The Lascar’s Dagger

by Glenda Larke

  Va damn you, Fritillary. You hog-tied me with all the secrets.

  If he wanted to understand, then first he had to survive, and the odds were poor. Right then, he was chained upright against the roughness of the stone wall, bare to the waist, with his cleric’s medallion taken from him, his wrists and ankles cuffed, his feet bare. He was awkwardly trussed, and as time went by, his discomfort had transformed into agony. And no one had done anything to him yet.

  Fox had introduced the man stoking up the fire as Ash, the King’s torturer. Saker had no idea if that was his real name and post, or whether it was just Fox’s idea of humour. The Prime was certainly enjoying prolonging the lead-up to the branding. Superficially he was serious, but a closer look at his lean face revealed a fierce joy in the man’s grey eyes, and amusement in the way the lines between his nose and mouth twitched.

  Why did I not see that in him before? I never liked him, but I had no idea he was so … perverted as to enjoy another’s pain. How far do his fingers stick into the dirt of Throssel, I wonder?

  By the oak, Fritillary, was there no way you could have fought the appointment of this horror as Ardrone’s Prime? He’s not doing this because he believes I raped Mathilda; he’s doing it because he hates you, or Shenat. Probably both.

  No, wait a moment. I was marked with the black shadow because he fears me enough to warn others of his ilk that I’m dangerous, or because he wanted to be able to know where I went and what I did. He almost laughed. Here he was, chained to a wall, about to be branded and nulled, and someone feared him?

  “Something amusing you, witan?” the Prime asked.

  “You, Valerian Fox. It amuses me that I worry you.”

  “Worry me? No more than a gnat buzzing around that never manages to bite.”

  “You can’t win this one. Whether I live or die matters little. Either way, I am your downfall.” If I don’t bring you down one day, then the Pontifect will, once she learns what you have done. That thought surprised him, springing into his mind unbidden, yet he knew the truth of it with unaccustomed certainty. Fritillary Reedling would avenge his death somehow or other.

  But why would she? And why am I so certain she would? Another question he couldn’t answer. Infuriating that there was a good chance he might die without getting the answers he wanted.

  “We shall see about that, won’t we?” The Prime turned to Ash, adding, “I think it’s time for us to show this Shenat apostate how much the punishment for his crime is going to hurt.”

  “You sound like a schoolboy who torments kittens for fun,” Saker said.

  Ash seized the grip of the branding iron with a gloved hand and came across the room to where he was cuffed. “Sorry ’bout this, witan,” he said. “Just my job, y’know.”

  “Shall we get on with it, then?” And if I live through this, I swear I’ll work to change things.

  “Look ’ee over there,” Ash said, pointing. Saker turned his head before he realised the request was to make him present his cheek for the branding iron. The shock of its touch was so intense he couldn’t breathe. Time stopped. He smelled the awful stench of burning meat in his nostrils, overpowering, obscene. His own flesh, cooked.

  Ash emptied a bucket of cold water over his head.

  The pain came, searing, obliterating, waves of it, first swelling, then ripping into his consciousness, serrated blades through his skin.

  He gasped, dragging the air back into his lungs. The pain shattered his ability to think. He panted, hoping for control, but the agony was too great. He moaned.

  “Not so much fun now, is it?” the Prime asked. He lowered his voice so that the torturer, now plunging the iron into a bucket of water in a cloud of hissing steam, would not hear. “Let me tell you something, you muck-worm. If I’d known your background when the Pontifect first foisted you on to me, I would have killed you on the spot, just because of the blood you inherited.”

  The words penetrated Saker’s pain, but they only added another layer to a mystery that made no sense to him. He wanted to ask, Whose blood? But he’d get no answer, and he refused to give Fox the satisfaction of asking.

  Teeth clenched, he said, “One day your crimes will catch up with you.” Stupid speech. Why are you wasting your breath? Va’s teeth, talking made his face hurt as if the poker was still burning into him.

  Red waves of pain thundered into his skull.

  The Prime ignored him, and spoke to Ash. “Shall we give him another brand on the other cheek? I rather like the idea of a matching pair.”

