The Lascar’s Dagger

by Glenda Larke

  “Where are they taking him?” Mathilda asked the Prince. “Which shrine?”

  “The one up at the top of Chervil Moors, near the pass to Crowfoot.” His voice was tight with emotion. Perhaps there was anger there, but there were threads of so much more as well.

  “They’ll be lucky if they get that far by tomorrow night,” Sorrel muttered. “He’ll be dead by then if he’s travelling naked. I thought the whole idea was to get him into a shrine where Va could make a judgement on him.” Oh, Saker…

  The Prince gave her a hard look. “I hope he is dead by tomorrow night,” he said. “After what he’s done, he deserves no better.” He continued to regard her as if he was puzzled that a mere handmaiden would venture to have an opinion. “No thanks to you, mistress! Whoever gave you permission to defend that – that knave in court?”

  “I was unaware that I had to seek permission to tell the truth before a court of law, your highness.” She said the words steadily enough, but her heart was racing.

  “You are both insolent and foolish,” he snapped, and turned away, his dislike palpable.

  He probably doesn’t even remember my name, she thought. A servant means nothing to these people. By the oak, how much longer do I have to live like this? She turned her attention back to the small group of people now crossing the garden. A dozen guards under the leadership of a sergeant surrounded Saker Rampion.

  She tried for dispassion as she gazed at him. Tall, broad across the shoulder, muscular too, in the way of a man used to an outdoor life rather than that of a more sedentary witan or scholar. His arms were pinioned behind his back. He stood tall as if not ashamed of his nakedness. Courage, she thought. And honour too, I suppose. To save Mathilda’s reputation, he’s kept his mouth shut about her willingness.

  He looked up towards the King, his gaze neutral. One of the guards lost his temper, and kicked the back of his leg so that he fell to his knees. Instead of continuing to look at Edwayn, his gaze moved to Mathilda. It was only then that his eyes dropped to the ground.

  “The arrogance of the hedge-born scallion! How dare he look at you like that,” Ryce muttered to Mathilda. “It would be a pleasure to strike his head from his shoulders.” To Sorrel’s ears, there was something odd in his tone; it lacked the viciousness of his words.

  She couldn’t stand it any longer. She turned on her heel and went back inside. Curse them all, she hated feeling helpless. She was so sick of it. Too many years penniless under Nikard’s thumb, and now under Mathilda’s…

  She squared her shoulders. The time had come for her to do something. Damn them all! If it was up to her to save Saker, she would. She bent to pat the fellhounds that had followed her inside, trying not to remember what she had just seen. The dogs fawned and wagged their tails in delight. “One day,” she whispered to them. “One day soon, I swear I’ll be free again.”

  Saker tried not to think about the humiliation. To stand there naked, and look up to see the faces staring down on him from the balcony … He shivered, and it wasn’t entirely the cold. Rage. Contrition. Embarrassment. Shame. How was it possible to feel so many things at once and to be seared to the soul by them all? Somehow he managed it.

  The King stood in front, outrage and scorn and hatred in the folded arms, in the glower of his brows. At his shoulder stood Valerian Fox, faintly smiling, that smug vulpine smirk of his. A whole array of courtiers were lined up behind them. Some laughing and chatting – he could imagine the jokes – but most just standing there, looking at him, which was worse.

  He’d been so proud of himself. So sure no one would get the better of him, not him, not smart, skilled Saker. He was the Pontifect’s best; the hunter after truth, the clever spy, the sharp-witted investigator. He was both the quiet man who noticed things other men didn’t, and the fighter who could battle his way out of any corner.

  And now humbled, disgraced, naked, a figure of fun.

  Knocked to his knees, he took a deep breath and moved his gaze to the next balcony along. The one outside the Princess’s apartments. Mathilda was there, and so was Celandine Marten, and Prince Ryce. He ignored Celandine. Mathilda’s face was expressionless. She was holding on to the balustrade, looking down on him and the guards.

  Oh, in the name of Va, I’m sorry, Mathilda.

  And yet, and yet, it had been so perfect. It was hard to regret something that had been so wonderful.

