by Glenda Larke
He shook his head as they entered the pothouse. “And no ale, either. We drink rice wine, or cassava wine. Not so good.”
Saker had no idea what cassava was, and had never seen rice, but he didn’t pursue the topic. They ordered bread, cheese and ale, and when it arrived, Ardhi brought up the subject of witchery again. “Is it something that’ll help us inside the castle?” he asked.
“Hardly.” Should he explain? If he didn’t, Ardhi might force him to do so, and he hated the thought of that more.
“We need to work together,” Ardhi reminded him.
He sighed. “I seem to have some weird connection to birds. I know what they are thinking, sort of…” He stopped. Ardhi was staring at him as if he had performed a miracle. “What’s the matter with you?”
“Nothing. It’s just that everything begins to make sense. Why you, I mean, why you and not some other witchery-gifted person. Go on. What about your birds?”
“I didn’t have my witchery when your reeky-damn dagger came sailing across the warehouse at me.” He paused. “Wait – did you just confirm what I’ve been wondering: that your kris had something to do with the choice of this particular giddy-brained witchery of mine?”
Ardhi stared into his tankard, opened his mouth to say something, and closed it again. He shrugged.
Saker took a deep breath. “Others are gifted sensible witcheries. Healing. Enhanced talents and perceptions that are helpful. Skill with farm animals or crops or fishing. Something of use. And what do I get? An understanding of empty-headed bird twitter! People don’t talk about bird-brains for nothing, you know!”
“Perhaps if you tell me what you can do with your birds…”
“They’re not my birds. They’re any birds. I sort of know what they’re thinking. Though they don’t think much at all, really. It’s more – knowing how they feel. Angry, thirsty, scared, wanting to shit or fight or just plain hankering after the drab-feathered birdie in the next tree!”
“Is that all?”
He took a calming breath. “Well, they seem to do things that I want them to do. Sometimes. I don’t know! It’s certainly nothing that will help us enter the Regal’s apartments undetected. No bird is going to tell me that. And if your – your foot-licking kris is to blame for the fact that I have this particular witchery…”
“Well, I don’t know if that’s exactly true,” Ardhi said in a rush, “but I think we might be able to use such a witchery. Just as we can use mine. And the power of my kris, too. Remember those gold pieces in the blade?”
“Hmm. You said they are pieces of Chenderawasi feathers.”
“It’s true. I was there when the kris was made, remember. It will lead you to where the plumes are hidden, if you ask it.”
Saker’s mouth went dry. Va, how he hated things that he didn’t understand. Things he couldn’t control.
Besides, the deeper he became enmeshed in witchery, the closer he felt to the Ways of the Oak and the Flow, and the more remote Va seemed to be.
40
The Breaking Storm
Agusting storm wind sweeping up the estuary slanted rain against the stonework of the outer castle wall. The same wind drove icy needles into Saker’s face. Dark, wet, cold. The stones beneath his feet slippery with slime. No moonlight penetrating the cloud cover.
Fitting weather for dicing with death.
The Regal was entertaining an ambassador from one of the Principalities, and a banquet was in full swing in the Great Hall. They’d waited twelve days for such a night, but now, as Saker watched Ardhi begin the climb up the wall on the windward side of the Keep in a blustery gale, he wondered if they’d made a disastrous mistake. The lascar had one end of a knotted rope tied around his waist as he made his way upwards. Impossible, surely. No one could climb a sheer wall in this weather…
Saker, his feet firmly planted on a narrow ledge of rock at the foot of the wall, paid out the rope through his gloved hands as Ardhi climbed. His foothold at the edge of the cliff was the length of his boot, and slick. Far below him, the river plunged through the rocky gorge in a roar of storm water. He worked hard at not looking down, at not thinking what would happen if Ardhi fell.
The wind tugged at his cloak, whipping the hood away from his head. The garment billowed, slapping him with sodden folds. Cold water trickled down his neck. The eerie wail of the wind squalled around the walls, as unsettling as Ardhi’s climbing witchery.