  Ash shook his head. “No, y’eminence. Can’t do that. I do what Prince Ryce says. Or the King.”

  Fox stared at him, then capitulated. “Uncuff him from the wall,” he said. He went to open the door and beckoned the officer waiting there. “Sergeant Horntail, get your men to strip this man naked.”

  “You want him naked now?” Horntail asked.

  “Yes, now! He’s to be taken from here to the shrine as bare-arsed as the day he was born.”

  Saker stared at Fox in shock. He was to be paraded naked through the city? Nice touch, you maggot of a befouler.

  “I have to get him there alive, pleasing y’eminence,” Horntail. “It’s curdling cold out on the moor road.”

  “Then give him a horse blanket once you leave the city gates.”

  “Ay, y’eminence. That we can do.” Horntail gestured to his men to set about the job.

  Saker said nothing as he was stripped. Somewhere in the thinking part of his brain, he was glad Horntail had spoken up. It was already near freezing every night, and getting colder day by day as winter crept down from the north.

  “Beware of him,” Fox added. “He’s clever. He’ll invent any story to blacken the royal family. He’ll utter any foul lie in an attempt to protest his innocence. Believe no word that passes his lips, and warn your men likewise.”

  “I will that, y’eminence.”

  “Cut off a piece of that rope over there and tie his hands behind him,” the Prime continued, indicating a coil of cord hanging on the wall. “And keep him tied all the way to the shrine, understand? He’s cunning, and he’ll escape if you aren’t alert.”

  “Yes, y’eminence,” Horntail said. He plucked his knife out of his belt and began to saw off the rope.

  “The King wants him paraded through the palace gardens before you take him into the city.”

  “Yes, your eminence. I was told.” Horntail was still sawing at the rope, and finding it difficult.

  “That’s an interesting dagger. May I have a look?”

  “Reckon it’s not much good to me,” Horntail said, handing it over. “Edges aren’t sharp enough for a job like this. More a stabbing knife than a cutting one.”

  Fox turned it over and over in his hands. “Foreign, surely. Pashali, is it? Where did you get it?” He gave Saker a sharp look as he asked the question.

  “Bought it off a mudlark who was hawking it around the guardhouse this morning. Said he’d picked it up on the mud at low tide.”

  “Strange. I saw something similar recently.” Fox handed it back. “I’d get rid of it if I were you. No good can come out of the Va-forsaken Hemisphere.”

  Saker stared, disbelieving.

  It was the lascar’s kris he’d thrown into Throssel Water.

  “What happened to the finch?” Princess Mathilda asked Sorrel petulantly. “The cage is empty!”

  Sorrel looked up from her mending to where Mathilda sat with a disgruntled expression on her face and her embroidery frame on her lap in the midst of a tumble of coloured threads. As the days passed, the Princess had become increasingly irritable and frustrated with her enforced incarceration.

  The reception room, once always crowded with chattering ladies and courtiers come to visit, was now too large and too silent. When the footmen brought in the meals, their footsteps on the wooden inlay of the floors would echo eerily in the emptiness. Prince Ryce came with his dogs occasionally, but never stayed long. Visits by the court dressmake
r and her assistants were the highlight of Mathilda’s day, but Sorrel wasn’t permitted to be present.

  “The bird died this morning,” she replied. She knew she sounded curt, but she didn’t care. “Once it couldn’t fly, I don’t think it ever recovered its joy in life. I threw the body into the garden from the balcony.”

  Mathilda gave up all pretence of sewing and flung the embroidery frame aside, scattering threads in its wake as it rolled across the floor. “You are cruel.”

  “For throwing away a dead bird? What else was I supposed to do with it – give it a state funeral?” Oh, tush, things have come to a pretty pass when we can argue about the disposal of the corpse of a finch. She bent to pick up the embroidery, smothering a sigh.

  “I’m tired of needlework,” Mathilda complained. “Why does the Prime not come to see me? I’ve asked Ryce three times to tell him I need his spiritual guidance!”

  “I imagine there are many matters that demand his attention.”

