The Lascar’s Dagger

by Glenda Larke

  But he couldn’t be sure. He might not have noticed.

  Who could it have been? Just every noble lady whose fingers I have bowed over, from the Princess downwards. Celandine, when she bandaged my hands. Gerelda, when we made love. The Pontifect, whose hand I kissed. Likewise Fox. The man dying of the Horned Pestilence. Ardhi, he gripped my hand. Prince Ryce, when I was showing him a sword stroke. And Va knew how many others in the ordinary transactions of a normal day.

  “A devil-kin, maybe?” she suggested. “One of them Lowmian twins? You’d not have felt anything at the time.” She sighed, and seemed to age still further even as he watched. “S’pose it was inevitable. Some things y’can’t run from. After all, you were given the name of a hunter at birth.”

  He shook his head, tired, irritated. “Saker?”

  “Ay. The saker, the hunter falcon, a swift killer. We need the hunters like you to keep us strong.”

  “How? By culling the weak and the sick, as the falcon does? To kill men, even though you wouldn’t consider killing an animal? Wonderful. Just what a witan needs to hear.”

  “To cull the sick with evil at their heart, or deep within their mind, just as we put down a rabid dog,” she said. “Evil – or the devil or whatever name y’like to use – has no power without the helping hand of his human devil-kin.”

  That word again.

  She waited for him to digest that before she added, “Some’ud have us reject the wild. But then justice’ud dwindle. Choose your prey wisely, witan, or we all suffer.”

  He snorted rudely, too tired even to be polite. “Are you a seer now, Mistress Penny-cress?”

  She shook her head. “Nay, but ’tis a time-honoured truth I utter. And perhaps the truth of the very old. This tree ’n’ me were birthed together.”

  “This tree must be four hundred years old.” The shrine-keepers were indeed long-lived, but they all exaggerated their longevity. Perhaps it was a matter of pride.

  “Summat like that,” she agreed cheerfully. “Take an acorn on your way out, an’ keep it close by. Never hurts to remember where you came from. You want a witchery to help you in the final fight, witan? You’ve got to suffer ’n’ surrender. T’aint easy, gaining a witchery.”

  He thought of the lascar’s dagger and the odd change in Celandine when she’d been holding it. Aloud he said, “No, I don’t want a witchery, Penny-cress. I’ve had enough of magic forces to last me a lifetime.”

  “They come in handy, times. You watch your health if you meet a devil-kin or a Lowmeer twin,” she concluded darkly.

  He wanted to throw up his hands in exasperation. Why was he plagued by people who spoke in riddles and warnings? “Have you ever met the Pontifect, by any chance? You have a lot in common. If you have something to say, say it so I know what you’re talking about!”

  “If I knew, I’d tell you. I can say a great evil is coming out of Lowmeer, ’n’ twice in my mem’ry there’s been a twin’s hand therein.”

  And with only that much explanation, he had to be content.

  17

  The Fox, the Falcon and the Princess

  The day after the incident on the Golden Petrel, Fox instructed Saker to meet him in Faith House. Not wanting to give the Prime any cause for complaint, he obeyed the summons without delay, but, as he expected, was then left to cool his heels in the anteroom for more than an hour.

  Most of the time he stood looking out through the narrow slit that passed for a window. Faith House, built on a hill, provided fine views over Throssel Water, and he could see the Golden Petrel still anchored among the other ships littering the waterway like children’s toys in a puddle. The bare masts appeared of less significance than fiddlesticks, the rigging as fragile as fine sewing thread.

  Such flimsy vessels to sail halfway round the world…

  Juster had guessed correctly; he’d have liked to sign on to one of them. Anything would be better than court life. He shoved his hands into his robe pockets and his fingers encountered the acorn he had taken from the grounds of the King Oak shrine. He took it out and rolled its patterned perfection between his fingers.

  “Witan Rampion.”

  He turned away from the window to see Tonias Pedding emerge from Fox’s chambers, saying, “His eminence will see you in a moment.”

  “That’s what you said half an hour ago, Secretary Pedding.”

  The man gave a thin smile.