  He wished he could talk to her one more time.

  Miserably, he thought of the Pontifect. She would never forgive what he’d done. He wasn’t sure he would ever forgive himself. How could love be so wrong? And yet it had been. Of course it had.

  Stupid. He should be thinking about survival. That was the only thing that counted now. He had to live and he had no idea of how he was going to do that. He looked back at the Prime.

  One day, he thought, I’m going to kill you, Valerian Fox. If that’s the only thing I have to live for, then that’s what is going to keep me alive.

  Sergeant Horntail ordered him back to his feet, and as he stood, he thought he saw pity in the man’s eyes and wondered if he’d be able to turn that to his advantage. Because I will not die. As he was led away, his gaze met Mathilda’s for one last brief moment. He’d never see her again and the grief he felt was the final coating on his misery.

  He asked, “Tell me, Sergeant, where are we going?”

  “Chervil Moors shrine. We won’t get there until tomorrow afternoon, so we have a long ride ahead of us. We’ll be camping out tonight.”

  Chervil Moors? Va grant the scurvy plague to whoever had chosen that particular shrine. The highest, most windswept place they could think of, at a guess.

  He said neutrally, “It’ll be a cold night, then.”

  Horntail didn’t reply.

  One of Fox’s clerics went ahead of Horntail’s mounted detachment of guards, ringing a bell to alert the townsfolk there was something afoot, and people came to see. He heard the whispered word that spread through the crowd: “Nullification.” He saw several men shrug and mutter that it was Faith business, and no concern of theirs. Grubby children laughed and pointed, indulging their love of gutter language to poke fun at him. Women, he noted, were kinder, wincing at the mess of his face, although he did hear some ribald comments referring to his manhood. “Pity if they nullify that,” one bawd yelled, bringing a flush to his cheeks.

  A couple of youths threw muck from the street at him. When he ducked and a particularly malodorous clump sailed over his head and hit the mount of one of his escort, Horntail’s men were quick to prevent any repeat.

  His shame stayed with him, though, stinging him far more than the cold, to be felt long after they left the city. Several miles beyond the walls, Horntail gave him his clothes and told him to dress, muttering, “I’m damned if I’ll let you die before we reach the shrine.” Once Saker was clothed again, the Sergeant rebound his hands, but this time in front instead of behind his back. “And I have a horse for you too.”

  Mounted up, trying not to feel the ache of his broken ribs and bruised kidneys, or the agony of his face that was jabbing its damnable way into his skull to rot his brain, he forced himself to focus on the problem of Horntail’s dagger.

  He was certain it was Ardhi’s Chenderawasi kris. He couldn’t believe an arbitrary coincidence had brought it into Horntail’s hands, either. It was following him.

  Va-forsaken sorcery. That idea no longer scared him as much as it had. After all, anything that didn’t like Valerian Fox must contain something of value.

  23

  Risk

  Sorrel faced Mathilda across the expanse of the Princess’s bed, her chin raised. The Princess was speaking, and on the surface she was being at her most imperious. Sorrel suspected that underneath she was terrified.

  “You are far too disrespectful! I don’t care what you know, I am still your princess and I deserve your loyalty.”

  For a moment she regarded Mathilda with dispassion, wondering how best to proceed. Threat
en her? Blackmail her? Reason with her? Sometimes I forget how young she is … Young in years, young in experience, yet bred at court amid distrust and vicious rivalry, understanding that she was no more than a precious jewel to be bartered. She knew enough to be suspicious and bitter, and to use people.

  Sorrel’s initial rage at what the Princess had done to Saker faded. Mathilda had been dealt wealth and position at birth, but no one had ever loved her enough to fight for her. Even Ryce’s defence had been half-hearted.

  “Milady, we both know things about the other that could ruin us. I have trusted you with my secret for over a year; now it’s up to you to trust me with yours. After all, neither of us can afford to betray the other, can we?”

  Mathilda bit her lip, thinking. Then she said slowly, “I hold the best game piece. Everyone will believe me because of who I am. They believed me when I said I was ravished. No one will believe you if you say something different.”

