The Lascar’s Dagger

by Glenda Larke

  He was still mulling over the idea of possible links when Prime Valerian Fox came to see him after sunset. After entering the cell, which Master Turnkey had just unlocked, Fox closed the door in the jailer’s face.

  Saker rose from the bed, expression schooled to bland calm. “Your eminence. Thank you for coming.”

  “You deserve no courtesy. I am not here to visit. I am here to offer you a bargain.”

  “Well, you’ll have to explain to me first what this is all about. I do not know what the charge is, or who is accusing me.”

  Without warning, Fox lashed out with his arm and balled fist, catching him across the side of the face. Taken by surprise, he staggered against the table and went down on one knee. His head rang and he clutched at the table leg until the spinning settled down.

  He staggered to his feet as Fox shouted, “How dare you, you cur of a Shenat mongrel! I might have known that someone of your parentage would behave in such a despicable fashion.”

  His mind went blank. What the blistering pox did the man mean? What could his parentage have to do with anything? Again he had a sensation of unreality, of the skewing of his world, as if Fox was playing a part he’d memorised and wasn’t so much angry as delighted, revelling in his moment on the stage.

  “My parentage?” he asked at last. “I – I fail to understand you, your eminence. I have no idea what any of this is about.”

  “You are being charged with blasphemy.”

  “Blasphemy? You must know that’s ridiculous.”

  “Of course it is. It was the best I could think of to cover the iniquity of your real crime.”

  “And my real crime is…?” Oh, Va save me, he knows about Mathilda…

  “How dare you act the innocent! After what you’ve done!”

  “Suppose you explain, and then we’ll both know what you are talking about?” For a moment he thought he was going to be struck again, and hastily stepped back.

  “How could you possibly think that the Princess would not go to her father to tell him what you did to her? Did you think she would be too embarrassed? Too scared to tell him she’d been ravished?”

  He stared, shocked. Panicked.

  Mathilda said she’d been ravished?

  No, of course she hadn’t told the King that!

  But someone must have. Which meant someone had betrayed them. The only person who knew besides himself and Mathilda: Celandine.

  What in all the Va-cherished world was he going to do? Worse, what would the King do to Mathilda? Guilt swamped him, dragged him down to somewhere close to Va-less hell.

  And then: Rot it, I’m dead.

  Mathilda, poor Mathilda. He could picture what had happened. Cornered by Celandine’s betrayal, knowing that if she denied the incident her virginity would be examined, Mathilda must have said that he’d raped her. Or maybe the King and the Prime had just jumped to conclusions.

  He drew in a shuddering breath. Judging from the sneer on Fox’s face, he guessed his reaction was taken as an admission of guilt. But what had it to do with his parentage?

  “You misjudged your prey,” Fox said. “The Princess is fearless and had the courage to describe her ravishment. Which brings me to why I am here.”

  I can’t blame her. How can I? It was the only way out when Celandine decided to tell. A wave of relief subdued his fear. Mathilda had saved herself the only way possible, and he was glad. He must be glad. Maybe she wouldn’t even have to marry the Regal.

  He swallowed, took a deep breath. The penalty for any kind of attack on a member of the royal family was death. My fault … “You mention a reason for being here. I assume it is not just to abuse me.”

  “What you did is treason, and would normally bring you to the beheading block. But only after a trial, a trial judged by the nobility and clergy, in which the Princess’s name would be brought down to the level of your stinking gutter. It’s unthinkable. The King has asked for my intervention to save the good name of his daughter. I have suggested you be tried for blasphemy instead.”

  He thought back to his university studies. The penalty for blasphemy on the part of a cleric was to be unfrocked, fined and banished. Not such a bad fate, and he could still serve the Pontifect if she’d have him. A spy did not need to be a cleric.

  Fortunately, the Prime can have no idea how close I am to Fritillary Reedling.