  He held up the acorn. “Tell me, do you ever go to the King Oak shrine on the river?”

  “No, witan. The Prime would not approve. The chapel here is more than adequate for prayer and contemplation. My grandmother used to pray at that shrine, though; I think the old folk find the old ways more familiar.”

  “Especially if Penny-cress the shrine-keeper is as old as she says she is.”

  Pedding laughed. “Penny-cress was already ancient when my grandmother was a girl, or so Gran told me. Gran also told me that her grandmother said the same thing.” He shrugged. “But there are all kinds of stories. Did you know old women say if a young wife places an acorn in her womanly passage just before she gives birth, the baby will live to be as old as the oak that springs from the acorn if she plants it together with the afterbirth?”

  Saker smiled. “Yes, I’ve heard that one too. It carries the disadvantage that some oak saplings don’t live very long.”

  “Superstitious lot, shrine-keepers. The sooner they die off the better. Then we can replace them with trained clergy.”

  He wanted to protest, but Pedding was prattling on. “Shrine-keepers are troublemakers. There was a nasty incident last month, up near Twite, when legitimate woodsmen were—”

  A bell sounded in the Prime’s room and the story stopped abruptly there. “His eminence will see you now, witan.”

  “Thank you, master secretary.” He dropped the acorn back in his pocket and schooled his face to careful neutrality as he opened the door. At least this time he didn’t have to worry about the lascar’s dagger. It hadn’t found its way back to him, thank Va.

  Valerian Fox was sitting at his table, a pile of documents in front of him. He pushed them away, closed up his inkwell and reached for the carafe and pewter goblets to one side. “Rampion, please be seated. I’ve instructed Secretary Pedding we are not to be disturbed. Some port?”

  “Thank you, your eminence. It would be a pleasure. Your Staravale port is much sought after.” I’ll try not to choke on it.

  “Indeed. I regret we don’t do this more often. I should see more of you.” He unstoppered the carafe and poured them both a drink. “It seems you are in need of closer guidance.”

  “Oh?”

  “Come now, Rampion. I’m sure you must be aware that yesterday’s incident was hardly one that sets a good example to your royal charges, or indeed to the court.”

  “I don’t know what you’ve heard, so I can’t comment.”

  “Accepting a dare, encouraging gambling, endangering the life of a courtier from a prestigious family…”

  “None of that seems to quite fit my recollection.”

  “Are you saying you didn’t accept a dare to climb the mainmast to the top, against a man who was patently drunk? He could have been killed! Almost was killed. In front of the Prince and Princess, what’s more. It was up to you to stop such behaviour, not encourage it.”

  “Your eminence, you were not present. Accept my assurances that I did my best to defuse a situation which could have been much worse.”

  “Defuse? You should have stopped it!”

  “I am a lowly witan, not a noble. I did my best. Va be thanked, there were no catastrophic results.”

  “No? From what I heard, Lord Juster was almost castrated!”

  “I imagine he will be sore for a time. I understand he has gone to his country estate to recuperate.”

  “I will hold you responsible if he takes any permanent damage from this affair.”

  I wonder what you are up to now. He was so fed up with the politics of court life. So si
ck of having to use the formal language of court protocol. So tired of the necessity of thinking through the nuances of everything he wanted to say before he said it. If the Pontifect didn’t send him somewhere less tedious soon, he’d go mad.

  The Prime’s eyes flashed with annoyance as he added, “I hope your ascendancy over the Princess will not be affected by her viewing of your infantile behaviour. How can you influence her if she has no respect for you?”

  “Lady Mathilda is all a princess should be. Kind, obedient, pious, wise beyond her years.” Va blast it, he sounded such a pompous rattler.

  “Hmph. Really? Heedless and foolish, with a love of dancing and play-acting is closer to what I’ve observed.” Fox handed over one of the goblets, his smile far from benign.

  Saker returned an equally false smile as he took the proffered drink. “She’s only just turned eighteen, your eminence. If she did not love such pleasures, if she were not at times thoughtless, would we not wonder at her extraordinary rectitude?”

  “Possibly. But she’s the King’s only daughter and much is expected of her.”

