The Lascar's Dagger (11 page)

Saker drew in a sharp breath. “Blister your lying tongue, Da. I don’t believe it!”

“Believe what you will, you ninny. She didn’t care enough to stay, or to take her mewling son with her. I didn’t want you, but she left you anyway.”

Just then, the door of the house opened and his stepmother came out, carrying a pail. She stopped dead when she saw him. “My, the brat is back again. What the hog’s piddle do
you
want?” She put down the pail, placed her hands on her hips and thrust her chin out in his direction.

Va-less damn,
he thought.
They
have
come down in the world
. There’d been a time when she would never have lugged a pail. They’d had servants to do that.

“Naught to do with you,” his father said to her. “Go back in the house and mind your hearth.”

For a moment, Saker thought she might defy her husband, but in the end she shrugged and went inside. His father turned to him, saying, “Get going, you botch of nature. Clear out, and don’t come here again. You’ll learn naught from me. You want the truth, go talk to that Pontifect of yours. She’s the one who knows and she’s the one who’ll feed me to the pigs if I utter a word she don’t approve of.” With that remark, he stomped away across the yard.

Saker hesitated, wondering if there was anything else he could say that would make a difference. In the end he decided there wasn’t. His mother wouldn’t have left him. His father was lying, of course he was.

On his way back to the village road, he crossed the stone bridge over the stream where he’d learned to swim. The rushes still grew along the bank and the ducks still dabbled there. He led his horse down to drink, his mind drifting back to his boyhood. His favourite game had been to hide under the water, breathing through a hollow rush stalk, until his young half-brothers had been scared out of their wits thinking him dead.

… the corpse and the bit o’ wood bobbing alongside…

Not
floating
, flat on top of the water, but bobbing, like a floating bottle. He stood still, mouth falling open.
Sweet Va, that bloody lascar
.

Bambu was hollow. Ardhi was no more drowned than he himself had been as a boy.

W
hen Saker entered the Prime’s office in the Ardronese royal city of Throssel for the first time, Valerian Fox was seated behind a table at the far end of the room. As he approached, trying to soften the noise of his footsteps on the wooden floor, Fox said, without prior greeting, “I fail to understand what sort of service you’ll be providing the Prince and Princess that they don’t already receive.”

How in all Va’s world am I supposed to answer that?
He decided not to say anything.

He’d expected to see someone of fifty or sixty, and was surprised to find Fox couldn’t have been much past forty. His habit was unadorned, but it was fine velvet; gold buckles shone on his shoes and the lace of his undershirt frilled at his wrists and neck. Two fingers on either hand were decorated with ornate rings. His Va medallion was gem-studded.

He leaned back in his chair and stared at Saker. “You’re not old enough to have suitable experience or maturity, and your family is of modest origin, yet you presume to be the spiritual adviser of the man who will one day be king?”

Oh, sweet swill in a trough. I think I loathe him already.
“I don’t presume anything, your eminence. Least of all to question the orders of her reverence the Pontifect.” He tried to sound respectful. “If I had to guess why she chose me over others more polished, I’d assume it is because of my university learning.”

Fox picked up a letter from the table and scanned it with a frown. The lascar’s dagger chose that moment to wriggle in the pocket of Saker’s robe. Surreptitiously he clamped a hand over it, jamming it against his thigh.
Pox on the damned thing!

“Yes,” Fox said, mercifully oblivious to his squirming, “she has listed your credentials here.” He shrugged and laid the letter back down. Then, with a charming smile, he added, “And of course you’re correct: neither of us should question the decisions of the Pontifect. A woman is entitled to her little foibles, is she not? Welcome to Throssel, Witan Rampion. My secretary has arranged your accommodation in Throssel Palace, rather than here in Faith House with my clerics and administrative staff, so you can be closer to your charges. You’ll report to me in person once a week, and supply a written report for the Pontifect once a month.”

The next half-hour was a tedious lecture on how to behave at court, covering everything from what was appropriate for him to discuss with the royal offspring, to the depth of his bow to the various levels of courtiers. The Prime remained seated while he had to stand uncomfortably, his stance made awkward by the need to press the dagger flat against his leg.

