The Lascar’s Dagger

by Glenda Larke

  The grey lady escorted him through the adjoining room to the outside door of the solar. Before she opened it to let him out, she said, “And is it sufficient compensation if she is powerless and friendless in a land not her own? If her chosen husband is old or cruel or diseased?”

  “It’s not your place to comment on such things,” he said, astonished at her effrontery.

  “Then who will, sir? You? Where does a princess turn when her position of privilege becomes a cage?”

  “Mistress, I do not know your name. Are you one of the princess’s ladies-in-waiting?”

  “No, merely a handmaiden. Handmaidens do not have names. We are even lower than princesses.” She swung open the door, and the stare she gave him cut off the possibility of any further conversation.

  He stepped out into the stone-vaulted passage beyond, disconcerted.

  Mathilda looked up as Sorrel returned after letting Saker out. “So you were right. You can’t weave a glamour that will change my appearance. Never mind, you can continue to be my spy at court.”

  “Milady, I may be able to blur myself so people don’t really notice me, but I’m still there. All it would take would be for someone to bump into me and they’d know. And it’s my head that’d be forfeit.”

  “You haven’t been caught yet!”

  “No, but it’s difficult to blur into the background if I’m moving.” With practice, she hoped to perfect it.

  “Are you lying to me?”

  “I don’t lie.”

  “No, you just kill people.”

  For one sickening moment it all came flooding back. Pushing Nikard; watching his astonishment that she would dare to do so turning to utmost shock as he tumbled backwards. I wonder if you remembered Heather as you fell?

  She clasped her hands behind her back to stop them shaking. You have to cease thinking about this, Sorrel. It’s done; you killed a man. You killed the murderous father of your daughter.

  And then the little voice in the back of her head said, And he deserved it.

  The witan had intimated that only trustworthy people were chosen to have witcheries. She didn’t feel like a particularly good person. She just felt trapped. Mathilda had her exactly where she wanted her. She said stonily, “Are you sure you want a murderer living in your solar? Perhaps you should turn me in to the King’s magistrate.”

  Princess Mathilda appeared abashed. She said contritely, “Celandine, forgive me. I should not have spoken so. It was mean-spirited. But you have to aid me: I need to know whom I’m to wed, and when. You don’t know what it’s like to be so powerless. You don’t know what it’s like for other people to decide the whole rest of my life, even where I will live until I die!”

  Don’t I? Oh, pretty princess, I know exactly what it’s like. But she already knew it was useless to explain that to Mathilda. The Princess didn’t put herself in another’s shoes. She’d never had to. “You’re wheedling, and it is unbecoming,” she said. “I think I prefer you when you’re blackmailing me.”

  Mathilda laughed. “And that’s not unbecoming of a princess?”

  Sorrel shrugged. “Not if you get away with it.”

  “All right then. Let me say it differently. Celandine, my dear, will you please try to help me, in exchange for the help I have given you? After all, we both know you swore to serve Va. And surely what Va intends is for you to aid me. Why else would you be here?”

  Sorrel opened her mouth to utter a sharp retort, then changed her mind. “Of course,” she said. “What other reason could there possibly be? I’ll help you by being the person no one ever notices. And I’ll listen. But I won’t risk my life to go places where I’d be hanged if I were found.”

  And with that much you’ll have to be content, milady. But, vex it, the woman couldn’t be right, could she? She couldn’t have been granted a witchery for the sole purpose of serving a spoiled princess for the rest of her life!

  Inside, something shrivelled at the thought.

  9

  The Spy at Work

  “So, how do you think you’ll enjoy court life?”

  Saker was inclined to ask himself the same question from time to time, but this was Lord Juster Dornbeck enquiring. They were on their way to his cousin’s manor, and Saker was enjoying the feel of good horseflesh under him again. He was mounted on one of the nobleman’s spare mounts and, after an easy canter followed by a gallop, they were now riding side by side at a walking pace. Around them, autumn vibrancy had succumbed to the onslaught of winter drab.

  I don’t trust you, Juster, he thought. You’re always fishing for information. And he would have loved to have known why, of all the people at the court revel, Lord Juster Dornbeck had been the only courtier to approach him.