  Pox on this, we’re dancing our words around like it’s a game. “Perhaps that’s the reason for her love of things other than her studies. She’s heard whispers of a marriage that would entail leaving her home, her friends and indeed her country. Unsettling thoughts for a girl of her age.”

  “True. And that is the very subject I wish you to broach with her. A marriage proposal has been accepted and you will inform her accordingly.”

  “Me? I’m just her tutor in things religious. Hardly the person to speak to her of nuptials.” And he was appalled at the thought.

  “The King requests you be the one to break the news to her.”

  “The King?”

  “He has decided that she is to marry the Regal of Lowmeer. In fact, negotiations have been ongoing for the past year or so and the matter is now settled.” He took a sip of his port and looked at Saker over the rim of his goblet. “You look shocked, Witan Rampion.”

  He strove to repair his shattered equilibrium, without showing anything of the depth of his feeling. “I am shocked,” he admitted. So shocked he felt physically ill. In his heart of hearts he hadn’t really believed they’d give her to the Regal. “I had heard the rumours, but hoped they were false. The Regal has not long buried his third wife, and he is old enough to be the Princess’s grandfather.”

  “Barely. He’s fifty, I believe. And desperate for an heir. King Edwayn is aware the Princess will not be happy with this match, which is why he asks you to explain the matter to her. He wishes to avoid dealing with his daughter’s tears.”

  You’re lying. The King hardly knew of his existence. No, His Majesty had asked the Prime himself to deal with the Princess, and Valerian was passing on the distasteful task to him.

  Saker inclined his head. “And what explanation am I to give her? Forgive my blunt speaking, but the King is selling her to an ageing, unpleasant man who rules a foreign land with a court unfamiliar to her. A man who has, what’s more, buried three wives and produced no children after thirty years of married life. Can we hope then that there is a reason for this marriage? One imperative, at very least, to Ardrone’s prosperity? Not, mind you, that I can think of any reason that will appeal to an eighteen-year-old princess, especially not one who would be both beautiful and desirable even if she were a seamstress from Calico Street.”

  His tone was level, amused even. Anything to conceal his outrage. And let’s be honest, his pain. Mathilda, I admit it. I care more than I should. I’ve cared about you for months. And it’s taken this for me to understand just how much…

  It took all his control to sit there with a stupid smile on his lips as if it meant nothing to him, when all the while he wanted to plant his fist into Fox’s smug face.

  “Oh, the price is substantial. I wonder, did you hear what happened to Lord Denworth’s expedition to the Pashali port of Javenka, some years ago?” Fox asked.

  “Yes, although I hardly see the relevance.” He frowned, trying to recall the details. “He set sail with five ships, wanting to establish a sea trade route to Javenka. He returned four years later with one ship and a pitiful cargo of a few mouldy spices. Apparently the Pashali didn’t take kindly to Ardrone bypassing their mastodon routes. They detained his fleet and sailors, and only released the crews and one of the ships on payment of a substantial ransom. When Lowmeer tried the same thing, they were wiser. They paid off the Pashali rulers of the coastal ports beforehand.”

  “Exactly so. Then they used that foothold to explore the Summer Seas and finally found a way to sail all the way to the Spicerie. Now they apparently sail direct from Karradar, bypassing Javenka and the Pashali coast.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “The King is not happy, nor are our merchants. We may not be at war, but it was a Lowmian privateer that actually fired on and sank one of Denworth’s fleet. If this continues, the money that once went to the Pashali traders could soon well be going to Lowmeer. Think what that would mean, Rampion!”

  “It will certainly affect our commerce. I’m still puzzled, though, your eminence. What has that to do with the upcoming nuptials?” Damn it, they’ve sold her.

  “Everything.” Valerian smiled, a smile of self-satisfied pride. “My Lowmeer counterpart, Prime Mulhafen, has been a veritable fount of helpful information. It seems that the Regal, in his declining years, has a frequent problem related to, um, rising to the occasion, shall we say? On being shown a painting of Princess Mathilda, however, his uncooperative member sprang to instant attention. Ever since, desperate for an heir, he’s been sending out feelers to King Edwayn. And finally he made a suggestion that tempted the King and our merchants. Equal rights to the port of Kotabanta on Serinaga Island in the Summer Seas, which Lowmeer has leased from a local island prince. Rajas, they call them. Not quite the Spicerie, but a hub for tropical trade from the spice islands nonetheless.”