By the time he made his escape, he knew two things for sure: the Prime was a condescending pizzle of a man, and he – Saker – was going to buy a thicker leather sheath for that fobbing lascar blade.

As he looked about the crowded hall of Throssel Castle at his first official function, Saker felt a chill of isolation. He was surrounded by people, yet couldn’t see anyone he knew, not even the Prime. Valerian Fox had departed for the north, saying the Shenat Primordial heresy needed his attention, which had left Saker regretting he hadn’t told his father to discourage his half-brother from mixing with those muckle-headed zealots.

King Edwayn was present, sitting up on the dais with several of his councillors and courtiers while the remains of the meal were being cleared to make way for the entertainment, a troupe of itinerant tumblers.

I feel I’m dressed for a funeral while everyone else wants to look like a Pashali parrot
, Saker thought as his gaze swept the crowd of courtiers and liveried servants.
Loathsome, confining garb.

He was obliged to wear a cleric’s sombre dark green gown and matching velvet hat. The robe buttoned under his chin fell to precisely a thumb’s length above the floor, as dictated by the office of the Prime.
The only adornment a witan was permitted was the silver medallion, so the whole ensemble was definitely funereal, in stark contrast to the courtiers surrounding him. The array of colour and glitter within shouting distance would have cast even Pashali parrots into gloom, and left him with the feeling that the court of the King of Ardrone was more alien to him than the docks of Ustgrind. Among the women, feathers seemed to be in fashion, and each elaborate hairdo was decorated with shimmering plumes.

“Tell me, what is a witan doing at a licentious revelry such as this?”

The voice behind him did not belong to anyone he knew, but he didn’t need a name to realise he was being mocked. He turned, and found himself looking up into the tanned features of a lean but well-muscled man who was taller than him by a hand span, and older by ten years or so. He was definitely dressed like a parrot, with a heavily embroidered doublet, sleeves trimmed with lace cuffs, velvet pantaloons, and numerous items of ostentatious jewellery scattered about his person.

The twinkle in his eyes as he raised his wine goblet to his lips told Saker the mockery was possibly more friendly than otherwise, but before he could decide, the man continued, “Don’t tell me you are here to chastise us for our extravagance and wanton behaviour, because I’m sure you’d have no success. And I would be forced to mock you with my sharp wit.”

“I’m sure I have far too much sense to try,” Saker replied, “even if it was my inclination. Perhaps my gloomy plumage deceives you.”

“Hmm. The garb
is
somewhat sober. Or do I mean sombre? Forgive me, I have imbibed too much wine. A poor habit of mine when on shore.”

“May I ask which neither sober nor sombre courtier I have the pleasure of addressing?”

The man grinned at him and sketched an extravagant bow. “At last! A cleric with a sense of humour. We have need of such. Lord Juster Dornbeck, younger son of an obscure family, ne’er-do-well on land, successful privateer on the high seas, trader to Karradar in the Summer Seas. At your service.”

“I assure you, my lord, being a cleric does not necessarily preclude possession of a sense of humour. My name is Saker Rampion. I am the recently appointed spiritual adviser to the Prince and Princess.”

Lord Juster threw back his head and roared with laughter. When he’d finished wiping the tears from his eyes, he said, “I wish you luck with that, witan.” He leaned closer, lowered his voice and added, “The Prince has few interests outside horseflesh, hounds and light-skirt wantons. He has to be dragged to the chapel on holy days.”

Taken aback by the candour, he said nothing.

“The Lady Mathilda on the other hand,” Lord Juster continued, “appears pious. Intelligent and well read, but cunning and conniving, too, for that is the only way a maiden has power in a man’s world. You may have met your match in the pair of them.”

“And to think that I thought a year or two at court would be boring! Why, already I have met an interesting nobleman who must be foolishly in his cups, if he is bold enough to make personal remarks about the royal family to a complete stranger.”

