The Lascar’s Dagger

by Glenda Larke

  As Ardhi walked on, he considered the rough wisdom behind the man’s insults. As an islander from the Summer Seas, he stood out like a pigeon floating on the ocean. He looked down at his feet. Money wasn’t a problem as he still had spices to sell; no, it was his own stubborn pride that was the problem. He was Chenderawasi and hadn’t wanted to look like these people.

  Shoes, he thought, with a sigh. Splinter it.

  10

  The Geese in Winter

  Prince Ryce and his closest friends spilled out of the playhouse into the square, laughing and joking. Saker, following behind the Prince, wrapped his coat a little tighter against the cold of the wintry afternoon.

  He’d earned an occasional place in Ryce’s company because of his swordplay and his riding skills, the two things the Prince and his inner circle admired above all else, and he had to admit there were any number of compensations. Having a front-row seat at the first public performance of a new play, with the planking padded with a cushion, was definitely one such.

  “And so what did our witan think of the lad playing Saucy Sallie?” one of the party asked. “Nice pair of tits he conjured up from somewhere! Enough to twitch one’s pizzle, eh, Saker?”

  Ser Rossland Burn, of course. Nothing he liked better than to chaff one of the clergy. “I’m sure you would know, Ser Ross,” he replied with a faint smile. “As a witan, I just wonder why we do not allow women on the stage, rather than paint and powder up lads to titillate the audience.”

  They all looked at him then, in surprise. “Women on the boards? Surely you jest, Saker!” Prince Ryce said. “No woman of good name would lend herself to such a dubious profession!”

  “Do we make assumptions of a man’s moral worth when he chooses to be a player?” he asked. He wasn’t sure why he was being perverse. It was not a subject he’d ever given thought to, but there was something about their casual acceptance of their privileged positions that riled him.

  There was a puzzled silence, as if they couldn’t comprehend what bothered him, but they were interrupted before they could respond. Irate voices bellowing down the street made them all turn their heads, and a moment later a man tore through the square, pursued by several others shouting, “Stop, thief!”

  The Prince whooped, drew his sword and cried, “Stop him, men!”

  For a moment Saker felt he was back in the playhouse, watching a drama unfold before his eyes. The courtiers spread out across the square, unsheathing their blades in readiness. The careless arrogance of the privileged, he thought. Like players who risk nothing.

  The accused thief stopped, appalled. He took in the array of armed courtiers and the remainder of the playgoers pouring out of the theatre behind them, glanced over his shoulder at his pursuers, then back again. In what was now a wall of people milling around, he singled out the only one wearing religious garb, and raced to sink to his knees at Saker’s feet. “Mercy,” he begged. “Mercy on a wretched sinner.”

  One of his pursuers ran up. “He stole … from my … master’s kitchen!” he panted, doubling over as he gasped for air. Ryce and his courtiers closed in.

  “You are in the presence of your prince!” Ser Rossland snapped at him. “Show your respect!”

  The accuser’s jaw dropped as his gaze alighted on Prince Ryce. After a moment’s stunned shock, he bowed deeply. “Y-y-your highness.”

  Ryce raised an eyebrow at him. “What’s the story?”

  “I’m one … one of the cooks in Merchant Cornbatch’s kitchens, your highness.” He pointed at the kneeling man. “This here fellow … delivered us some wine, he did, an’ the kitchen skivvy saw ’im pinching some spices while he was in the pantry.”

  “You can have them back!” the thief cried. He fiddled in his fob purse and extracted a scattering of cloves and a single nutmeg, which he held out on his palm towards Prince Ryce.

  “Is that all you took?” Ryce asked him. He waved a languid hand at Saker, to indicate he should take the spices.

  “By me oath, that’s all. Wouldn’t’ve took that if it weren’t for my babe being sick with the plague…”

  As one, everyone except Saker took a step back. A number of the wealthier folk in the crowd reached into their purses for pomanders, and the scent of spice on the air doubled.

  “Fodder for the gibbet, then,” Ser Rossland remarked from a safe distance.

  Saker looked down at the pitiful heap of spices now in the palm of his hand. “For this?”

