the Flow. Clerics serve in chapels; witans never do. They usually serve rural areas, not chapels.”

  “You were an exception, then?”

  “Decidedly.”

  He looked from Ardhi to Sorrel and back again. “All three of us need to get inside a shrine. We need to talk to a shrine keeper.”

  “Right,” said Juster. “Walk up and knock at an oak tree that isn’t there. And someone will let you in via an entrance that doesn’t exist.”

  “The three of us might just have the right… key,” Saker said. “We won’t know until we try. I just hope we are prepared to pay the price.”

  “Let’s hope for fair winds tonight,” Juster said, shaking his head in disbelief. “I can’t wait to put your theory to the test.”

  10

  Dire Times

  “Lord Herelt Deremer to see you, Your Grace. In the library.”

  Regala Mathilda, who’d been discussing dreary accounting matters with her advisers and lawyers, glanced up at the chamberlain’s words. “I think we are done here, gentlemen.” She waved a hand at the paperwork scattered across the table in front of her. “Take action, as we have just discussed.”

  In fact, there had not been much discussion. She had listened carefully to their opinions and asked numerous questions, after which she made decisions. There had been a time, early in her regency, when they’d argued because they’d assumed that as a woman she was either weak or fickle, not to mention suspect because she was Ardronese. She had gradually refined differing ways of dealing with dissent, each method tailored to undermine the author of the objection. Slowly they had learned the folly of their assumptions – she was neither weak, nor fickle, nor did her loyalty to Lowmeer waver – and they’d also learned the imprudence of dispute if you wanted your career or business to prosper.

  She turned back to the chamberlain. “I shall see Lord Herelt. You may bring him upstairs when these gentlemen have departed.” Nodding towards her ward’s-dame, Lady Friselda Drumveld, she added, “Your ladyship may also leave, as I am sure you are tired, having had to listen to several hours of tedium on financial matters.”

  Lady Friselda stood, wincing as if her backbone objected to the move.

  Just punishment for your past, Mathilda thought uncharitably.

  “The townsfolk won’t like the new tax based on street frontage,” Friselda remarked as the accountants and officials filed out. “And the merchants won’t like the increased tax on imports.”

  “Of course they won’t like it. Taxes are universally despised, but they expect the Basalt Throne to pay the army nonetheless. So far, we have kept the Grey Lancers at bay, but that won’t last unless we have more men, more archers, more cannon, more guns, more gunpowder. Swords and lances and pikes will not win this war.” Not when Fox could turn men into quivering jelly with a few spoken words and his black smutch.

  “We are not at war,” Lady Friselda snapped. “Unlike the rest of the Va-cherished Hemisphere appears to be!”

  “Exactly so. We are not, because we have a well-paid, well-trained army, thanks to the foresight of my late dear husband.” All balderdash, of course. For a start, the preparedness of the army was more her own doing than Vilmar’s, but the heart of their defence had really lain with the Dire Sweepers, Sir Herelt Deremer’s band of armed men, the force once taxed with eliminating the so-called devil-kin twins and the Horned Death. Because of the Sweepers, Fox had not dared to bring the lancers into Lowmeer – not yet, and she intended to keep it that way. Ardrone and the Principalities had not been so fortunate; a long period of peace meant they had not invested in arms or armies.

  “Indeed,” Friselda agreed. “A far-sighted man. Very well, my dear, I will leave you to deal with Lord Deremer. A tiresome fellow. Just make sure that your handmaiden remains with you. We want no gossip, now.”

  With that barbed remark, she sailed from the room.

  “Old witch,” Mathilda muttered.

  “Neither ‘old’ nor ‘witch’ is an insult, my dear. Think of something else if you wish to be derisive.”

  The remark came from the only other person remaining in the room: Sister Genet Bitterling, her present handmaiden, and the third replacement for Sorrel Redwing that the Pontifect Fritillary Reedling had sent her. Sometimes Mathilda wondered at the idiocy of her desperation that had led her to ask Fritillary to place a contact in her royal household, but then her commonsense told her she’d had no choice. At first it was necessary because of her worry over giving birth to devil-kin twins; now it was more that she needed a direct connection to the forces fighting the Grey Lancers, and that was only possible through Fritillary’s network of loyal clerics and witans.

  She suppressed a desire to apologise to Genet. Drat the woman; she had a habit of saying odd things that seemed off-hand, but which had a jabbing point to them when one stopped to consider. Why the sweet oak couldn’t Fritillary Reedling have sent someone younger and more personable? The first two had been older still, but even Genet was a tall, dried-up scarecrow, scrawny with age. All three were nuns, adherents of a Way of the Flow religious order called the Sisters of the Veil, known for their charity. Genet always dressed plainly in the dull grey of the order, including a grey wimple that covered her hair, forehead, neck and chin in a swathe of cloth. Only that area of her face between her upper eyelids and her bottom lip was visible. The top of the wimple jutted forward, so that her face was often shadowed, making her expression hard to read. It was the headgear decreed by her order, but Mathilda was sure the woman took delight in her inscrutability.