“Look at how rough this is!” Ardhi had said earlier, running his hand over the stonework. “Salt winds have eaten it away and etched holes into the cracks between the stones. Those are my steps.” And he’d started to climb with breathtaking assurance. Five or six paces up, he even looked down at Saker and waved.
Saker watched yet, almost unable to breathe. He couldn’t see how it was possible. Battered by rain and wind, poorly clad, Ardhi was inching his way upwards using nothing but his fingers and bare toes.
If the lascar died, he – Saker – would be free. Instead of being glad, he feared. Anxiety gnawed at his stomach. He was haunted by the thought of Ardhi’s quest, so important that a youth had made this lonely journey, friendless, to another land he could scarcely have been able to comprehend, let alone imagine.
The rope moved through his fingers, knot after knot. He’s a sailor, he thought. They do this all the time in the cold of storms on a rolling ship. And he’d heard that some of them fell to their deaths, too. Juster losing his grip on the rope … No, he mustn’t think of that. He must remember the witchery Ardhi possessed. He must remember there was a purpose to all this.
But was it a worthy purpose, an honourable cause?
You trust the Way of the Oak, you trust the Way of the Flow, but what about the way of a Chenderawasi dagger? What if the sorcery of the latter was working to destroy the witchery of the former?
The people of the Chenderawasi Archipelago don’t worship Va. Ardhi feared the intrusion of the Va-cherished into his land. Saker was so far out of his depth, he felt himself to be drowning. Right then, there was nothing he would have liked more than to discuss this with the Pontifect.
Think of something else.
He lost sight of Ardhi when he was about halfway up. The night was too dark and the rain blinded him. He squinted against water-laden wind and waited while the minutes dragged by. A sudden jag of lightning briefly illuminated a black figure reaching a hand up towards the crenellations of the battlements, then left him dazzled and unable to see anything.
“Don’t forget your birds,” had been Ardhi’s last words to him. He thought of gulls, the large ones with black wings and flanged yellow beaks. Argumentative, quarrelsome, with wingspans as wide as his outstretched arms, they were the seabirds the fishermen called “buccaneers of the air” because they raided their fishing nets.
He conjured up the thought of them, and bade them come. And they did. One after another, four of them all told. Huge things, swooping out of the darkness, sweeping over his head so close that even in the wind he could feel the downbeat of their wings moving the air. They cried out their welcome, and he sensed their acquiescence to his leadership. He pictured them standing on the battlements, and they wheeled away, climbing upwards.
Just then the rope jiggled, before moving several paces to the right. A moment later there were three tugs, the signal that Ardhi had reached the top safely and the rope was now tied securely to the battlements. Quickly he bundled up his cloak into his pack. His sword and the length of empty bambu Ardhi had given him already poked out of the top. He slung the pack on to his back and began to climb.
His hands moved upwards knot by knot, his knees and feet gripped the rope threaded between. The hemp was slippery with rain. Blistering rattle-brained idiocy. It’d be a Va-blessed miracle if he made it to the top. He’d tied a loop around his waist, hoping that if he slipped, at least he wouldn’t fall all the way to the raging water and the black rocks…
He began to recite a litany to himself: I will not let go. I will not let go. No matter what, I w
ill not let go. At first the words were silent, then spoken under his breath, then shouted into the air where the sound was snatched away into the wailing wind.
Just when he knew he could hold on no longer, words filled with laughter were spoken into his ear, “You can shut up now,” and Ardhi was hauling him up and over the battlements.
For a moment he lay there on the wooden walkway, eyes closed, shuddering. When he did look, it was so dark on the roof he could only make out Ardhi’s silhouette, and would not have recognised him if he hadn’t spoken.
“Not a bad climb for a landlubber,” Ardhi said.
Saker raised himself into a sitting position to undo his pack and pull out his cloak. “Any guards around?”
“No. You were right about that – no one wants to stand in the rain on a cold night to look for mythical attackers. And a couple of thieves is just so unthinkable, right?”