  “But he told me I wouldn’t have to marry the Regal if I agreed—” She stopped as if she was aware she’d said too much.

  Sorrel was startled. “He did? If what?” Mathilda had been called to the Prime’s office several times since the trial, escorted there and back by the nuns, but she had never explained why.

  “Nothing. But he did promise me!”

  “I doubt the Prime ever had that power, milady. It’s the King who decides such things. Why would you think the Prime could make such a promise?”

  “Don’t be rude. I know things that you don’t. You should pity me, anyway. You’re so heartless!”

  The Princess turned away, but not before Sorrel caught the oddest expression on her face, as if she suddenly understood something deeply unpalatable.

  So, she thought, Fox deceived you and you’ve just realised. I wonder what it was he tricked you into doing. And then, the incredible thought: It couldn’t have been the Prime who asked you to seduce Saker, surely?

  No, that was too ridiculous. Fiddle-me-witless, I’m losing my mind.

  She glanced across the expanse of the room to where the two cloister nuns were kneeling side by side on prayer stools, eyes closed and lips silently moving. Even though she was certain they were not listening, she lowered her voice but was unable to stop the savagery in her tone. “I can be a great deal more ill-mannered than this. I could perhaps tell milady that you should consider your own behaviour before you judge me heartless. As we speak, Saker is being branded. Within the next day or so, he’s going to die of cold and hunger, his corpse torn to bits by wolves or bears. And all because you seduced him to avoid marrying the Regal!”

  She wanted to scratch Mathilda’s eyes out. How could she do that to Saker, who had been so kind to her? He’d cared. Sorrel had watched him fall in love and fight against it. And all the while, Mathilda had encouraged him. Va-damn, if only she had guessed what Mathilda had intended that night…

  The Princess shrugged. “No, because of what he did. Anyway, it’s too late now to do anything about it.”

  “Not entirely. If I could leave the palace for a day or two, I could save him.” She held her breath. Everything she’d done over the past few days, she’d done to bring them both to this point. Everything depended on the next few moments.

  Mathilda gave a harsh, cynical laugh. “You? How? You’re a nobody. And why would you care anyway?”

  “Why? Because I don’t like the part I played in all this. If you’ll help me, I think he can still be saved. But I need you to conceal my disappearance, at least in the beginning.”

  Mathilda’s large blue eyes, wide with innocence, regarded her. “Why bother? Va will save Witan Saker, so we don’t have to do anything! That’s why they’re leaving him at a shrine, so Va will intervene if he’s innocent. And we know he is.”

  Does she really believe that? Perhaps. With her, I’m never sure. Perhaps she’s even right, and I worry for nothing.

  She curbed the beginnings of a sigh. “Milady, I don’t think you’ve fully thought things through. This has little to do with Va’s justice. It is King Edwayn who cannot allow Saker to live.”

  Mathilda’s eyes widened still further. “Whatever makes you say that? Saker was found guilty by the court and he’s being punished. Isn’t that enough for everyone? Even my father?”

  “Of course it’s not enough! Milady, think!” She was still whispering, but the level of her urgency made her feel she was shouting. “The King believes you were raped. You and I know that’s not the truth. What Saker did was reprehensible, but he doesn’t deserve to die. The King, however, thinks he should. Worse, he will be afraid that the witan will speak of what happened.”

  Mathilda frowned. “Saker would never do that!”

  “Of course not.” Although he might be tempted if he knew you were the one who betrayed him, who probably planned it that way from the first enticing flutter of your eyelashes. “But King Edwayn doesn’t know that and he can’t take any chances.” She resisted a temptation to grab Mathilda and shake her. “Someone is going to kill him. Or at the very least make sure he dies. Perhaps the soldiers who take him away. Although I think it more likely an assassin will be sent to the shrine once he is left alone to suffer his fate. However it is done, Saker Rampion is going to be dead and you and I will be guilty of his murder in the eyes of Va.”

  “Well, what would that matter to you? You’re already a murderer, so what difference would one more make?”