  “Them’s worth five guildeens!” the cook said indignantly, and snatched them back.

  Prince Ryce beckoned to one of his personal guards in attendance. “Gerth, send the thief along to the city jail.” He looked around the assembled crowd and added loudly, “Thieves have no mercy granted them in our kingdom. Be not worried, good people, there’s no plague in Throssel. Believe me, your prince would be the first to know!”

  There was laughter, and the crowd began to disperse.

  The thief, still kneeling, looked up at Saker with pleading eyes. “My babe has the plague, Master Witan. Have mercy!”

  “Your fate’s already sealed,” Saker told him, his heart a hard lump in his chest, hurting. “The Prince has spoken. I will see your family taken care of, if you tell me their direction.”

  “Me name’s Trewbridge, master. I live by the Watergate in the basement of the wine merchant’s…”

  He cried as he was led away.

  Prince Ryce bent to speak softly in Saker’s ear. “Do not go to that man’s house, witan, under pain of my severe displeasure. It may not be the plague, but who knows what might ail his child? You will not risk bringing contagion into the palace.”

  Va-damn. For a wild moment he had indeed been contemplating putting his witan’s concern for someone down on his luck before his obligation to the royal family. A grievous error that would not have been forgiven.

  “Of course not, your highness.” He’d send someone with money for the wife and child instead, if they existed.

  He was puzzled, though. Why had so many people already been carrying pomanders, when there had been no pestilence – of any kind – reported lately in Ardrone? Someone was spreading rumours, arousing fear. Stirring the erroneous belief that a pomander stuck with spices would ward off the illness…

  Someone perhaps who wanted the price of spices to rise?

  Five guildeens for ten or eleven cloves and a single nutmeg. Sweet cankers. An obscene price, all for something that cured nothing.

  “Don’t tell me it’s my pretty lady’s keel you’ve come to see!”

  Saker looked up from where he was leading Greylegs through the building debris of the dry dock. Lord Juster waved from under the stern of his half-built ship, and came over, grinning and full of joyous pride in the progress of his vessel. He was also decidedly three sheets to the wind. “I know she doesn’t look much at the moment with her innards exposed, but when she heads out to sea with her swan-like neck forward of the bow and her hair flying…” He glanced affectionately up at the ship. “I’m having the best woodcarver in all Throssel make her figurehead. Did you come to meet my lascar?”

  “I came to see you. But yes, I’d like to meet him too.”

  Juster grabbed a passing sailor and asked him to stable the horse and find the islander. When the man had led Greylegs away, he added, “I’ve just had a most unpleasant visit from the Secretary to the Fleet’s lackey. Apparently a Lowmian galleon and a couple of carracks were seen sailing down the Ardmeer estuary, possibly heading to the Spicerie. They were flying the Regal’s flag and Kesleer’s colours. King Edwayn was not pleased.”

  “Ah. He wants you to make sure no spices get back to Ustgrind?”

  “Yes. No way I can sail again soon, of course, not even for a king, but doubtless the Lowmians won’t be returning for well over a year anyway, not if they’re bound for the Spicerie. I’ll be waiting for them. What puzzles me more, though, is why Lowmeer is willing to risk sending a fleet out at this time of the year.” He glanced up at
the sky, heavy with clouds. “The worst of winter may be over, but I wouldn’t want to take a wager on that.”

  Saker thought of the Horned Death and spice pomanders, and wondered if merchants might think the risks worthwhile.

  Juster cocked his head slightly, frowning. “Why do I always get the idea you know more than you tell?”

  “I’m sure that applies to you more than me.”

  “Me? I’m a full sail billowing in the wind with nothing hidden! I understand the Prince has had some success sourcing timber from shrine-keepers for our shipbuilders. Makes me wonder why Prime Fox didn’t make that suggestion a long time ago. Fellow knew of the shipbuilders’ predicament, wouldn’t you say?” Juster raised a questioning eyebrow at him.

  “I would think so.” But he couldn’t think of a single logical reason Fox could have to sabotage the King’s plans.

  “Ah, here’s the lascar now.” Juster introduced them, concluding, “The witan would like to learn the language of your islands, Iska. Could you teach him?”