  “Yes. I’m offering you a way out, Rampion,” Fox continued. “One you don’t deserve, in exchange for your silence and your agreement not to fight the case in court. You admit your guilt, throw yourself on the court’s mercy, and you live. Not in Ardrone, and not as a cleric, but you’ll be alive. If you do anything, in any way, now or in the future, to impugn the good name of the Princess, then King Edwayn will see to it that you die, unpleasantly. That’s his promise to you.”

  His next thought was: Wait. This is too good to be true. If King Edwayn still wanted to marry off his daughter, to anyone at all, then would he risk having her supposed ravisher free in the world to talk about her lack of virginity?

  How much of a fool do you think I am, Valerian Fox? We both know I have to die. “And if I don’t agree, I am tried for treason for assaulting the King’s daughter, found guilty and executed?”

  “I doubt it will get as far as a law court.” Fox smiled. “Do you?”

  Of course not. As you’ve just said, that’s unthinkable. The King would never allow his daughter’s name to be dragged through such a procedure.

  Fox folded his arms. “I’m offering you this one chance to live and to redeem your soul. Just one. Do this, and perhaps Va might forgive you for your sin.”

  “I agree, of course.”

  “The trial will start within the sennight.”

  Seven days. And I have no idea how you are going to kill me.

  Just before he left, Fox added one last stab to his wounds. “By the way,” he said, “those last three letters to the Pontifect you sent? The courier was very cooperative when I told him you were plotting treason, especially when I held one of his sons as hostage to ensure it. Clever of you to use a code. Pity they will never be read by her reverence. I do wonder, though, why you never told her about breaking into my offices.”

  The moment Fox was gone, Saker sat down abruptly. He was so stupefied, he didn’t think his legs would hold him up.

  You ninny.

  He knew now why Fox had told him of his desire to rid the world of the Ways. The Prime had known the first thing he would do would be to send a message to the Pontifect. Fox had wanted to know who he used to send his private messages, so he could cut the line of communication.

  Except I wasn’t followed. Ever.

  At least … not in the usual way. Fox had clasped his fingers tight, and not long afterwards he’d seen the black marks. What had Penny-cress said? It leaves a taint behind wherever you go. And something about followers of A’Va seeing it any time.

  And if Fox served A’Va, he might have seen the taint in his own office after Saker had broken in.

  All of which meant that Fox had been after him long before he’d bedded Mathilda, and he, the Pontifect’s oh-so-stupid spy, had as good as offered himself up as a cockerel for the Prime’s feasting. Fritillary would boot him back to the Coldheart Pass on the northern border if – when – she found out. Except that he’d be dead.

  He still didn’t understand the bit about his parentage, though. Perhaps Fox had discovered something when he was in Shenat country? His half-brother’s involvement with the Primordials? No, it had to be something more than that…

  And where did the lascar’s dagger fit into all this? Was it, too, an instrument of A’Va? An artefact from the Va-forsaken Hemisphere?

  At least, he thought, trying to find something less dire to consider, that terse reply had not been from Fritillary. It must have been a forgery.

  He saw no one but his jailers for the next three days. By that time he had memorised every one of their routines, scrutinised every corner of his cell, studied e
very stone of the floor, and still had not even the shadow of an idea how he could escape. He spent hours considering all he had learned, all he could guess, and all he could remember from the Prime’s ledgers. Fox obviously thought it didn’t matter if he’d seen them.

  But Fox thinks you are bread-brained. With reason. Think, Saker, think. And he did. He resurrected the pages he’d seen, recalling names, numbers, amounts. Over and over. He looked for patterns. For clues. For anything he recognised.

  The rest of the time he lived with the purgatory within his head. He’d become careless. He hadn’t been suspicious enough of the Prime. Or of Celandine Marten. He’d behaved like a selfish, half-grown cockerel, instead of a man of responsibility. And because of him … only Va knew what was going to happen to Mathilda.

  On the fourth day of his incarceration, Juster came to see him. Master Turnkey ushered him in, but didn’t leave them alone. Instead the jailer lounged against the doorway, arms folded, watching while Juster placed a demijohn of wine on the table and then eased himself into the chair, his long legs sprawled. On the other side of the open door, two armed pikemen stood at ease.

