The Lascar’s Dagger

by Glenda Larke

  One of the carved wooden casements opened and the Princess leaned out, waving. Behind her, Saker glimpsed several of her younger ladies-in-waiting, still giggling. His face reddened at the thought of Mathilda observing him stripped to the waist, and he struggled to pull on his shirt over a torso sheened with sweat. Thank Va, at least she couldn’t have heard their conversation.

  “You shouldn’t spar in the Great Hall then!” she called down to her brother. She lingered a moment longer to watch Saker as he battled his shirt, her lips curling upwards in a teasing smile. Then, after another wave to Ryce, she was gone with her ladies. Her handmaiden, the grey mouse, appeared, po-faced, at the opening to pull the casement shut.

  “That one’s like a cloud about to drop a cold shower on us,” Ryce muttered in his ear. “Damned if I know what my sister sees in her.”

  “Who is she?”

  “Celandine somebody-or-other. Mathilda had need of a maid when we were travelling up in the north. She’s the niece of a shrine-keeper. I call her the grey ghost.” He slid his sword into its scabbard. “Poor Thilda. We neither of us are more than cooked geese served up to the Crown of Ardrone. And folk envy us?”

  He strode away, and as his footsteps echoed through the hall, Saker looked up at the minstrels’ gallery again. All was quiet, but he thought he caught a lingering whiff of Mathilda’s perfume. Va, it was hard to think of her being married off to the highest bidder. He’d always known such marriages were normal in wealthier families, but now it was more than just knowledge; he could put a face to the woman involved. He could see her tears, know her grief, picture her future.

  It was so wrong.

  He wondered if she had any real friends, any ladies, who would accept exile to be with her when she married. She needed a trustworthy confidant.

  He thought, I hope I can be that for her, at least while she remains at court. Better me than her colourless handmaiden, who’s about as joyous as a wet dishcloth.

  Just as Saker was leaving the Great Hall, Princess Mathilda arrived with Celandine.

  The Princess pouted when she saw he was alone. “I wanted to catch Prince Ryce. Never mind, you shall escort me back to my solar instead, and we’ll have a game of Fox and Geese. And you can tell me the latest court gossip.”

  He stepped forward, bowed and offered her his arm. “I fear my knowledge of gossip is meagre. No one tells a junior witan anything.”

  “Nonsense, of course they do.” She rested her hand on his arm as they turned to leave the hall. “Does the West Denvans’ visit pertain to my marriage? The heir to the throne there is but a child, I know, but perhaps…”

  Her words trailed away, and he was disturbed once again to see tears lingering on her lashes.

  In his dismay, he was at a loss for words. One part of him wanted to take her in his arms and brush the tears away with soft words, a longing that was appallingly inappropriate. He swallowed and said carefully, “I’m not privy to discussions on your marriage, I fear.” Hastily, he added, “It’s years since I played Fox and Geese. I feel sure you will outwit me in the first few moves.”

  “I shall play the Fox. One person against all others, for that is how I feel.”

  “Ah,” he said, striving for lightness, “a fox can eat many an unwary goose.”

  When they reached her solar, he hung back to allow her to enter the apartments first. Celandine followed her in, saying under her breath so only he could hear, “Indeed, foxes have very sharp teeth, and they love geese. And ganders can be so very, very stupid.”

  Pox on her, he thought. If ever something was fraught with double meanings, that was.

  11

  The Fox in Summer

  Prince Ryce galloped across the meadow with scant concern for his safety, pursued by Saker lying low to the neck of his dapple grey. Hooves scattering sods of earth, the horses thundered towards the laden tables and gaily coloured tents erected at the other end of the field, where courtiers gathered for their midsummer revelry.

  No matter how much he urged Greylegs on, Saker was still staring at the rump of Prince Ryce’s roan.

  Just before reaching the first of the fires with kitchen boys turning the spits of roasting fowl, the Prince drew rein and waited for him, grinning. “I trust you were not allowing me to win, witan.”