Va-damn. The man was enjoying this. Saker nodded towards the dark shape of a hut built on the flattest part of the roof. A sliver of light escaped from a window opening. “That the guardhouse?”
“Yes. I took a peek. The wardens are huddled around the fire. Four of them.”
They sheltered under the walkway and Ardhi held the cloak over Saker while he lit their lantern, using the kris as a steel for the flint. When the oil-soaked wick caught, he adjusted the shutters so that only a narrow beam of light escaped.
Saker said, “Huddle beneath the walkway. Even if someone leaves the guardhouse, they won’t see you. If I’m not back before first light, you scuttle down that rope.”
Ardhi nodded as he handed his kris over. “Don’t forget your birds.”
The seagulls were lined up along the crenellations of the battlements, stoically facing into the wind with their heads hunkered in. By the oaks, the mewlers were huge.
Ardhi placed a hand on his shoulder. “May the protection of the Chenderawasi go with you.”
He hesitated, wondering how to answer that. What did he mean: the islands? The paradise birds? The magic? Finally he said, “You forced this on me, but if you spake the truth, then this is the honest thing to do.” With that, he walked away.
With Sorrel’s map fixed firmly in his mind, he located the doorway in the corner turret and pushed the heavy wooden door open. Inside were the stairs descending to the kitchens and opening on to every floor between. Fixing his gaze on the row of seagulls still huddling in the rain, he called soundlessly to them.
One by one they took off and flew through the doorway to land at his feet on the flagstones of the stair landing. Four flying weapons, over which he had tenuous control. They shook their feathers, scattering water, and began to preen. He didn’t know how he was controlling them. All he did was imagine what he wanted them to do.
They are no more free than I am. Ardhi coerces me, and I coerce fobbing gulls. Bemused and unsettled, he shook his head. I don’t care what Ardhi says, I don’t like this Chenderawasi magic.
He left the door open and by the meagre candlelight he descended, past the doors to the first two floors, towards the landing of the third. If Sorrel had given him the correct directions, he had just bypassed the servants’ quarters and the upper royal solar where Mathilda had her apartments. She wouldn’t be there, of course; she’d be down in the Great Hall somewhere, sitting beside the Regal.
He had no wish to see her, and the thought took him by surprise. A line of poetry echoed in his memory. When passion passes, lo, even the embers darken.
Behind him, the birds followed, unhappily fluttering from step to step. They hated the dark and narrow stairwell. He could feel them rebelling against his will. He calmed them with thoughts of food and safety and warm sunlight. On the third landing, he halted and stroked them one by one with a gentle finger until he was sure he had their trust.
This floor was where the Regal had his private rooms as well as the chambers of his office. Sorrel had told him that on the other side of the closed door there were usually two wardens, each armed with a pike. She’d thought it more likely there’d only be one on duty on a banquet night, because extra guards were needed down on the lower floors.
He arranged the seagulls. Three of them he sent to the stairs below the landing, blocking the way down. The last bird he placed prominently at the foot of the stairs going up. The bird looked back at him, cocking its head, its round yellow eye fixing him with a bad-tempered glare. Saker positioned himself so that he would be hidden by the door when it swung open, then extinguished his lantern. He was shivering, and told himself it was because he was soaking wet and cold, nothing to do with the chill of his fear.
He rapped smartly on the panelling with his sword hilt and, using his will rather than words, bade the seagull on the upper stairs flap and caw angrily.
As he expected, the door was abruptly flung open. Through the crack of the hinges, he saw only one young man, blocking the way with his pike. Light illuminated the landing and the gull.
“What the slumbering whoreson…?” the warden muttered, in a mixture of surprise and annoyance. Without thinking, he plunged through the doorway, swinging his pike at the only bird he noticed.
At the same time, Saker forced his will on the mewler, sending it blundering up the stairs and out into the night. The warden hesitated, still on the landing. If he turned, he would be bound to see Saker incompletely concealed behind the door.