  “The Prime gave me permission to see you,” Juster said, “after much pestering and a gift of considerable coinage to his favourite worthy cause. Got yourself into the bottom of a pickle barrel, didn’t you?”

  “You could say that.” He’d been on the bed, flat on his back staring at the beams, wondering how he could get up to them so he could investigate the ceiling for weak spots. He rolled himself into a sitting position. “Almost as bad as attempting to castrate yourself with a hunk of tarred rope. How are the family jewels doing?”

  “Let’s just say that the cache was a lot bigger than usual for a few days. Bloody excruciating. Couldn’t even sleep for the pain. Family leech says they’ll polish up good as new eventually. Anyway, came to say thanks for saving my neck, which is perhaps marginally even more valuable than the jewellery.”

  Saker shrugged. “If it hadn’t been me rescuing you, it would have been someone else. Your sailors were all over the rigging like rats.”

  “No one else would have got to me in time, and you know it. And you won the bet, you bastard. You did indeed beat me back to the deck. I’ll pay up when I return to Throssel with a full cargo.”

  “Good. Do you have the letters of marque signed by the King yet?” He tried to layer the seemingly innocent question with a coating of warning, and was rewarded with an odd look from Juster. The nobleman had, after all, already told him that.

  “Oh, yes,” Juster replied. “All done.”

  “I assume it’s common knowledge by now that Princess Mathilda is to marry?” He was hoping Juster would note the oddity of the juxtapositioning of the two questions.

  “Talk of the city she’s to become the new Regala,” he said, dashing Saker’s hopes that the marriage preparations might have been abandoned.

  Fobbing damn. His reply had sounded casual enough, but Saker could tell he was alerted, wondering what was going on.

  “The matrons are very annoyed the ceremony is to take place on board ship in Betany, not here,” Juster added.

  “I doubt that worries you too much, but be warned, everyone will be extremely busy in a few days’ time, loading up the King’s wedding gifts on to a ship, which will sail from Throssel. No one will be interested in your requirements. I’d get organised to leave now, if I were you.” He dropped his left eyelid in an exaggerated wink, which the turnkey was unable to see from where he stood.

  Juster’s eyes widened a fraction. “Really?” he asked.

  “I’d think about it,” he replied with as much nonchalance as he could muster. The Pontifect would kill me if she heard me giving this advice … He wasn’t even sure why he was doing it. No, that’s not true. I’m doing it because Juster has proved himself a friend.

  “Imagine: all the Princess’s royal luggage and dowry, and the baggage of her entourage, gifts to the Regal, horses, saddlery and tackle, bride price agreements – all has to be properly packed and all of it assessed and loaded. Can you imagine the hubbub on the waterfront? You’d be better off long gone with your letters of marque. After all, I want my share of your privateering as soon as possible, don’t I?”

  This time Juster pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Oh. Never thought of that. You’re right. Of course. But before I leave, what can I do to help you? And as you may have noticed, the only way I got in to see you was to promise Prime Fox that Master Turnkey here could listen in. No doubt he will quite rightly do his duty and relay the conversation to the Prime, so you’d better watch what you say. I don’t want to be associated with any hint of treason. My family owes all to the King’s line, and my loyalty is always to my liege.”

  The jailer grinned at the two of them and began to clean his fingernails with the point of his knife.

  “Of course,” Saker said. “Do you know when my trial will be?”

  “Day after tomorrow, according to Fox.”

  “You could get me a decent advocate. I’ve asked Master Turnkey to hunt for someone who’ll argue my case, but he tells me he can’t persuade one of our learned pettifoggers to oblige for the amount of money I’m offering.”

  “Right. I shall dangle a heavier purse then. You hear that, Master Turnkey? Witan Rampion will be having a visit from an advocate tomorrow.”

  “Not for me to say,” the jailer replied. “You got to ask his eminence first.”

  “I’ll do that.” He turned back to Saker. “Anything else?”

  He shook his head. “I’ll be fine, don’t worry. If I don’t see you before you leave: safe voyage and fair winds.”

