The Fall of the Dagger (The Forsaken Lands)

by Glenda Larke

  “I’ll do it tomorrow.”

  “Thanks.” Vivie smiled at her kindly. “Terelle, you’re not a slave, either. For the odd jobs you do, you have water and food and clothes and a bed, not to mention the dancing and singing lessons. You’ve been taught to read and write and recite. When you start working properly, you’ll be paid in tokens like the rest of us. You can leave any time you want, once you pay back what you owe.”

  “Leave? How can I leave unless I have somewhere else to go? I’d die of thirst!”

  “Exactly. Unless you save enough tokens first.”

  Terelle slumped, banging her heels against the legs of the divan in frustration.

  Vivie laid her mirror aside. “Terelle, Terelle, don’t you remember what it was like in the Gibber Quarter before we came here? I do. It was horrid.” She shuddered. “The only time we had enough water was when we stole it. I was glad when Pa sold us to the Reduner caravanners—”

  She broke off as they heard footsteps in the passageway outside. Terelle jumped off the divan and grabbed up her tray. When the waterlender entered, she was picking up the empty mugs on the low table. She bobbed and scuttled past him. When she glanced back from the doorway, she saw Vivie smile shyly at Kade from under her lashes. One bare shoulder, all invitation, had slipped from the confines of her robe.

  Terelle pulled the door shut.

  Back in the main reception room, the crowd had thinned. Most of the handmaidens had gone upstairs with their first customers of the night. Men who had not secured a girl waited their turn. Opal, plump and painted, flirted shamelessly as she bargained prices with latecomers. Servants brought more amber, keproot and pipes. The air was thicker now, yet there was an edginess to the atmosphere. Terelle scanned the crowd, seeking the cause.

  The pedeman in the blue tunic sat alone, and his eyes, still sheened with feral hunger, sought her—but he wasn’t causing any trouble. On the other side of the room, Merch Ross-car glowered at Merch Putter, the man he had earlier called a cheat. He began another drunken tirade, his speech slurred, his words threatening, his nastiness growing more and more overt. Putter stirred uneasily. Terelle glanced at Opal, who gave the merest of nods. Terelle dumped her tray and slipped out of the room. She went straight to the unroofed courtyard where Garri the steward and Donnick the doorman controlled entry to the snuggery via a gate to South Way.

  “Trouble,” she told them. “Madam Opal wants Merch Ross-car removed.”

  “Drunk again, I s’pose,” Garri said. “Look after the gate a moment, Terelle. Anyone comes, they’ll have to wait a bit till we get back. Come on, Donnick.”

  Terelle sat down on the doorman’s stool next to the barred gate. Outside in the street all seemed quiet; at this late hour, not too many people were still up and about. The city of Scarcleft tumbled down the slope known as The Escarpment in stepped levels and South Way was one of three roads that descended from the highlord’s dwelling, on Level Two, to the southern city wall, on Level Thirty-six. During the day it was usually one of the busiest thoroughfares in the city.

  She leaned back against the courtyard’s mud-brick wall so she could look up at the sky. On those nights when Opal’s was closed, once every ten days, she would take her quilt up to the flat roof so she could fall asleep watching the stars as they slid, oh so slowly, across the black depth of the sky. She liked not being surrounded on all sides by walls. She liked the feel of the wind gusting in from the gullies of the Skirtings in unpredictable eddies. She even liked it during the day when the air was so hot it crackled the hair on her head, and she had to rub rendered pede fat onto her lips to stop them drying out.

  Whenever Terelle tried to explain such things to Vivie, the older girl would throw her hands up in incomprehension and remark that talking to her sister was as unsettling as having a stone in your sandal. So Terelle didn’t try any more. She learned to accept the fact that she was odd and Vivie was the one who fitted in. Terelle wasn’t comfortable in the snuggery; Vivie revelled in it like a birthing cat that had found silk cushions. Terelle sometimes cried real tears—and Vivie had never shed a tear in grief in her whole life.

  Now, though, the oil lamps around the walled courtyard dulled the sky and made it hard to see the stars. A flame sputtered and shadows danced. Once more she saw the dark lump of a future crouching just out of reach, waiting to smother her.

