The Fall of the Dagger (The Forsaken Lands)

by Glenda Larke

  By that time, Gerelda and Gadfly had barged through into the main kitchen. Perie burst into the room hard on the heels of the maid, who was crying out as she ran, “Master Corncrake! Master Corncrake!”

  At the kitchen range, on the far side of the room, the cook, a tall, thin man with the curliest sideburns Perie had ever seen, turned to look. His soup ladle dripped sauce on to the brick hearth, unheeded.

  To his right, the kitchen skivvy dropped a pile of clean dishes on to the flagstones in fright. She flailed her hands like a frightened chicken trying to fly, torn between the horror of broken crockery and the entry of muffled strangers.

  The only other person in the room was a man, smartly garbed in a footman’s uniform. He had more gumption than the others and spun around wildly looking for a weapon, finally grabbing an iron roasting spit.

  “Ah now, my man,” Gadfly said, “don’t be like that, else I’ll be forced to run you through the belly.” He waved his sword point to reinforce the threat.

  The man blanched, but didn’t drop his weapon. He poked it at Gadfly, then realising how futile that move would be, raised it over his head as if to use it as a bludgeon. Gadfly laughed and pinked the man’s hand before tweaking the spit from his hold.

  Perie ran across the room, flinging open all the doors – except the baize one, which Gerelda had warned him would lead into the main living area of the house. He was looking for the room she’d said every kitchen had, a walk-in pantry.

  “Here!” he yelled when he found it, then remembered that neither Gadfly nor Gerelda could hear him. He pointed instead.

  Gadfly gestured with his sword. “All of you, in there,” he said, his voice a menacing growl. “Right now. Do as you’re told and nothing bad will happen to you.”

  The servants exchanged frightened glances. The maid stopped squealing, but when Gadfly’s blade swung in her direction, panic started her breath rattling in her throat.

  “Go on!” Gadfly growled.

  She picked up her skirts and fled into the pantry.

  The cook took no notice. He looked at Gadfly, incredulous, and asked, “Have your brains run out through your ears? Don’t you know whose house this is?”

  As neither Gerelda nor Gadfly could hear, it was up to Perie to reply. “Yes, we know. Where is he?” he asked.

  “As far as I know he’s upstairs,” the cook replied. His tone was contemptuous, but Perie noted his hands trembled. “I’m blistering sure you coves are about to breathe your last, all of you, unless you git out of here.”

  “Into the larder. Now.” He tried to sound authoritative, but wasn’t sure he succeeded. “Otherwise one of these people is going to damage you with their swords. We have no argument with you – if you do as we say.”

  The cook shrugged and jerked his head at the young footman and the skivvy. When the skivvy didn’t move, he grabbed her by her upper arm and yanked her into the pantry with him. Gadfly closed the door after them. There was no bar, so they pushed the heavy kitchen table against it.

  “Let’s get going,” Gerelda said and made for the padded baize door, Gadfly close behind. Perie followed. They found themselves inside the main hall, where stairs led up to the bedrooms. On the lower floor, closed doors led to other rooms.

  Gerelda looked at him. “Which way?”

  Concentrating, he took a deep breath. He could feel the horror of the man trickling down from the floor above. He pointed.

  Bounding up the steps two at a time, he led the way. At the top, he halted briefly to reassess. Powerful waves of wrongness almost made him gag, but he continued on, turning to his right. He ignored the first three doors opening off the corridor and stopped in front of the fourth, jerking his head to indicate that it was the room.

  They had rehearsed several different scenarios, so there was no reason to wait. Gerelda and Gadfly stood on either side of the door. Once they were in place, Perie flung it open with his left hand. In his right hand, he held his spiker out of sight behind his back. He cleared his mind of everything except a driving need to kill something that had no right to live, and stepped into the room. Behind him, Gerelda and Gadfly entered side by side, Gadfly breaking to the left, Gerelda to the right.

  Perie gaped, taken aback by the size of the chamber they’d entered. The cottage he’d lived in as a child would have fitted in this bedroom. The bed it contained was large enough to have slept a family of six. He jerked himself back to his danger.