  He said vaguely, “It’s not what I’m used to.”

  “Watch your back, my friend.”

  “Listening to you, I’m beginning to think I should watch out for everybody in Throssel! Are they all after my blood?”

  Juster laughed. “Probably. It’s a monarch’s playground, after all, and when games of influence and power are played, everyone vies for the King’s favour, because it can lead to lucrative sinecures. Disfavour or perceived disloyalty can lead to the chopping block. Pox on’t, sleeping with the wrong woman can lead to the gibbet! Fortunately King Edwayn is not his grandfather, whose idea of festive entertainment was chopping off heads, or burning Primordials at the stake, but even so, there’s more nastiness at a royal court than there’d be in a dungeon for the land’s worst rogues.”

  “I doubt my role as a cleric is of much interest to the court.”

  “After what you let slip the other night about fluyts and Kesleer shipbuilding, I’m supposed to believe the limit of your interest is religious?” Juster shook his head in mockery. “Your real concern is the Ardronese spice trade. Or lack of it.”

  Saker didn’t reply.

  “I have a vested interest in privateering,” Juster said, “but even I can see we’d all do better competing in legitimate trade. To be fair to King Edwayn, that was the initial intention.”

  “And what went wrong?”

  “The King awarded the shipbuilding contract for a merchant navy to the grandson of the Earl of Twite, but he sold the rights to someone else, who then sold it on to a third person, a shipbuilder in Port Spurge. The trouble is, the shipbuilder paid so much that his contract wasn’t profitable.”

  Saker sent a look of disbelief his way.

  “Because the cost of suitable timber shot up,” Juster explained. “The Lowmians bought all last season’s cut from the Innerlands.”

  “So the first two people made a wonderful profit and did absolutely nothing. Va above! That’s ridiculous! Were you involved?”

  “I’m not that daft. I finance my own ships and my own voyages. The risk is mine, but so is the profit. Fortunately, I’d already bought the timber for my new vessel.”

  “You’re building a ship? To search for the Spicerie?”

  “No. I pounce on the Lowmians as they leave Karradar on their way home, pregnant with all that lovely cargo I don’t have to pay for.” He glanced across at Saker. “Don’t look so disapproving, witan.”

  “Privateering is war by another name. We’re all Va-cherished, and good men die when you loose cannonballs at their ships.”

  Juster shrugged. “I could be one of the dead. All sailors know the risk. They also know a successful voyage will make them a fortune.”

  “Tell me, do you have lascars on board?”

  “One, at the moment. I’d like to have more.”

  “Why?”

  “They know how to sail, those people. Practically live on the ocean, trading and fishing in open boats from island to island. A lot of them sign on to Lowmian ships between Javenka and the Karradar Islands. Not so keen on coming here from Karradar, because they’ve heard about how cold it is. On my last voyage, though, there was a fellow who wanted to look for himself. Unfortunately for him, it’s going to be a long time before
he gets home again. My ship was badly holed in a battle with a couple of Lowmian traders, and it was only by the grace of Va that we managed to limp into port. I’m not venturing out again until my new ship is finished.”

  “Did you know Kesleer’s ships to the Spicerie lost three in every four sailors?”

  Juster gave him a sharp look. “How do you know? Did his fleet really find the Spicerie as rumour claims?”

  “Yes.” He was silent for a few minutes, gazing at the track ahead as the horses ambled on, while he pondered what to say.

  Wisely, Juster said nothing.

  “Let’s do an exchange.” Saker made up his mind. “I tell you all I know about the Lowmian trade to the Spicerie, and you give me access to your lascar.”

  “Why?”

  “I want to learn the language of the Summer Sea islands.” Which wasn’t the whole truth, but it was explanation enough. “Would he teach me, do you think?”

  Juster shrugged. “Pay him and I’m sure he would. But why would you want to do that?”

  “I like learning languages. I speak fluent Pashali, and I’m familiar with most of the dialects of the Principalities.”

  “I’ll introduce you to him, then. And now you can tell me all you know about Kesleer and his ships.”