  The man looked startled. He was older than Saker had expected; his face was weather-beaten, his body all sinew and muscle. A few grey patches sprinkled his hair. “Yes, but not understand why,” he blurted, puzzled.

  “Our ships are going to your islands to trade,” Saker said. “We need people to speak your tongue.”

  Iska opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again.

  His frustration was obvious, and Saker realised he didn’t have the language to explain. “You don’t happen to speak Pashali, do you?” he asked in that tongue.

  Iska brightened. “Of course! Many islands. Many tongues. Much trade with each other and with Pashalin. So all coast people speak Pashali! No need you learn my tongue.” His Pashali was heavily accented, and not perfect, but it was understandable.

  Juster sucked in his cheeks, folded his arms and leaned against a bollard to listen, obviously at home with the language himself.

  “Oh,” Saker said, surprised. “I think I am not wise, er, knowledgeable, in this.” Damn it, my Pashali is rusty. I should practise more. He pulled out the lascar’s dagger. “Do you know what this is?”

  Before he finished the question, the man was backing away, his gaze fixed on the blade. He stopped three paces off and said quietly, “A kris. Every lascar has a kris. Gift from father when he become man.” He tapped his own dagger sheath, but didn’t draw the blade.

  Saker couldn’t decide whether Iska was scared or just respectful. His tone didn’t waver, but his stare didn’t either.

  “Yours is like this one?”

  Iska shook his head. “That a Chenderawasi blade. Only Chenderawasi make throwing blades.”

  “Chen … Chenderawasi?”

  “Not my island. Far-off island.” His nervousness was more obvious and he was groping for the right words.

  “You’re afraid?” The taint of the man’s fear swept over him. Of course the man was afraid, and he ought to be. A dagger that could move of its own accord? It’s like keeping a serpent in the sheath on your belt.

  The lascar said quietly, “Strong magic lives in Chenderawasi kris. Wise man, he full respect such thing.”

  Saker swallowed, hard, wanting to halt the fear that threatened to close his throat. “Good magic or bad magic?”

  Iska finally shifted his gaze to meet his own. “Powerful magic. Each Chenderawasi blade belongs to one man. Real owner find Witan Saker to take kris back.”

  “The man who owned this one is dead.” Not that he believed that any more.

  Neither did Iska. “Bah!” His snort was contemptuous. “He still alive! Chenderawasi kris always buried with owner. Magic says so. Kris still here, so owner still live.”

  Va rot you, Ardhi. “What is this gold colour in the metal?” he asked, holding out the blade so Iska could see it better.

  This time he held up his arms as if to ward off an attack. “Powerful sakti! Not for me to touch!” Addressing Lord Juster, he begged, “I go work now. Witan Saker in big trouble.” He sent a sidelong glance towards Saker, and when he spoke, his tone was one of concern. “Sorry, master witan. Much trouble, pain come to you if you keep kris.”

  “Perhaps he’d better throw it away?” Juster suggested.

  Iska gave a hollow laugh that contained no humour. “Can try, yes,” he said. “Chenderawasi kris has…” He frowned, hunting for the right Pashali word. “It has soul. Like – like it lives. He who holds Chenderawasi kris, he serves Chenderawasi.” He looked straight at Saker. “Chenderawasi control you. Your fate not your own, not now. You be cursed.” He turned on his heel and walked away.

  “Well,” Juster said brightly, unfolding himself from the bollard, “I guess when one stirs up things one doesn’t understand, one does tend to get kicked in the teeth. I wonder if I should spend any more time in your cursed company. Do you think curses rub off the cursed person on to others?”

  “Oh, puddle it, you long-nosed loon!”

  Juster grinned and clapped him on the back. “Ah, don’t look so serious. I’m sure you, as a witan, don’t believe in curses from the Va-forsaken Hemisphere. How did you come by the dagger?”

  “It was thrown at me.”

  “And obviously missed! Not such a great weapon after all, is it? Besides, the things that threaten you – us – are much closer to home. And much more tangible.”

  It wasn’t the words that sent a stab of cold into Saker, it was the way Juster uttered them, with a bleakness foreign to his usual banter. “You can’t mean Lowmeer and the edge they have on the spice trade?”