  I’m trapped, she thought. It had been her fate from the moment she had been included in the deal made with the caravanners passing through their settle. Her father had his tokens, enough for a year or two’s water, and she had this. She took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of citrus flowers, a hint of perfume, the stale smoke of burned keproot.

  She had to get out. She wasn’t Vivie, and she never would be. Yet how to escape?

  Garri and Donnick returned, hustling an irate Rosscar between them. Outside in the fresh air, he appeared less drunk and more dangerous. “I’ll be back, Merch Putter!” he shouted over his shoulder, even though the merchant was nowhere in sight. “You’ll regret the day you cheated me!”

  Terelle opened the gate, but when the steward attempted to guide the man through it, he lashed out with a kick, catching the older man in the knee. Terelle winced. Garri had swollen joints at the best of times. Donnick, a hulking youth of eighteen with few wits but a good heart, gently levered the drunken man through the gateway and closed the gate.

  Terelle stepped back into the passage leading to the main reception room. Light flickered as some of the lamps guttered. There was someone coming the opposite way, and she politely flattened herself against the wall to let him pass. But he didn’t pass. He stopped: the pedeman in the blue tunic. She turned to hurry on, but he barred her way, his arm braced against the wall at chest height.

  Her heart scudded; fear broke through on her skin in goose bumps. She did not look at him but kept her head lowered. “Excuse me, pedeman. I have work to do.”

  He did not move the arm but lowered his head to whisper close to her cheek. “How much is your first-night price, child?” The tip of his tongue thrust into her ear, seeking to know her.

  She tilted her head away, reminded of the forked tongue of a snake questing after prey. “I’m not a handmaiden. I’m a servant.” Her voice sounded thin and frightened to her ears. Her terror was out of all proportion to her danger; after all, one way lay the security of Garri and Donnick, the other way Opal and her servants. No one would allow him to touch her. Not this night. Yet she shivered as if the cold of a desert night wind brushed her skin.

  Madam Opal won’t sell my first-night before my bleeding starts, will she?

  “You’re a lying Gibber child,” he whispered. “And you should not try to deceive your betters. I will buy your first-night, and you’ll pay for that lie.” He placed a hand on the bud of her breast and squeezed, the touch a promise of horror. “It won’t be long now, will it, sweetmeat?” She pushed him away, ducked under his arm and ran for the safety of the reception room at the end of the passage.

  But the safety was illusory, her danger only postponed.

  She was crying when she entered the room, and dipped her head to hide the tears.

  introducing

  If you enjoyed

  THE FALL OF THE DAGGER,

  look out for

  THE FALCON THRONE

  The Tarnished Crown: Book One

  by Karen Miller

  WHEN KINGDOMS CLASH, EVERY CROWN WILL BE TARNISHED BY THE BLOODY PRICE OF AMBITION.

  A bastard lord leads a rebellion against his tyrant king—and must live with the consequences of victory.

  A royal widow plots to win her daughter’s freedom from the ambitious lords who would control them both.

  An orphaned prince sets his eyes on regaining his father’s stolen throne.

  And two brothers, divided by ambition, will learn that the greater the power, the more dangerous the game.

  Chapter 1

  Brassy-sweet, a single wavering trumpet blast rent the cold air. The
destriers reared, ears flattened, nostrils flaring, then charged each other with the ferocity of war.

  “Huzzah! ” the joust’s excited onlookers shouted, throwing handfuls of barley and rye into the pale blue sky. The dry seeds fell to strike their heads and shoulders and the trampled, snow-burned grass beneath their feet. Blackbirds, bold as pirates, shrieked and squabbled over the feast as children released from the working day’s drudgery shook rattles, clanged handbells, blew whistles and laughed.

  Oblivious to all save sweat and fear and the thunder of hooves, the two battling nobles dropped their reins and lowered their blunted lances. A great double crash as both men found their marks. Armour buckled, bodies swayed, clods of turf flew. Their destriers charged on despite each brutal strike.

  With a muffled cry, his undamaged lance falling, abandoned, Ennis of Larkwood lurched half out of his saddle, clawed for his dropped reins, lost his balance and fell. For three strides his horse dragged him, both arms and his untrapped leg flailing wildly, helmeted head bouncing on the tussocked dirt. Then the stirrup-leather broke and he was free. Squires burst from the sidelines like startled pheasants, two making for the snorting horse, three rushing to their fallen lord.