  In front of the large marble fireplace, a manservant was holding a coat, about to help his master – the sorcerer – into it. Both men whirled to see who had entered without knocking.

  “Sorry to disturb you, sir,” Gadfly said politely. “We have an important message from the Pontifect. If you would be so good as to listen—”

  “Stop right where you are,” the sorcerer, Endor Fox, said calmly.

  In that brief moment when both men had their attention focused on Gadfly, Gerelda slammed into the servant, sending him flying into Endor Fox, who sprawled, off-balance, against the bed.

  With a single sweeping move, she pulled the cover from the bed and flung it over the shocked servant.

  Endor yelled, ordering them all to be still. Perie felt the coercion like a splash of icy water, shocking, but without power. His heart sank nonetheless. With yelling like that, wax in the ears was not going to be enough to stop them hearing the duress.

  Gerelda halted in mid-step. Gadfly, who had leaped up on to the bed to approach the man from the other side, was suddenly unbalanced and uncertain.

  Stumbling as if by accident, Perie took another step forward, his hand still behind his back.

  “Stop right where you are!” Fox cried. There was more annoyance in his voice than fear. “Who are you? Answer me!”

  As neither Gerelda nor Gadfly heard him, neither replied. Perie used the time to take a step closer.

  Endor smiled. “Wax in the ears, I suppose.” He gave a derisive snort and yelled once more. “Take the wax out of your ears! Now!”

  Gerelda and Gadfly, still halted by his earlier shout, heard and obliged, and Perie hurriedly pretended to do likewise.

  “Who are you?” Endor asked, the oily coercion of his tone painful, even to Perie.

  They all started speaking at once, telling him their names.

  Although he felt no compulsion, Perie said, “Peregrine Clary, sir.” He felt serene, as he often did at moments like this. The killer of sorcerers, coming into his own. He smiled, remembering the words of the unseen guardian. No pain in your heart, only hard oak.

  Seeing an unarmed lad, the sorcerer turned his attention to Gadfly and Gerelda. “Drop your weapons!”

  The two blades fell from their hands, followed by daggers drawn from their belts. And Perie acted.

  He took that last step forward, and swept the spiker from behind his back in one swift upward movement. It plunged into Endor Fox’s stomach, the soft organs parting easily before the sharpness of its tip. Not his normal killing stroke, but it didn’t matter.

  Fox gasped and both his hands went to push him away.

  Perie stepped back, leaving the blade buried to its cross-guard.

  The man, trying to remain upright, clutched the hilt, attempting to pull it out. His face was a picture of disbelief. “How—?” he asked.

  “An unseen guardian sent me. I am your fate,” he answered as Endor fell, first to his knees and then on to his side. Scooping up Gerelda’s sword from where it lay, Perie stabbed the man in the chest, hard. “If not me, then your sorcery, or your father, would have sucked you dry. Perhaps this is more merciful.”

  “I don’t think he heard that last bit,” Gerelda remarked, stepping forward to retrieve her blade. “Thanks, Perie. I owe you. If there is one thing I hate above all else, it’s being coerced.” She poked at the sorcerer to make sure he was dead, then glanced to where the servant had managed to wriggle out from under the bedcovers. He sat on the floor, shaking.

  “Stay here until we leave,” she told
him. “After that, I’d leave Vavala today if I were you.”

  Gadfly, rather sheepishly, jumped off the bed. “Pickles ’n’ pox, that was horrible. How can someone take away your will so easily?”

  “Makes you have some pity for the Grey Lancers, doesn’t it?” she replied, cleaning her sword on the bedcover.

  He shook his head. “Ah, I wouldn’t go as far as to say that. They had a choice and they chose to reject Shenat teachings long before they met a sorcerer. Ignorance, greed and gullibility. Fobbing horrible combination.”

  She looked across at Perie. “You all right, lad?”

  “I’m fine. Killing sorcerers always makes me feel good.” He straightened up with the spiker in his hand, having wiped it clean on the bedspread.

  “Then let’s get out of here,” she said. “We’ve done what we came to do. And as an added bonus, we now know your name, Master Gadfly. Or should I say, Sergeant Buttercup Horntail? Nothing like a spot of coercion to bring memory to the fore, is there?” She smiled sweetly.