  “You might have trouble convincing people I am Sorrel Redwing. Sorrel was blue-eyed and black-haired, and I’m just … grey and mousy. Besides, no one would believe you knowingly employed a murderess!”

  “I’d tell them about how you use glamours!”

  “Unwise. Imagine admitting to taking me into the royal household knowing I possess a witchery making it easy to spy on the court! I think your father’s anger would be something to behold if he knew that.”

  She softened her tone, gentled her voice. “Mathilda, you saved my life. I owe you. I’ll go to Lowmeer with you because you say you need me. I’ll be on that ship when it leaves Betany, I promise. But right now, I have to save Saker Rampion, because if I don’t, his death will haunt both of us for the rest of our lives.”

  “I don’t want him to die. I thought Va would save him.”

  “I know.”

  “What guarantee have I you’ll return?” She was tearful now; Sorrel could see the glisten in her eyes, hear the quaver in her voice. For the first time, she believed she was seeing a genuine emotion from the Princess. No artifice, no pretence.

  “Where would I go? Here in Ardrone, one false step on my part could lead me to the gibbet. I want to go to Lowmeer. I’ll be safer. Help me save Witan Saker, and I’ll go with you, I swear.”

  “I warn you, if you betray me, or if you don’t return, I will make you regret that you were ever born.” She took a deep breath, and the tearful eighteen-year-old was gone. She was the Princess again, the royal daughter who was never allowed to be weak. “So what do I have to do?”

  “Tell everyone my moon’s bleed is upon me, I feel unwell and have taken to my bed. Tell the nuns I sleep a lot and eat little at this time of the month. Keep them out of my room. That should give me five or six full days to go and return. If someone does realise I’m missing, pretend amazement and say I was here last time you looked. If something goes wrong and I can’t get back into the palace, I’ll join you on the ship. Trust me. I’ll be there.”

  “Swear it on the Way of the Oak. Swear it!”

  “I swear,” she said, and wondered if she’d live long enough to fulfil the vow.

  Midnight, a night of deep dark. If there was a moon, clouds smothered its light. Outside in the palace grounds, the watchman called the hour. Sorrel walked to the door of the nuns’ bedroom and listened with her ear to the panelling. One of the women was snoring. Apart from that, all was quiet.

  “Ooh,” Mathilda said, sounding awed as she watched. She clapped her hands, laughing softly. “You really do look like Ryce! I wish I could do that. It would be such fun.”

  It wasn’t fun; it was hard work that left her exhausted, and she’d only just begun. The clothes she wore were Saker’s, not Ryce’s, so she’d glamoured them to rich lace and velvet and adorned herself with rings and brooches, none of which was real. She could glamour the way the Prince walked, the set of his shoulders, the swing of his arms, but there was nothing she could do disguise the fact that she was a hand span shorter than he was.

  She picked up her cloak from where it lay on the bed, placed it over her shoulders and tied it at the neck. Lastly she put on Saker’s velvet hat and sword, then glamoured both to fit Ryce’s taste.

  Mathilda was only satisfied after a number of adjustments, but in the end Prince Ryce was ready. He was a little smaller than usual, but nonetheless convincing, or so Mathilda said.

  “Time to go.” Sorrel sounded calmer than she felt.

  Mathilda jumped. “Oh, Va above! It’s so – so strange to hear your voice coming out of Ryce’s lips. You – you will be careful, won’t you?” For the first time in the two years since they’d met, the Princess looked genuinely woebegone. “I mean, it’s night-time. You may look like a man, but it’s dark out there and you’ll have no escort and you don’t know how to use that sword of Saker’s and you can’t fight and there are all sorts of cutpurses and fiends and horse thieves in the city and what about the midden-dwellers under the wall outside…”

  Sorrel, touched, had opened her mouth to utter something kind and comforting when Mathilda added tearfully, “What will I do without you? I’ll be so alone here! I can’t speak to those nuns with their silly silence vows, and no one but Ryce is allowed to talk to me and he said he’s going off hunting and it will be so lonely without him…”

  “It will only be for a few days,” Sorrel said brusquely. “You’ll have the dressmakers in every day, and the shoemakers and the lacemakers and who knows who else. You may be about to marry far from your family, but you’ll show everyone how you have the courage of Throssel kings and queens in your blood.”