  After Saker had finished relating the bare bones of what he’d learned in Ustgrind, Juster’s only comment was a laconic, “You need to tell all that to the Prince. You do know he’s in charge of the royal naval interests?”

  “He’s avoiding me. I’ve been trying to set up a meeting, but all I get from his attendants is that ‘the Prince is busy’. I think he probably equates a spiritual adviser with someone who’s going to tell him he shouldn’t go whoring when he wants.”

  “Easily fixed. Last night Prince Ryce stayed at the manor we’re visiting. He’s waiting for us.”

  “And you neglected to tell me? What bait did you use to get him there?” What game are you playing – helpful new friend, or something else?

  Juster was offhand. “Told him you needed expert judgement for your purchase of a horse. Told him if he wasn’t there, you’d have to rely on mine, to which he replied he couldn’t bear to have anyone mounted on an animal resembling a rowing boat.”

  “I gather he doesn’t think much of your judgement in matters equine?”

  “Saker, take my advice, and always pretend you know less than a prince or a king.”

  And at a guess, Lord Juster, you love manipulating us all…

  Saker took Juster’s advice to heart, and after meeting the Prince, begged him for his opinion on the mounts Juster’s cousin, Orrin Dornbeck, was offering for sale. Prince Ryce proved to be an excellent judge of horse flesh, and Saker was pleased with his choice, a dapple grey named Greylegs.

  They adjourned to the manor house for lunch, and after the meal Orrin offered to show Juster the latest puppies dropped by his favourite fellhound bitch, a ploy Saker guessed was designed to give the Prince a chance to speak to him in private.

  “Lord Juster tells me you’ve some information about Lowmeer and the spice trade,” Prince Ryce said the moment they were alone. “I need to know everything you’ve heard.” There was no doubt that was an order.

  So for the second time that day, Saker repeated all he knew about Kesleer and his schemes. He ended by saying, “Lord Juster told me shipbuilders here were having problems obtaining reasonably priced timber.”

  The Prince nodded. “Our present fleet isn’t capable of returning with sufficient cargo to make such long voyages profitable. Their capacity is too small. We have an improved design; we just need the timber.”

  “I might be able to advise you…”

  “I hardly think shipbuilding is any concern of my spiritual adviser!”

  Saker inclined his head respectfully while he sorted out the politest way of expressing what he needed to say. “Your highness, I’m sure the Pontifect is aware that you’ve already received sufficient instruction in the ways of Va-Faith. Her reasons for sending me here were not, therefore, to tell you what you already know, but rather to explain how the Way of the Oak can be of value to the Crown.”

  The Prince’s eyes widened. Saker could almost see his thoughts turning over as he wondered how the Way of the Oak could be relevant to shipbuilding.

  He continued, “Your highness, forests are never static. Trees of great age die and are replaced by new growth. If a large tree is needed for the well-being of the Kingdom, then of course it may be cut. You don’t need to go to the Innerlands for a mast or a keel. It’s up to local shrine-keepers to say which tree or trees can be removed without damaging a forest. Such is the true Way of the Oak.”

  Prince Ryce began to smile. “You mean to tell me there’ll be no tedious poring over sacred texts with you when I’d much prefer to be out hunting?”

  Saker schooled his face to a bland mask to hide his exasperation. “That’s exactly what I mean, your highness. I can, however, advise you on how the Faith can help achieve the task the King has given you.”

  “In that case, I think we will do very well together, Rampion,” Prince Ryce said.

  Saker wasn’t so sure. If the Prince was more concerned about his hunting than his country’s merchant navy, it didn’t bode well for the Kingdom of Ardrone. His thoughts returned, reluctantly, to Mathilda. He’d hoped to find in her brother someone she could lean on. Now he doubted Ryce would be much support for his little sister.

  Who can she turn to? he wondered. She deserves so much more than she’ll ever receive…

  “Demon! Demon!”

  The farming lads pounded after Ardhi, hurling their stones and their words with equal ferocity.