  “Be careful, my dear, with the lawyer fellow,” Genet continued. “The one from the Customs House. He might not have lied, but he’s shifty, nonetheless. I doubt he told the whole truth about Kesleer’s taxes. I suspect Kesleer pays him not to look too hard into what is due the Crown, if you ask me.”

  “I do not recall asking you, Sister Genet.”

  “I consider it my duty to give you my considered opinion, based on many years of dealing with duplicitous humanity. Nuns see a great deal more villainy than most people realise.”

  The wretched woman was indeed remarkably astute. It was galling how often these asides from her were helpful.

  Biting back a retort, she went to sit in the Regal’s chair, the one Vilmar had always used when he gave audiences. Sister Genet took a seat to the side in the deepest shadows of the room. “Servants and handmaidens,” the irritating woman had said several times, “should be like useful items of furniture: indispensable, but seen and heard as little as possible. Rather like a commode, don’t you think?”

  On another occasion, she’d pointed out that she wanted to be as anonymous as possible, especially as she considered herself to be a spy.

  “You think of yourself that way?” Mathilda had asked, startled.

  “Of course! Was that not the service Sorrel Redwing once performed for you? Never think of me as a mere handmaiden. I am not here to pick up your dropped reticule or to straighten your kirtle. I am here to listen and advise you, and to be your channel to Pontifect Fritillary. As the Pontifect has access to all trustworthy clerics and shr
ine keepers, I can also tell you what is happening elsewhere in the Va-cherished world. This channel runs in both directions.”

  “Even though Fritillary Reedling is no longer Pontifect? Besides, I thought the shrine keepers had all disappeared when the shrines vanished!”

  “A Pontifect is still Pontifect as long as he or she is alive. Fox is the usurper. He coerced those fools of the Synod into voting for him. And never underestimate the power of the Ways, my dear.” She leaned over at that point and patted Mathilda’s hand. Although the gesture should have made her feel like a child, just as being addressed as “my dear” should have done, somehow Genet’s confident demeanour made such actions and words comforting rather than patronising. Nonetheless, she was an irritating addition to the court.

  When Lord Herelt was ushered into her presence, Mathilda watched him closely as he crossed the room towards her. Of all the Lowmians she had ever met, he was probably the most worthy of being reviled and despised for his crimes. Being in the same room with him made her nauseous – and yet in looks, he seemed so… so ordinary.

  A man of substance, of course. The Deremers were a noble family with a long recorded lineage, a family of astonishing wealth and impressive influence, known for their charity and generosity towards universities and hospices and poorhouses – but none of that mitigated what she knew him to be: a murderer of babies, his actions and those of his family based on the erroneous assumption that twins were devil-kin, carriers of the Horned Plague, rather than victims of Fox family sorcerers.

  As much as Sir Herelt might now have ceased that slaughter of innocent children, she could never forgive it, nor forget it, and one day she would see him punished. Fate, however, decreed that for now he had to live, because she needed him. Lowmeer needed him. It was the ultimate irony that his family and the private army he controlled were now her greatest ally against the sorcery that had prompted child slaughter.

  He walked with the assurance of a wealthy, good-looking man. He’d been handsome once, and those good looks lingered on. He could still be charming, damn him. A man used to getting his own way. Not young any more, of course: he was, what, nearing fifty? His haunted eyes were those of a man who had discovered that his entire life was based on a premise that was not only wrong, but utterly unconscionable. He knew his guilt.

  “Lord Herelt,” she said, “I expected a visit from you much earlier than this.”

  He bowed deeply. “My sincerest apologies, Your Grace. I have been fully occupied with the tasks that have been my burden since we last spoke.” His gaze flicked to where Sister Genet was seated, her head bent as if she perused the missal on her lap.

  “I have every confidence in the discretion of my handmaiden,” Mathilda said, reading caution in his glance. “Although I will ask her to pass on anything relevant to Pontifect Fritillary.”

  “Your latest information confirms the Pontifect’s continued health?”

  “Indeed it does.”

  “I am glad to have it confirmed that reports of her death are inaccurate.” He shot another look at Genet.

  “She awaits your report with regard to the Horned Plague and infected twins, as I do. Proceed.”

  “We have examined all the papers found inside the Institute of Advanced Learning—”

  “—that you stole before you burned the Institute to the ground, having murdered everyone inside. Let’s not mince matters here, Lord Herelt.” He was referring to an incident that had happened more than two years before, but she would never let him forget his past murders. Never.

  He inclined his head. “As you say. It took time to trace all the twins mentioned in those documents. Those who are still alive and well will be watched closely. Before she disappeared, Pontifect Fritillary ordered local clerics and religious houses and shrine keepers to monitor them. If there is any sign of any being infected, they will be dealt with – by local agents of the Dire Sweepers – before they spread the disease.”

  “They will be murdered.”

  “I prefer to call it mercy killing. Left alone, they all die in unimaginable pain, after having passed on the infection to others. No one ever survives, as well you know, Your Grace. No healer has been able to save a single infected person. From the moment any member of the Fox family touched the life of a twin with the intention of stealing that life, they were doomed.