  “Tell me I didn’t say that,” he growled, an appalled expression on his face. “That can’t be right, surely!”

  “Buttercup?” Peregrine asked. “Buttercup? You can’t be serious. Did he really say that?”

  Gerelda adjusted her scarf over her face once more. “Loud and clear. I heard him. And we all know you can’t lie under coercion.” She opened the door and peered out into the passage. “All clear, Buttercup.”

  “Shut up, you leprous lawyer!”

  As they ran downstairs again, Perie had a hard time muffling his laughter.

  21

  Reunion

  The defenders of Gromwell Holdfast watched in joyous disbelief as Dragonfly sailed away in the direction of Twite, leaving the waters at the foot of the cliffs unguarded for the first time in almost a year, all without a shot being fired. Golden Petrel was now anchored where Dragonfly had been.

  Prince Ryce celebrated on the eastern wall by broaching the very last bottle of the castle’s brandy with Beargold and Anthon Seaforth. “Here’s to freedom,” he said. “The siege will be broken within a sennight, mark my words!”

  “How is one ship going to break the siege?” Beargold asked. “They could supply us, I suppose – or help us escape by boat. No more than that.”

  “Juster will find a way,” Ryce said. “You’ll see.”

  Beargold gave a derisive snort. “That inane fop? What does he know about sieges?”

  “We’ll find out soon.” He should have known Beargold’s innate pessimism was not so easily dissipated.

  “They’ve just launched a boat,” Seaforth said, looking through the spyglass. “They’re sending somebody across to us.”

  “I imagine that’ll be Lord Juster,” Ryce said, and curbed a sudden sadness. If only Bealina and Garred were there to see this.

  “It’s close to three years since you saw him,” Beargold said. “He could be dead, and the ship in the hands of someone else. Besides, he’s renowned for his inconsistency. They call him ‘Jiber’ about town, did you know that? From some sailing term, meaning to change direction.”

  Ryce hid a smile. “I don’t think that word has been applied to him because he changes loyalties, Beargold. More to do with whether his bedmates have tits or pizzles. Here, Anthon, give me that spyglass.”

  “Va’s galls, they had better be bringing some food with them,” Seaforth said. “I am so sick of weevils in my biscuits, and I swear I’ve forgotten what fresh fruit looks like.”

  “Pickle me sour,” Ryce said. “Can’t you two stop complaining? Help has arrived!”

  He rested the spyglass on the top of the wall to steady it against the wind and peered through. It took him a while to pinpoint the longboat in the expanse of blue water, but when he did, the first person he saw sitting astern was the flamboyantly dressed Juster Dornbeck, his topcoat embroidered around the sleeves, his hat resplendent with peacock feathers and gold pins. One hand clutched the hat to his head; the other was clasped around the top of a cane – gold-knobbed, Ryce wouldn’t have minded betting.

  He shifted the spyglass to take a look at the second passenger in the longboat, seated in the prow. “Blister me speechless,” he muttered. That can’t be Saker Rampion, surely?

  But it was. Not in a witan’s garb, but smartly dressed in clothes of a foreign cut. The witan was still all sinew, whipcord and muscles, by the look of him, sword at his side, long dark hair tied at his nape. It really is him.

  He started to laugh. The last time he’d seen Saker, the man had been naked up on Chervil Moors…

  “That’s madness. Cock-eyed madness.”

  Saker leaned against the wall of the Golden Petrel’s wardroom, listening as Prince Ryce – of all people – protested Lord Juster’s plan to end the siege. The prince had obviously sobered in the years since they’d seen each other; he’d once been game for anything, especially if it involved recklessly risking his own neck. Now, after being brought down from the holdfast to a meeting on board ship, he was demonstrating caution and restraint.

  The air in the cabin was heavy with the reek of the three unwashed men: Lord Seaforth, his cousin Sir Beargold and the prince himself. Compared to the others in the cabin – Sorrel, Lord Juster, Mate Grig Cranald and Mate Aspen Finch – the three from the besieged castle were hollow-eyed, gaunt and filthy, their clothes not far from rags. There was an intensity about them too: the tight comradeship of men who had lived with the fear of death and prolonged deprivation.