  Sorrel felt the blood leave her face. She gave a quick look at the nuns, but they were still praying, oblivious. “Believe me,” she whispered, “it makes a difference.” And for one fleeting moment, the scene, that horrible, ghastly moment in time she was always trying to flee, flashed before her. Nikard tumbling to his death.

  The spoken words that were both liberating and shaming: This is for Heather…

  She took a deep breath. “Milady, I need to know what shrine he’s being taken to. Can you find out for me?” Her voice was remarkably steady, although she had to keep her hands locked together behind her back to stop her doing something she’d regret. Sweet cankers, what did a man like Saker ever see in such a – such a self-centred flirt-skirt?

  The Princess pouted. “I think you’re exaggerating.”

  “And what if I’m not?”

  There was a long silence before Princess Mathilda replied. Then she said, “So what do you propose?”

  “If I know where—” she began, then stopped as the door to the sitting room was flung open and Prince Ryce strode in with a couple of his fellhounds. The expression on his face was grim. With a gesture he dismissed the nuns to their bedroom and they scuttled away in silence.

  “Thilda, Father wants you out on the balcony now.”

  “What the pox for? It’s cold out there! Ryce, has he reconsidered his decision to insist on my marriage to Vilmar?”

  “No. Thilda, accept its certainty. He believes we need the trade treaty and there’s nothing you can say that will change his mind. And if you tell anyone what Saker did, and the marriage doesn’t go ahead, well, I’ve already told you what Father will do.”

  She stared at him, her face hardening as if she was finally realising there was no way out for her.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, more gently. “I did try, truly. Not once, but several times. He was adamant. He puts Ardrone first, before either of us. That’s who he is – the King.”

  She muttered, too low for him to hear, “It was all for nothing. Everything, for nothing.”

  Ryce waved his hand towards the balcony. “Saker Rampion is being brought up from the Keep and the King wants you to see him from out there.”

  Mathilda paled. “Why?”

  “He wants you to see how Rampion was punished, and I suppose he wants to humiliate the hedge-born lout.” He walked to the door that led to the balcony, opened it and gestured her out. She rolled her eyes, but did as she was told. “Come with me, Celandine,” she ordered.

  Sick to her stomach, Sorrel fo
llowed the royal siblings out on to the balcony, pausing only to grab a wrap for herself and another for Mathilda. She arranged the shawl over the Princess’s shoulders and stepped back, effacing herself as usual, schooling her glamour into dull uniformity. The balcony was narrow, which meant that even standing behind Mathilda’s copious skirts she had a good view.

  She glanced at the King’s balcony further along the palace facade. Edwayn and the Prime were both there, and fifteen or more courtiers. The formal garden below, with its rose-covered walls, neat flower beds and gravelled paths, was empty. There was still autumn colour in some of the bushes, but the last of the flowers was gone, and the fountains had been emptied. She shivered, feeling the first touch of winter as the wind gusted in from the north.

  “Celandine says Father is going to have Rampion killed. Is that true?” Mathilda asked her brother.

  Oh, Va rot her. Why did she have to say that to him? Sorrel shot a glance at the Prince. His look of startled shock was more profound even than the statement warranted.

  Worse, he turned on her in barely controlled fury. “That’s a vicious thing to say, mistress. Watch your tongue!” He glared at his sister. “I wouldn’t repeat that kind of thing if I were you, Thilda. Your ladies should have more discretion!”

  It’s not me that should have more discretion, she thought. It’s Mathilda.

  “Here they come,” the Prince said. “The soldiers are bringing him into the garden now.”

  “Sweet Va,” Mathilda said. “He’s naked.”

  “Milady, look at his face,” Sorrel whispered. His face, so – so damaged. Her heart constricted in her chest, as if she was suddenly made small and helpless. A mouse against the hunger of a mastiff. Alone against the cruelty of the world. I’m crazed. How can I possibly do anything to help him?

  “That’s the branding,” said Prince Ryce. His voice shook and she wondered why. It wasn’t anger she could see on his face. He looked sick. They were friendly, she thought. They must have been. They practised their swords together, they rode together. And often, in the evenings, when there were revels or music, or other entertainment at court, she’d seen them talking and laughing together.