  “You jest, your highness. I think you know me better than that.” He patted Greylegs’ neck. The loss wasn’t his horse’s fault. Prince Ryce not only rode a faster animal; he rode like a man who didn’t think of the possibility of breaking its legs – or his own.

  The Prince’s reply was sober. “True, I do. I wonder if you have any idea how good it is to have a friend who tells me exactly what he thinks, instead of what he thinks I want to hear?”

  Friend? He was moved. “Then may I tell you what I think, your highness? You should have more respect for your neck. You are the only prince we have.”

  “Saker, if I didn’t get to risk my princely neck sometimes, I could never sit through all those boring councils.” There was no hint of amusement in the statement. “When I am King – and please Va let that not come until I’m old and grey – you shall be my Prime. And then you’ll understand!”

  “I knew there had to be a disadvantage to friendship with a prince! I would make a terrible Prime.”

  Ryce grinned again. “I know. We can be incompetent clodpates together.”

  They rode into the heart of the revelry, and handed their mounts over to the grooms. The King was not there, but Lady Mathilda was, with all her younger ladies-in-waiting. Saker even caught a glimpse of Celandine, looking bored as she threaded her lone way through the crowd behind the other ladies. He felt a moment’s pity for her. It couldn’t be much of a life, always trailing after her mistress, clutching a pair of gloves, or a fan, or a cloak, for when the Princess might need it.

  The Prince rejoined his courtiers, including Lord Juster, so Saker headed for the refreshment table. He was sitting on a stool eating a meat pie when a familiar voice grated in his ear, the last person he’d expected to be present.

  Prime Valerian Fox stood at his shoulder, asking, “You really do not understand the position of a spiritual adviser, do you? Racing with the heir to the throne? For a wager, I believe? Is that the kind of example you wish Prince Ryce to follow?”

  Scrambling to his feet, he hurriedly wiped the gravy from his mouth with the back of his hand while debating what to do with the rest of the dripping pie. “Your eminence.” Blast you.

  “Do you think the King would be pleased if his son were to take hurt in a fall from his horse?”

  There was no good way to answer that, so he tossed the pie to a nearby hound and stayed silent.

  “You should wear your witan’s robe at all times, both figuratively and actually. And your monthly report is late.”

  Sure that Fox had chosen his words carefully to make him feel like a schoolboy again, he was about to give a sarcastic reply when the kris jabbed his thigh. “Argh … Ah, I’ll – I’ll write it this evening. My apologies.”

  Fox’s gaze fell to the hand he had clamped over the dagger sheath at his belt. “What is that thing you’re wearing?”

  Va’s teeth, at least when I wear the witan’s robe, no one sees the blithering blade. He strove for nonchalance. “A lascar dagger.” He pulled it from the sheath, keeping a tight hold to the hilt. “Weird thing, and not all that useful, but I like it. Beautifully crafted.”

  He held it up, and Fox took a step backwards, his expression pinched. “Totally inappropriate for a man of the Faith! Heathen-made. Get rid of it!”

  “As you wish,” he said lightly. He turned and detained a passing serving lad by the arm. “Throw this away, will you?” he asked, and dropped the kris on to his serving tray.

  The lad stared at it, his surprise robbing him of speech.

  Fox gave Saker a narrow-eyed look of fury and waved the lad away. He scuttled off, and Fox said, “Mock me, witan, and you’ll find out there’s always a price.”

/>   “Try not to treat me like a half-witted acolyte and we might rub along together a little better.”

  “You overstepped a line today.” A cold malice saturated the stare Fox directed Saker’s way before he stalked off, brushing past Lord Juster as he went.

  Saker remained where he was, cursing his too-quick tongue.

  “What the fobbing hells did you just say to the Prime?” Juster asked. “If looks could curdle, you’d be no more than soured cottage cheese right now.”

  “I don’t think he likes me much.”

  “My friend, you need to be a lot more careful. That man is dangerous.”

  “More of your dire warnings, Lord Doom?”

  “Bad things happen to people who upset the Prime.” He glanced over Saker’s shoulder, then looked away hurriedly. “Uh-oh, and here’s more trouble on her way.”