  “And that is to be the Princess’s bride price?”

  “Yes. It’s all agreed upon. The final documents will be signed when the Regal arrives. He will be on the ships that will escort the Princess to Ustgrind.”

  “The Regal is coming here?”

  “Well, not to Throssel. To Betany, I understand.” His thin veneer of sarcasm made it clear he thought Saker’s unthinking remark less than intelligent. Betany was on the west coast, a short sail across the Ardmeer estuary from Lowmeer, whereas a ship coming to Throssel would have a long sail around the south of Ardrone. Depending on the winds, that could take many weeks.

  “He will not land on our soil, though,” the Prime continued. “The protocol is too problematic. They will be married on board the Regal’s vessel within a matter of weeks, and then sail for Ustgrind.”

  “She’s been sold for a cargo of spices.” And you are not a disinterested party, are you, you bastard? I heard you bought shares in the new trading company being set up here…

  “Not one cargo,” Fox said, unfazed. “Many. A fifteen-year agreement with Lowmeer, plus a land-based concession area, shipping berths and protection, all granted by the raja of the island to us and Lowmeer, at Lowmeer’s insistence. Doubtless backed up by their guns. Not to be sneezed at.”

  He thought, Juster will be furious. The King will be revoking his letters of marque once the agreement is signed, I’ll wager. Ardrone can’t sign a treaty of cooperation on one hand and have privateers thieving Lowmian cargoes on the other. “One wonders what the inhabitants of Kotabanta think about their commerce being part of a dowry to a princess they can hardly have heard of.”

  The Prime shrugged, indifferent.

  “Well, I hope I can persuade Lady Mathilda that the trade is worth her sacrifice,” Saker said, even though just considering the idea made him ill. He clamped his jaw tight to stop himself speaking the angry words that hovered on his tongue.

  “I rely on you to do that, Rampion.” Valerian lifted his drink in toast. “Here’s to a profitable commerce
in spices!”

  Saker raised his goblet in turn. The sip he took almost choked him.

  Poor Mathilda.

  He pushed that thought away and dug his nails into his palms as Valerian Fox began to tell him exactly what to say to the Princess.

  Celandine the grey opened the door to the Princess’s apartments in answer to Saker’s knock. No hint of a glamour, or of blue eyes, or of beauty. Just sallow skin, a dull expression and a silent tongue. She was dowdy, always unadorned, so insignificant. He felt a pang of guilt. This surely was the kind of person a witan should reach out to in case they needed help. Instead he’d ignored her, disregarded her occasional astringent wit.

  Looking at her now, he saw nothing to hint at the illusion he had glimpsed on board the Golden Petrel. It must have been lascar magic. Nothing to do with her. She had been holding the dagger…

  He smiled at her and handed her a woven gift basket with a lid. “A new kerchief,” he said, “with my apologies for the ruin of your last one.”

  She smiled then, but he thought it was more in surprise than in delight. “My thanks,” she replied. “I hope your hands are healing.”

  He showed her his newly scabbed palms. “Sore still, but no signs of infection, thanks to you.”

  “More thanks to the wine I put on them, in all probability.” She ushered him in and closed the door. Taking the lid off the basket, she peeked inside. He’d chosen a grey kerchief, guessing she wouldn’t wear any other colour, but he couldn’t resist one with white lace edging depicting oak leaves. It had cost him more than he’d expected, and quite a bit more than he could comfortably afford.

  The corners of her lips twitched up. “Lace,” she said, and her cheeks flushed pink. “Are you tempting me away from my widow’s weeds and into the frivolous, witan? Reproaching me, perhaps, for my lack of ornamentation when in the presence of a princess?”

  “Mistress, I would not presume to do either. Besides, the oak leaf is a symbol of the Va-Faith. It can never be considered frivolous.” He smiled so she wouldn’t think he was chiding her.