  “Welcome to sail with me, you know, once you’ve been freed. Don’t have a cleric on board. Won’t be leaving until after your trial.”

  The invitation was clear: he was offering Saker a way out of Throssel, but they both knew it was unlikely, at least on this particular voyage. “I’ll bear that in mind. And thanks for the wine, too.” He nodded towards the demijohn on the table.

  “Thought you’d appreciate it. Drink it to the last drop. From our best vines – the ones on the south slope that I showed you when you visited – and it would be a shame to waste any. If there’s anything else you’d like, tell Master Turnkey here, and he’ll send word to me, won’t you?” He grinned at the jailer.

  “I don’t do nothing without the say-so of the Prime, m’lud. You know that. Not worth me job, it’s not.”

  Juster sighed. “No, I don’t suppose it is, at that. Scurvily lucrative position you’ve got here, if what you’ve been charging me is any indication.”

  The man smiled at him cheerfully. “If you say so, m’lud.”

  Juster stood. “Good luck with the trial, Saker. I was told I can’t ask you about whatever it was you said to get you here, but I reckon it wouldn’t make any difference to me. Unless of course it was treason. Owe you my neck, so take care of your own, right? And enjoy the wine.”

  Saker stood too. “Thank you. I never thought the best friend I’d ever have would be a buccaneer.”

  “Privateer. And I never thought I’d owe my life to a preacher!”

  “A witan!” Saker rejoined.

  They clasped hands for a moment, then Juster left with Turnkey, who locked the door behind them.

  Saker waited a moment, then went to pick up the demijohn. He pulled the cork and smelled the bouquet. He took a sip. A very ordinary wine, as far as he could tell. Juster had once taken him to the family estate, so one thing he knew for sure: Juster’s family did not grow grapes.

  The door opened again, much later.

  Saker awoke, startled. The person in the doorway was no more than a silhouette, thrown into relief by the lamp held by one of the two people behind him. He sat up hurriedly.

  “So,” the silhouette said, “you thought it was all right to ask Lord Juster to get you an advocate, did you?”

  Blast. Valerian Fox.

  “Well, just to make it quite clear – it was not
all right, Rampion. This trial follows the pattern I design for it, not the path you think you can make it go. We had a bargain, and you seem to have forgotten it.”

  Saker stood. “I thought it would look better if I was represented by a man of legal letters.”

  The Prime moved aside and gestured one of the men behind him to enter. “Deal with him,” he said. “But remember, not a mark on his face.” Smiling, he turned to Saker. “Let this be a lesson to you. No one plays games with me and wins. Ever.” He picked up the demijohn from the table and drank.

  Oh, pickle it.

  He knew what was coming. And he knew, no matter what, that he had to accept it. Va, grant me courage.

  The man who had entered with Fox was huge, built like a longshoreman used to lugging cargo. The first blow from his balled fist landed just above his waist, driving the breath out. The second punch cracked a rib. Saker, gasping, sank to the floor and curled himself up into a foetal position. Knowing the man had been forbidden to touch his face, he didn’t bother to protect his head. Instead he wrapped his arms around his body.

  Even so, several more ribs cracked under the onslaught of boots. A kick to the kidneys brought tears to his eyes. Somewhere far away, he heard himself grunt and groan at each impact. Pain drowned him, tore him to pieces, ripped his thoughts to an incoherent litany: This will end, it willend, itwillend…

  And then silence, apart from his own moans. He opened his eyes.

  Valerian Fox was smiling at him, his eyes alight with joy. He gestured the two other men out of the cell and bent down. Saker flinched. “I hate you Shenat,” Fox whispered. Words meant for him, and him alone. “I will never rest until you are all gone from this world. Remember as you die, Rampion whoreson, that it will be my hand behind the blade, even if I am not the one to wield it. I shall enjoy telling Fritillary Reedling exactly how and why you died. And know this: one day I shall be Pontifect, and I shall rule all the Va-cherished Hemisphere. Kings and regals shall be my puppets, dancing a galliard to my flute. And the Shenat will crawl into holes in the hills – and die.”