  Princess Mathilda, her full skirts held high, stepped daintily through the grass towards them, Celandine at her shoulder like a permanent shadow. Saker, annoyed with Juster, said under his breath, “That’s a gratuitous remark.” When someone momentarily detained the Princess, he asked, “Have you heard anything more about her impending marriage?”

  “Not a word. I assume that means there is much negotiation in the process.”

  “Have you any idea what bride price could be offered that would tempt the King?”

  “I’d conjecture something long-lasting. A trade advantage, perhaps? Especially if Lowmeer is involved.” When Saker failed to hide his distaste, he added, “Whoever the Princess weds is no concern of yours. It’s the price nobility pay for their power and their luxury.”

  “The price women pay is higher than men’s, I imagine.”

  “We all marry for reasons that have nothing to do with personal happiness.”

  “You’ve managed to stay single. You, at least, appear to have had a choice.”

  “I have three older brothers, all prolific in their breeding, fortunately. No one in my family cares if I wed or not. Which is fortunate for me, considering I enjoy my life the way it is.”

  He fell silent as Mathilda and Celandine approached. Mathilda acknowledged their bows and lifted her skirts far enough to display her ankles and embroidered slippers. “Look!” she said. “My best pumps are sopping wet!”

  “Milady, we can’t have that! You may catch ague.” Juster, without asking her permission, picked her up by the waist and sat her on the table.

  She squealed. “Lord Juster! I am sure that is inappropriate behaviour!”

  He laughed at her. “Not mine, surely. I am saving your life.” He waved to Celandine. “Put her slippers in the sun to dry. We mustn’t allow our princess to catch the ague. Oh, did you mean your behaviour, milady? Sitting on a table amongst the food?” He turned to Saker. “What do you think, witan? Quite reprehensible manners on the part of a princess?”

  “I think it is you who are incorrigible, my lord,” he responded lightly, trying not to stare at Mathilda’s stockinged feet as Celandine removed her pumps.

  “Quite incorrigible,” Princess Mathilda agreed, wriggling her toes, “and I’m sure no one else would dare treat me so cavalierly, except you, Lord Juster. Go disport yourself elsewhere, if you please. I wish to speak with my spiritual adviser.”

  “Milady,” Saker said when Juster had left, “how may I serve you?”

  “Oh don’t be so formal, witan. Especially as I know you wish to chide me, for being either too indecorous or too imperious, when a princess should be above reproach on both counts.”

  “I must lack daring. I have not the courage to chide a princess.” He couldn’t stop his lips curling at the corners. No matter what she did, she could always make him smile.

  She was suddenly sober. “I just wanted to tell you that the King has rejected the marriage proposal from West Denva.”

  “I hadn’t heard that. Did Prince Ryce tell you?”

  She pouted. “No, he wouldn’t. But I have my methods.”

  Behind her, Celandine tilted her chin, a small movement, but full of meaning. Celandine had found out? There was no way of confirming that, though, so he asked instead, “Are you pleased?”

  “I – I think the alternative proposed is not one that pleases me. Witan, if you have any compassion for me, any concern for this loyal servant of Va, you will intercede if – if…” But she couldn’t continue.

  Sweet Va, he thought. She’s heard more hints it’s to be Regal Vilmar. Bile rose into his gorge, stinging his throat. Don’t let that happen. Please don’t let that happen. He’d never felt so helpless. So gutted. How would she ever be able to stand it? “I will pray that the final decision is one you will find … attractive,” he said.

  She sat there wriggling her toes in her damp stockings, her face a mask of disappointment and loss. Her next words were whispered so low he almost missed them. “Never attractive. Never. I cannot marry him to whom I’m drawn. Passable is all I can hope for. Or kind. Will he – will my husband be kind?”

  Her words were a whip flaying his conscience.

  “Witan Saker, is there nothing you can do? Intercede for me with the Pontifect?”

  He was overwhelmed by a desire to say he’d do anything – but the words died before they reached his tongue. He had no say in the affairs of princes or kings. “The Pontifect has said she can do nothing if both parties agree to a marriage.”