  “However, I believe that Valerian Fox no longer bothers with the whole twin-devil-kin deception. He must be aware that we are no longer fooled by it, and feels powerful enough to take what he needs, when he needs it. I have received several recent reports of babies dying or disappearing under mysterious circumstances in the Principalities around the time Fox – or sometimes just his Grey Lancers – were in the vicinity. Tens of small children. Usually from burned-out orphanages, or slums, or areas devastated by fighting. My assessment is that Valerian has lost all sense of restraint and he grows in power as a consequence.”

  Mathilda shuddered. “Killing them outright?”

  “Yes. At least it saves them from dying of the Horned Plague before they reach adulthood. A mercy, I suppose.”

  “So you think we can safely say the Horned Plague will soon run its course within the boundaries of Lowmeer?”

  “I do. Those who were infected as babies will die within the next few years, and there will be no new infections as long as Valerian does not return to the Regality. We have seized all of the Fox estates within the boundaries of Lowmeer, as per your orders.” He pulled some papers out from his coat pocket. “A list of every place and an estimation of the value. Local bailiffs have been appointed to run them as going concerns until sales are affected, or until you decide to keep them as the property of the Basalt Throne. We have brought a number of coffers of coin with us, which I have delivered to the treasury. I should point out that we would appreciate having some of this returned to us.”

  “Would you indeed? The Dire Sweepers and the Deremers deserve nothing but opprobrium from us, Lord Herelt.”

  He paused then, and she thought she glimpsed an expression of pain. Or was it exasperation? It was gone before she could be sure.

  “Forgive me, Your Grace, for my presumption. What we deserve is nothing, I agree, but without money, we cannot purchase the means to defeat men who have access to sorcery. We need guns and gunpowder. With them, we might stand a chance if cannonballs and gunshot can reach further than the workings of sorcery, which I believe to be the case. In addition, the rank and file need to be fed and paid. So far, my family have – to assuage their shame – dug deep into their pockets, but maintaining a private troop to supplement Your Grace’s own army does not come cheap.”

  She considered that, and gave an unladylike grunt of assent. “Put in a notice of your requirements to the treasury and it will be considered.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace.” He inclined his head. Polite, but restrained.

  “Tell me about what you found on the Fox estates,” she said, leaning back, her hands clasping the carved basalt arms of her chair.

  “Most remarkably, no adult male members of the Fox family. Servants told us that any Fox offspring over the age of twelve was ordered to leave the estate and report to Prime Fox early last year. Er, Pontifect Fox, that is.” He gave another embarrassed glance towards Genet. “As far as we could determine, all living Fox children are descended from Valerian. He had relationships with a great many women whose ancestry was through the Fox line. His cousins mostly, at various degrees of remove. He was deliberately seeking to keep the sorcerous blood alive. As for his male cousins? Who knows. They seem to have died young.”

  There was a rushing sound inside Mathilda’s ears. She wanted to ask him – she needed to ask him something, but her tongue wouldn’t work. She opened her mouth, and closed it again.

  It was Genet who leaned forward then and addressed him, her sharp eyes worried. “Are all Valerian’s male children sorcerers?”

  “If there were any who weren’t, they were probably killed. There are whispers abo
ut him sucking the life out of them. All the so-called Gaunt Recruiters are Valerian’s sons.”

  “How many of these sons are there?” Genet asked.

  “We don’t know. We have evidence for fifteen, but we believe there are a lot more.”

  Mathilda licked her dry lips, struggling to find her voice again.

  “The mothers of Valerian’s offspring?” she asked. Va forgive me. How could I have been so stupid as to ever let that man lay a finger on me?

  “Never found any. Not alive. Surprising number of them appear to have killed themselves shortly after giving birth, if the gossip of the servants on the Fox estates is to be believed. There were a few had multiple sons before their demise, but Valerian preferred them dead to interfering with the raising of his children.” Noting her expression of distaste, he added, “There’s no such person as a good sorcerer. We have cleaned the vermin from your stables, Your Grace. There was one Fox son I was extremely sorry not to lay my hands on. Fellow called Ruthgar. He’s one of Valerian’s older offspring, born in Fearnside. He appears to be one of the more intelligent, because Valerian raised him to look after some of the family finances instead of sending him off to be a Gaunt Recruiter.”

  “Or stealing his life in order to prolong his own,” Mathilda said sourly.

  “Precisely. And he was clever enough to realise when we were closing in on him. He realised his assets and disappeared. We’re fairly certain he’s no longer in Lowmeer. So, the problem remains: what do we do now? There are other rats and other Foxes just over the borders.”

  She felt so ill, she couldn’t reply. Fortunately Sister Genet had plenty to say. “But the Fox has obedient underlings within Lowmeer!” she snapped. “Valerian is supposedly our Pontifect. The Grey Lancers may still be kept at bay beyond our borders, but Fox commands our clerics. Her Grace cannot denounce him. He was duly elected by the Synod of Clerics after he told them Fritillary Reedling had gone mad and died. Lowmians are happy to have him as Pontifect. He panders to their fear of the Ardronese Way of the Oak dominance by reminding them of his Lowmian ancestry and his commitment to the importance of chapels rather than either of the Ways.”