  Mathilda sniffed, straightened and raised her chin. She held out her hand to be kissed, but Sorrel didn’t take it. Instead she bent and brushed her lips against the Princess’s cheek. “Be careful,” she said and headed for the door.

  Behind her, Mathilda didn’t move. When Sorrel glanced back, she was raising her hand to her cheek, either astonished that a mere commoner could be so forward, or moved by the unbidden sign of affection. With Mathilda, there was no knowing which. And, being Mathilda, she wouldn’t recognise that the kiss was born more of compassion than love.

  Sorrel picked up the candle burning in its lantern near the door, and the bundle of things she was taking with her, and stepped out into the passage.

  The two guards sprang to attention as soon as the door opened. They were the new watch detail, unaware that Prince Ryce had not come to see his sister that evening. She ignored them both and strode away, lengthening her stride and swinging the lantern so that shadows danced.

  Perspiration trickled down her neck despite the cold of the passage. She’d stuffed the toes of Saker’s large shoes with cloth, but it was hard to walk with any semblance of nonchalance when she felt so clumsy wearing them. She half expected to hear the guards shout an alarm, and resisted the almost overwhelming desire to look back over her shoulder.

  You are a prince, confident that no one will question you…

  She took the branching passage that led to the chapel, and once out of sight of the guards she leant against the wall. Shuddering in relief, she allowed the princely glamour to fall away.

  Sounds of drunken laughter jerked her back to reality. The danger wasn’t over yet. Pulling herself away from the wall, she walked on, building another glamour. It was easier this time around; she didn’t change the appearance of her clothing at all, and left her hair and eyes their natural colour. All she did was make a few adjustments to her face to appear more masculine. This would be the face she’d keep on the journey.

  A pair of drunken courtiers passed her by, and a little further on, two manservants on their way to bed, all of them scarcely noticing her presence. Buoyed by their lack of interest, she headed for the royal chapel.

  It was eerily dark inside, and her footsteps echoed back at her from the cambered ceiling. She walked briskly to the side door, only to find it bolted, with a youth sound asleep on a straw pallet thrown across the threshold. She hadn’t expected this. Perhaps it was somethin
g new; commenced as a result of Mathilda’s supposed ravishment in the chapel. She shook the lad awake.

  “Unbolt the door, my fellow,” she said, pitching her voice several registers lower than usual. “I’m on royal business tonight, and in a hurry.”

  To her own ears she sounded like a woman trying unsuccessfully to imitate a man, but he didn’t flinch or call her identity into question. His job was to prevent people entering the royal wing, not leaving it, and he didn’t even bother to look at her properly. He had the door open before he was even fully awake. Blessing the fact that underlings were usually scared of upsetting those they assumed to be further up the hierarchy, she stepped outside.

  You can do this. Keep calm, pretend. You are infinitely above a stable boy. Forget Celandine, handmaiden. Forget Sorrel. You are a man, your name is Burr Waxwing and you have legitimate business which is no concern of your inferiors.

  Still swinging the lantern with a confidence she didn’t feel, her heart pounding under her ribs, she briskly crossed the courtyard to the stables. She was oddly aware of the freedom trousers gave her, and the way she couldn’t feel the roughness of the cobbles under her feet while wearing a man’s boots.

  A small brazier burned outside the stables. An ill-dressed stable lad smelling of horses was hunched over it to keep himself warm and awake.

  “Messenger on royal business to the Prime,” she said with all the peremptoriness she could muster. “I need a horse. Now.”

  “Y’own or a stable hack?” he asked, jumping up without suspicion.

  “Is that dappled grey of the nulled witan still here?”

  He nodded. “Ay.”

  “It should have been sent over to Faith Hall by now, tackle and all. Didn’t you know that? It’s all the property of the Prime’s office.”