  Outside the sun was slowly sinking behind the cliffs, leaving the estuary a bruised plum hue under a blood-dark sky. Luckily the wind was slight and the tide was at the neap, because out on the water the Golden Petrel’s boats were still ferrying the holdfast’s occupants across to the ship. Ryce had agreed that, now they had a safe escape route for all the besieged, there was no point in holding Gromwell any longer.

  Lord Juster’s plans, however, did not mesh with the prince’s. Juster wanted to take every able-bodied man and attack the Grey Lancers from behind, whereas Ryce wanted to raise an army of his own to seize Throssel and ensure the safety of his wife and son – before engaging the Grey Lancers.

  “What if there’s still a sorcerer among that lot?” the prince asked.

  “You just admitted you haven’t seen a sorcerer since Bealina was taken,” Juster pointed out. “You’ve also said that the lancers don’t bother to keep watch on the cliffs because they think Dragonfly had this escape route sealed off. We have a way of spying on them, thanks to Saker’s witchery and his eagle. We also have someone here with a Shenat glamour witchery. I’m told you already know that.”

  Ryce glanced at Sorrel, inclining his head. “We’ve met,” he said dryly. “The last time under somewhat trying circumstances, for which I apologise.”

  She smiled at him, eyes twinkling. “I’m sure our future relationship will continue to be beneficial to us both, Your Highness.”

  Seaforth’s eyes widened at her obvious lack of deference, but Ryce returned her smile before replying to Juster. “We have very little ammunition remaining. We have scraped the bottom of our last barrel of gunpowder and we have one working longbow and ten arrows. We do have a number of crossbows and we’ve been making our own crossbow bolts. We burned the beams we salvaged from the wrecked part of the holdfast to keep the forge alight.”

  There was an intake of breath followed by an appalled silence in the wardroom.

  “Sweet Va,” Juster said finally. “You were that close to—?”

  “We even reconfigured a number of crossbows to shoot stones,” Ryce said.

  “Stones? You’ve been throwing stones at men in armour?”

  “What armour?” Ryce countered. “Juster, these lancers are rabble. Dangerous rabble, but still rabble. Undisciplined, half mad, wretched farmboys and illiterate street sweepers. Ensorcelled and pitiable, but also totally pitiless. There is no honour in them, but no initiative either. The sorcerer told them what to do, and as far as I can see they
will keep doing it until they die. They were never given armour and they don’t know how to make it. This is a mad war, my friend.”

  “I think you’re both forgetting something,” Saker said into the ensuing silence. “Your Highness, you think that if you return to Throssel, you will find your family safe under your father’s protection. But Lord Juster has not long seen and spoken to the king. Believe me, he’s incapable of offering protection to anyone.”

  “I’m afraid that’s true,” Juster agreed. “He’s very ill, and not in full command of his faculties.”

  “Valerian Fox would not have any interest in placing Prince Garred with him,” Saker continued. “If he’s seeking some kind of legitimacy for his temporal rule, then he will want control of the prince himself. I imagine we will find that he has been declared the young prince’s guardian. It’s very possible that Your Highness’s son is under his wing in Vavala.”

  The prince scowled. “No. I refuse to believe that.”

  “What makes you think Fox cares about legitimacy?” Juster asked in support of Ryce. “He’s an amoral sorcerer!”

  “Why bother to have an election to become Pontifect, unless it was to seek legitimacy?” Saker asked. “Your Highness is correct when you said this is a mad war. We have to rid our minds of past history and think how this battle will be won. Not how it can be fought, but how it can be won. By us. I never liked Valerian Fox, but I did once underestimate him. Never again. When a man holds a hot branding iron under your nose and the expression on his face tells you what he’d like to do with it—”

  He had their full attention now.

  “We are all scared of sorcery, but he is only one man and he is reluctant to be profligate with his power. Each time he uses it, it is diminished. He can replace it by killing one of his sons, or by sucking the life out of a newborn. That has to complicate his life. These sorcerous sons you’ve told us about? They are his power – but they’re also his weakness. Kill them, and you leave Valerian Fox without weapons and the Grey Lancers without leaders. We can defeat a leaderless rabble.”