  Juster was scornful. “Of course not. That’s hardly so dire, is it? Lowmeer has been richer than us before, and we’ve survived.”

  “So what then? You know spices are useless against the Horned Death? And we haven’t had a single case of the Death on our side of the border anyway.”

  “No, and I’m not worried about mysterious daggers, either. Come, let me buy you a drink…”

  “Not until you tell me what you think threatens us.” He stayed stubbornly still, refusing to move as the nobleman began to walk away.

  When Juster realised he wasn’t following, he stopped and regarded him with a sober stare. His next words were said so quietly they were hard to hear. “The greatest danger is always the closest. The hound guarding the crib, the man carrying the lantern to light your way, the worm eating its way into the ship’s hull, the woman lying beside you. You’ve already seen the seeds of your downfall.”

  “Oh, a pox on that. I hate riddles. Say what you mean out loud.”

  “I will, when I’m sure of the truth and when you’re ready to hear it. Neither of which is so yet. Right now, I’m going to have that drink. Are you coming?” This time when he walked away, he didn’t stop.

  Saker ground his teeth, exasperated. Who or what did he mean? Patronising fobbing bastard, speaking in riddles like a stage player!

  Standing there in the sea wind, he shivered. First Gerelda, then Iska, now Juster. All spouting warnings. It was enough to make him want to curl into a ball and hide under his bedcovers. He looked down at the kris, unresponsive in his hand. Alive? In the sunlight, the gold strands shone brightly, the metal unmoving.

  Don’t be stupid, Saker. All these warnings are about as tangible as a wisp of mist, like tales of ghosts told to children. Still, he’d feel so much easier if he could find a way to rid himself of the fobbing Va-forsaken blade. He slipped it back into its sheath with a sigh; even thinking about throwing it away was difficult, damn it.

  Briskly, he walked after Juster, trying to leave his vague unsettled feeling behind. He could do with a pot of ale.

  “Va’s balls! Where did you learn to do that?” Prince Ryce, disarmed and shaking his fingers to relieve the sting of having his sword spun out of his hand, regarded Saker in exasperation. “How many times have we sparred over the past moon? Four? Five? And every single time you’ve disarmed me at least once! How the curdled damn does a witan learn to use a blade better than a pr
ince?”

  Saker bent to retrieve the Prince’s weapon from the floor of the palace’s Great Hall. He returned it, hilt first, with a placating smile. “He starts as a university student. Nothing students like better than fighting one another. Then he serves as a cleric to the border patrol, up near Coldheart Pass in the Principalities. Nothing much to do there all winter long except fight. That particular trick came from a Pashali caravan guard when we were snowed in,” he added truthfully. “Would you like me to show you the secret of it?”

  “Indeed I would! But not just now. I have to dress and be on my best behaviour. There’s a delegation from West Denva, and Father wants me looking suitably princely.” He flung a sweaty arm around Saker. “You know what I like about you, witan? You don’t make a mat of yourself for me to tread on. You’re the only person I know who dares to make a fool of his prince by disarming him with a trick like that.”

  “It’s all part of being a prince’s spiritual adviser – making sure he remains humble.”

  Ryce laughed and hit him on his shoulder with a balled fist. “Addlepate! Ah, I wish I could dine with you tonight. Instead I have to listen to the Denva delegation extol their heir as a suitable groom for Princess Mathilda.”

  “Isn’t he only, what, six years old?”

  “Five, I believe.”

  “Well, I suppose that’s an improvement on fifty,” he said, but remained doubtful.

  “Mathilda would eat him alive. But I don’t think it’ll happen. What can a piddling border principality offer us, compared to the Regal of Lowmeer? If Regal Vilmar wants Thilda enough, he’ll meet Father’s terms.”

  Saker, feeling sick, turned away to pull off his sweat-soaked under-tunic. He was reaching for his clean shirt, wondering how much he could say to Ryce about the marriage without risking his position, when a burst of feminine giggling made them both turn and look upward. Movement behind the carved screen of the minstrels’ gallery told them they were observed.

  Ryce frowned. “Thilda, you wretch! Who said you could spy on our sparring practice?”