  Just ignorance, he thought, attempting to quell his panic as he leapt over a stile barely breaking stride. They’ve never met anyone like me before. People in the ports had been more tolerant; they saw the odd trader from Pashalin or sailor from Karradar. Even a lascar like him, occasionally. But here in the Shenat Hills, far from the coast? Here, with his long hair, his seaman’s clothes and his bare feet, he was as exotic as a Lowmian merchantman sailing into the Chenderawasi lagoon.

  And as feared.

  A stone grazed his cheek, pushing him to greater speed as he headed up the track through a cow pasture. His pack bounced on his back as he tore over the roughness of the hoofprints in the dried mud. He was fast, but his pursuers knew the short cuts; worse, all they had to do was draw close enough to hit him with a lucky stone.

  It can’t end this way, can it?

  A solitary tree grew alongside the track ahead, but its leafless branches offered little shelter. Seri defend him, here even the plants were perverse! Chenderawasi trees were always tall, striving towards the sky and clad in leafy foliage, but the broad-spread, drooping boughs of this tree offered no refuge. It was bare of leaves, and yet it drew him.

  Without thinking, he left the track and raced towards it. Behind, the pack of young men hooted and yipped like dogs sensing the flagging of prey.

  He hurled himself upwards on to a broad bough. Without effort, he pulled himself higher and higher, revelling in the joy of climbing, but all too aware that the tree offered no cover and he was as vulnerable as a fish stranded in a rock pool by the tide.

  Below, one of his pursuers, intent on following him, hauled himself on to the lowest bough.

  Another of the lads immediately pulled him off, cursing. “Are you mad, Hobby? You want to scramble up there, risking a choiceless soul? ’Tis an oak! What if it has an unseen guardian?”

  “Ay, he’s right,” another agreed. “Anyways, we got this brown rat treed. Sooner or later he’ll topple.”

  “’Specially a freaky one like him,” another agreed. “Be there a guardian, he’s a dead’un for sure.”

  Ardhi listened, struggling to understand their accents, so unlike the familiar cant of Lowmian tars. He knew nothing about any guardians, but he didn’t feel threatened. He felt safe – until the youths began to hurl stones and rock-hard clods at him.
He dodged and twisted and ducked, pulling himself from one side of the trunk to the other. When they surrounded the tree on all sides, he chose a place partially protected from below by interlacing branches, where he could place his back to the trunk and hug his pack to his chest like a shield. Fortunately, most of their missiles bounced harmlessly off the branches.

  From his perch, he was the first to see another man top a nearby rise and plod across the field, a black and white dog trotting at his heels. When the man was close enough, he raised his voice and shook the gnarled stick he carried. “Be off with you, you lazy layabouts! What ails you that you tree a man? ’Tis disrespectful to the Way of the Oak. Hobby, I might have known ’twould be you! Get off back home and help your da!”

  The lads faded away in several different directions, abruptly cowed. The man, grizzled and lined, looked up at Ardhi. “Come you down. They won’t be back.”

  He swung himself to the ground. “I thank you, sir,” he said. “Not want to hurt foolish boys.”

  “You, hurt that lot? Looked more like they were about to give you a drubbing!” He looked Ardhi up and down and gave a grunt. “Funny one, you be. All dark like dust. Pashali, are you?”

  Ardhi shook his head.

  “And barefoot like ’twere a summer day! Have you no wits about you, lad? Got no money for clogs even, then wrap y’feet up in summat!”

  “Feet not hurt.” Anyone from the islands of the Summer Seas had soles tougher than leather.

  “Hmph.” His grunt was both disbelieving and contemptuous. “You best be going. Folk in this here valley don’t like strangers. ’Specially not witless ones. You ask to be stoned, a dusky fellow like you, looking so daft with your long hair and funny garb.” He grunted again. “Shoeless in winter, ’tis unnatural! Where y’heading?”

  Ardhi pointed in the direction the kris had taken on its journey. He’d no idea who carried it now, and the trace it left behind was faint, but he still felt it. “That way.”

  “To Oakwood?” The old man nodded as if that made sense. “Townsfolk!” He spat. “Be off with you, and best not stop till you’ve hit the town walls.”