  Heedless of the vanquished, the crowd cheered victorious Black Hughe, youngest son of old Lord Herewart. Hughe let slip his ruined lance, pushed up his helmet’s visor and raised a clenched, triumphant fist as his roan stallion plunged and shied. The mid-afternoon sun shimmered on his black-painted breastplate, thickly chased with silver-inlaid etchings.

  “Fuck,” Balfre muttered, wishing he could reach beneath his own armour and scratch his ribs. “Did a more rampant coxcomb ever draw breath?”

  Standing beside him, sadly plain in undecorated doublet and hose, his brother sighed. “I wish you wouldn’t do this.”

  “Someone must,” he said. “And since you refuse, Grefin, who else is there? Or are you saying our dear friend Hughe isn’t ripe for a little plucking?”

  Grefin frowned. “I’m saying the duke will be ripe to toss you into the dankest dungeon he can find once he hears what you’ve done. You know he’s got no love for—”

  “Aimery clap his heir in irons?” Balfre laughed. “Don’t be an arse, Gref. His pride would never let him.”

  “And your pride will get you broken to pieces, or worse!”

  Hughe had pranced his destrier to the far end of the makeshift tourney ground, so his gaggle of squires could prepare him for the next joust. Ennis was on his feet at last, battered helmet unbuckled and tugged off to reveal a wash of blood coating the left side of his face. Much of his close-cropped flaxen hair was dyed scarlet with it. He needed a squire’s help to limp off the field. As the shouting for Hughe died down there came a scattering of applause for Ennis, no more than polite recognition. Harcia’s rustics had little patience for defeat.

  Balfre shook his head. “You know, if Hughe’s a coxcomb then Ennis is a pickled dullard. Any donkey-riding peasant with a barley-stalk could push him off a horse.”

  “My lord!”

  Turning, he looked down at the eager young squire who’d run the short distance from their rough and ready tourney-stall and halted at his elbow.

  “What?”

  The squire flinched. “Master Ambrose says it be time for your bout, and to come, my lord. If it please you.”

  “Tell Ambrose to polish my stirrups. Fuck. Does he think the joust will start without me?”

  “No, my lord,” said the squire, backing away. “I’ll tell him to wait, my lord.”

  Balfre watched the youth scuttle to Master Armsman Ambrose. “Speaking of pickled dullards…” He grimaced. “I swear, Grefin, that turnip-head must’ve snuck into Harcia from Clemen. He’s witless enough to be one of scabrous Harald’s subjects. Don’t you think?”

  But his brother wasn’t listening. Instead, Grefin was raking his troubled gaze across the nearby jostling villagers, and Ennis having his split scalp stitched by a tourney leech, and beyond him the small, untidy knot of lesser men who’d come to test their armoured mettle and now stood defeated, and the heavily hoof-scarred tilt-run with its battered wicker sheep-hurdle barrier, to at length settle on Hughe and his squires. The chuffer had climbed off his destrier and was exchanging his dented black-and-silver breastplate for one unmarked but just as gaudy. It would be a vaunted pleasure, surely, to dent that one for him too.

  “Balfre—”

  If this weren’t such a public place, be cursed if he wouldn’t hook his brother’s legs out from under him and put his arse in the dirt where it belonged.

  “Hold your tongue, Grefin. Or better yet, since you’ve no stomach for sport, trot back to the Croft and lift your lance there, instead. Plant another son in your precious wife. After all, you’ve only sired one so far. You must be good for at least one more.”

  “Balfre, don’t.”

  “I mean it,” he said, keeping harsh. Refusing to see the shadow of hurt in Grefin’s eyes. “If all you can do is carp then you’re no good to me. In truth, it havocs me why you came in the first place.”

  “To keep you from breaking your neck, I hope,” said Grefin, still frowning. “What havocs me is why you came! Look around, Balfre. We stand in an open field, far from any great house, and those who cheer and groan your efforts are villagers, herdsmen, peddlers and potboys.”

  “So you’d deny the local churls an hour or two of entertainment? You’re turning mean-spirited, little brother.”