Saker ordered the other three birds into the air and they obeyed. Screaming their anger, they flew straight at the young warden. Their cries echoed, bouncing off the walls like the night-howlers of Lowmian legends. The narrow stairwell was filled with raucous cries and beating wings. The horrified man made an attempt to swing his pike at the first bird, but in the confines of the stairwell he caught the wall on his backswing instead. One gull slashed at him with its beak and opened up a cut on his forehead. Terrified, the warden stumbled, dropped his pike and tumbled down the steps.
Saker had intended to overpower him, but it was unnecessary; the man had knocked himself out cold. Quickly he sent the gulls on their way, their job done for the night. He closed the door to the roof, and half closed the door to the gallery, praying that no one noticed the guard was missing from his post. He stripped off his own outer clothes and began to do the same for the young warden. The unconscious body was awkwardly uncooperative, but finally he was wearing the uniform of a Castle Warden. The ridiculous many-tasselled hat was too small and perched on top of his head, but other than that the clothes were a good fit.
The warden, he was glad to see, was a good colour, and breathing steadily. With some difficulty, he dressed him again, using his own discarded clothing. Then he wrapped him tightly in his still wet cloak. That, he thought, might delay the discovery that the man was not wearing his uniform.
Picking up the fallen pike, he stepped out of the stairwell into the gallery. He was in a long, broad passageway with rooms opening on either side. And walking towards him was another warden. At a guess, he was the guard posted at the main staircase entry at the far end of the gallery, come to see why his counterpart was missing. Without giving him time to think, Saker placed the axe head of his pike so that it shaded his face from the torch burning nearby and snapped authoritatively, “Get back to your post! Quickly now, before anyone sees you’ve left it.”
The man stopped. “What’s up, then?” he asked.
“The youngster had the trots is all, and asked to be relieved.” He grinned.
The man guffawed, turned on his heel and marched quickly back to his post. Saker followed, soft-footed, trusting the fellow wouldn’t glance behind. He counted off the doors on the left until he came to the one that led – if Sorrel’s information was correct – to the Regal’s private chambers.
Breathing a sigh of relief, he pressed down on the door handle and eased his way inside. And then felt the familiar rush of exhilaration that accompanied the need for stealth. His senses heightened, his heartbeat quickened, his alertness sharpened. This, this was the kind of danger he enjoyed
. The unknown, the challenge. Even if Sorrel had the right door, she was unfamiliar with the layout of the Regal’s rooms. He smiled as he closed the door behind him and looked around.
He was in some kind of reception chamber. None of the candles were lit, but a fire burned in the large fireplace at one end, with chairs grouped around it. Treading softly, he crossed to the exit on the other side. He stood for a moment, ear to the panelling of the closed door. All was silent. When he stepped through, he found himself in what might have been a dressing room; there were certainly enough chests and cupboards to have concealed ample clothing for a royal personage. Two doors led into other rooms. From one, he heard the murmur of voices.
“I tell you, I heard a noise,” a woman said, the words springing into clarity as she raised her voice. “Go and have a look. It might be a rat or something.” The reply was a soothing murmur, then a man’s low laugh.
Saker drew the kris and laid it across his palm. He had no idea what he would do if it swung towards the occupied room, but he was in luck. It settled on his hand with the point firmly indicating the other door. He eased it open a crack and listened. All was quiet within. He pushed it wider and stuck his head inside. It was the Regal’s bedchamber, dominated by an enormous four-poster bed with elaborate drapes and tasselled ties. An open fire burned in here too, with an intricate metal fireguard protecting the hearth from rolling logs.
And, Va be thanked, no one was around.
He glanced down at the dagger on his palm again. It pointed to a wooden chest, strewn with cushions, occupying the space beneath a window embrasure. From the size of the window and the fact that it was glazed, it must have looked out over the inner bailey. As he walked to the chest, the kris vibrated on his palm like a leaf trembling in the wind.
Placing the dagger on the floor, he squatted to remove the cushions and open the lid. It was locked, so he dug in his pocket for his lock picks. The locking mechanism was a simple one and he soon had the lid open. The kris spun like a beetle on its back. Lying on top of a silken cloth were the Chenderawasi plumes, made into a gold-handled fan.