  “How can I refuse if the King insists? He threatens to confine me to my solar until I agree. Who is there to prevent that?”

  “You…” He caught the informality, swallowed it back. “The Princess is always in my prayers.”

  She looked away from him, swinging her feet. “You disappoint me.” The side of her foot brushed his thigh. He stepped back abruptly, as if she’d burned him.

  “Doubtless I ask the impossible,” she said bitterly, “and I have no right to do so. Celandine, put my slippers on again. I have little heart for these revels.”

  He watched her go, sick to the stomach, and wondered at the depth of his sorrow for her. Her predicament had lodged in his flesh like a wound he could not heal. When he was back in his room, he’d write to the Pontifect and ask again if there was some way to discourage a union between the Princess and Regal Vilmar – although he could almost hear the derisive snort Fritillary Reedling would give when she read his request.

  And he must tell Fritillary all about the lascar’s dagger. Thinking back, he wasn’t even sure why he hadn’t told her already. Keeping silent seemed asinine in retrospect; she might have been able to explain its power. And now he had another reason for her to know: he was certain there was something consistently odd about the way the kris reacted in the Prime’s presence.

  “Master Witan?”

  The serving lad was back, nervously holding the dagger out towards him. “Did you really want this thrown away?”

  Saker smoothed away his frown. “Somehow I don’t think you could, even if you tried.” He held out his hand. “Give it here.”

  Relieved, the young server surrendered the blade and scampered away.

  He replaced it in the sheath, only to find it had managed to cut a hole through the leather, and the point was poking into his thigh. Pox on’t, he thought. Is there no way I have any control over this wretched thing?

  That night, as he sat in his room penning his private letter to the Pontifect, which he would send through her courier, he included his concern for the Princess. He suspected, however, that if Ardrone received some trade advantage as a result of her marriage, Fritillary would be pleased, not upset, and the thought depressed him. Everything’s always about monetary advantages and politics.

  He dawdled over finishing the report. An odd feeling niggled at him that there was something else he’d wanted to say. Something that had occurred to him during the revelries. The more he tried to remember, the more the idea of it skipped out of reach. It was a weird feeling for someone who prided himself on his memory.

  Finally he gave up, and signed and sealed the letter.


  12

  The Glamoured Woman

  Sorrel Redwing stood with her back to one of the stone pillars that held up the roof of the Great Hall of Throssel Castle. The stone was hard and cold, but at least it was something to lean against. She expected to stand there for several hours. Her appearance blended in with the stonework, until she was as well camouflaged as a bittern among reed stalks. If she was noticed, she hoped that she’d be of no more consequence than the menservants scurrying to and fro to put the suckling pigs and the roasted swans on the table for the evening meal.

  She’d have preferred to do almost anything else, but this was now her life. Mathilda’s spy, feeding the Princess the gossip of the court, the truths people uttered when they didn’t know they were overheard.

  Another autumn come, and she still didn’t know why she’d been given a witchery, or how she was supposed to be serving Va. She was waiting, still waiting for some kind of revelation. Some Va-sent vision. Something, anything not this. She was so bored. Worse, she was shackled in place by her lack of resources. It never occurred to the Princess to pay anything for her services.

  I think this is worse than living at Ermine Manor. At least there I could remember Heather so easily. I could hear her laughter. She’d escaped from the Ermines, only to end up as the Princess’s penned goose. Va, I dedicated myself to your service. Isn’t there something more important that I’m supposed to be doing?

  An unpleasant thought followed hard on the heels of that: perhaps this was penance for having killed Nikard. If so, how long for the murder of a man who’d deliberately killed his own child because she was born deaf?

  Oh, Heather…

  She shivered. I’ll never cease looking for a way out.

  Her next thought surprised her: she wanted so much more of life than she would once have thought acceptable. In Ermine Hall, her life had plodded from one day to the next, the only bright window in her years there being Heather. Now she wanted more. To be loved, yes. Someone, somewhere. A man like Saker Rampion. Strong, honest, caring. Why does he never look at me? She almost snorted. Why would he? She was just the grey nonentity, always fading into the background.