  Grefin hissed air between his teeth. “It’s a question of dignity. Aside from you, and Hughe, and Ennis, who of any note came today to break his lance? Not our cousin. Not even Waymon, and he’s a man who’ll wrestle two drunk wild boars in a mire.”

  “Come on, Gref,” he said, grinning despite his temper. “Even you have to admit that was funny.”

  “Side-splitting, yes. And I’m sure the squires who broke themselves to save Waymon from being ripped wide from throat to cock laughed all the way to the bone-setter!”

  “Grefin—”

  “No, Balfre. You’ll listen,” his brother said, and took his elbow. “You’re Harcia’s heir. You owe its duke more than this joust against a gaggle of mudder knights fit only to ride the Marches.”

  Wrenching his arm free, Balfre looked to where Ambrose and his squires stood waiting. His stallion was there, his unbroken lances and his helmet. Catching his eye, Ambrose raised a hand and beckoned, agitated.

  He looked again at his niggling brother. “Where and how I choose to romp is my concern. Not yours. Not Aimery’s.”

  “Of course it’s Aimery’s concern. He has enough to fret him without you risking yourself here. Those bastard lords of the Green Isle—”

  Familiar resentment pricked, sharper than any spur. “You can throw down that cudgel, Grefin. When it comes to the Green Isle, Aimery has his remedy.”

  “Balfre…” Grefin sighed. “He needs more time.”

  “He’s had nearly two years!”

  “It’s been that long since Malcolm died. But Mother died in autumn, and here we are scant in spring.”

  “What’s Mother to do with it? She wasn’t his Steward!”

  “No,” Grefin said gently. “She was his beating heart. He still weeps for her, Balfre. And for Malcolm. Both griefs are still raw. And now you’d have him weeping for you, too?”

  The chilly air stank of churned mud and horse shit. A troupe of acrobats was amusing the crowd as it waited for the last joust. Motley painted canvas balls and striped wooden clubs danced hand-to-hand and man-to-man through the air, the jonglers’ skill so great they never dropped even one. From time to time they snatched a cap from a villager’s head and juggled that too. The field echoed with delighted laughter.

  Balfre glared at them, unamused. Aimery weep for him? That would be the fucking day. “I never knew you had such a poor opinion of my lance-skills.”

  “This has nothing to do with jousting,” Grefin retorted. “Please, Balfre. Just… let it go. Who cares what a sophead like H
ughe mutters under his breath?”

  “I care!” Blood leaping, he shoved his brother with both hands, hard enough to mar Grefin’s dark green doublet. “When what he mutters is heard by a dozen men? I care. And if you cared for me, you’d care.”

  “I do! But Balfre, you can’t—”

  “Oh, fuck off, Grefin! Before I forget myself and give those gaping churls reason enough to gossip for a week!”

  Grefin folded his arms, mule-stubborn. “I don’t want to.”

  “And I don’t care what you want.”

  Holding his brother’s resentful stare, unflinching, Balfre waited. Grefin would relent. He always did. There was a softness at the core of him that made sure of it. A good thing for Harcia he wasn’t Aimery’s heir. Such a softness would leave the duchy’s throat bared to faithless men like Harald of Clemen.

  At last Grefin huffed out a frustrated breath. “Fine. But never say I didn’t warn you,” he said, and retreated.

  Still simmering, Balfre returned to Ambrose. The Master Armsman near cracked his skull in two, shoving his gold-chased helmet onto his head.

  “For shame, my lord,” Ambrose said in his rasping voice, come from a sword-hilt to the neck in the desperate, long-ago battle that had made Aimery duke. “Dallying like a maid. This might be a rumptiony shigshag we be at but still you should be setting of a timely example.”

  Balfre bore with the reprimand. The armsman had served two dukes of Harcia already, thereby earning for himself a small measure of insolence. With a nod, he held out his hands so the turnip-head squire could gauntlet him. The burnished steel slid on cleanly, cold and heavy.

  Ambrose started his final armour inspection. “You been watching that rump Hughe?”

  “I have,” he said, twisting his torso to be certain of no sticking points in his breastplate, which was gold-chased like his helmet and worth more than Hughe’s horse. “Nothing’s changed since the last time we bouted. He still drops his lance a stride too soon, and sits harder on his right seatbone.”