“Ah, a riposting cleric! But I’ve not said anything that is not known to the entire court, including His Majesty the King. Have you met your charges yet?”

“Not yet. I thought it would be easy, but they always seem to have something else to do. I know the Prince is not here tonight.”

Juster glanced around. “He’s more likely to be out carousing with some of his young courtier friends. The Princess, however, is yonder, the lovely fair-haired lass in the blue dress surrounded by her gaggle of nattering ladies.”

He turned to look in the direction Juster indicated. At first, all he saw was a dozen women, varying in age from twenty or so up to fifty, dressed in gowns with absurd skirts too large to pass freely through a doorway. Then, in the middle, he saw her, clad in a less ornate style. More a neatly elegant bluebird than a Pashali parrot. The blue of her kirtle repeated the blue of her eyes, and her featherless snood did not quite cover a head of fair curls. She was laughing, her eyes dancing with amusement.

His heart lurched up into his throat.
That
was the Lady Mathilda? Fobbing damn, but she was the loveliest woman he’d seen all evening, a waft of fresh air amidst all the pomp and posing.

“Delightful, isn’t she?” Lord Juster said. “But not for the likes of us, witan, so it’s no use looking so smitten. She’s destined for greater things, is our beloved Princess.”

“They have a marriage arranged already? She’s only seventeen.” Smitten? It would be easy enough with someone so lovely. Banish the thought. It’d be enough to earn a rope around his neck.

“So? Her mother married at fourteen. I’ve heard whispers the King thinks Regal Vilmar Vollendorn of Lowmeer a suitable groom, since his third wife died a few months back. Or was it his fourth? He does run through spouses at
such
a pace! But a pending betrothal may well be rumour; I’m not close enough to the seat of power to know the difference between faulty tattle and well-founded gossip.”

Bile rose in his throat. That fresh young woman to be the bride of an old and raddled monarch? The idea was nauseating! “Well, I hope the rumour is indeed faulty. Regal Vilmar is far too old for her.”

“Here, my lad,” Juster said to a passing potboy. “More wine!” As the lad topped up his goblet, he asked, “And when does age matter in royal marriages? What counts is the accounting, don’t you think? In short, how much is a virgin bride worth to each contracting party when they sign the documents?”

The remark was flippant, but Saker felt the man was more cynical than unkind. He said, “I can’t imagine what Ardrone would gain by such a marriage.” His stomach churned at the idea. What was it the Pontifect had said about something deeply evil in Lowmeer that the Regal deliberately concealed? He glanced across the room again, where the Princess now chatted with several courtiers, flirting outrageously with her fan.

Seventeen years old. Va above
.

“Who understands the ways of kings? The idea that the royal backside on the Basalt Throne one day in the future would have his blood might appeal to King Edwayn.” Dornbeck raised his goblet, grinning, and downed his wine. Saker was beginning to think there wasn’t much the man took seriously. His hobby was doubtless making cynical comments on life’s idiocies, and he’d homed in on Saker because he thought that in a naive witan he’d found a good subject to goad.

“Tell me,” Juster asked, “what do you do when you’re not advising young royals on what they ought and ought not to think? Do you hunt?”

“Not a pastime open to witans, my lord. Hunting as a sport is at odds with the Way of the Oak.”

“But you do ride, I assume?”

“Of course. But I’ve just sold the nag I used to get here.”

“May I persuade you to invest in a good mount? I’ll take you out to my cousin’s place. It’s not far from the city and he breeds fine horses. He’s also a terrible gambler and always in need of money. You
will
want a horse, believe me. Without one, you’ll never get close to Prince Ryce. Nothing he likes better than risking his neck jumping hedges. Don’t understand it myself. I
much
prefer the deck of a ship underfoot than a saddle beneath my arse.”

“That’s very kind of you. Unless you’re thinking to sell me a spavined nag. I should warn you, I do know my horseflesh.”

“Alas, to think so ill of me after such short acquaintance! I’m wounded. But still, I think I like you, Saker Rampion. Are you interested in ships and sailing?”

There was invitation in his glance, which Saker ignored. “I fear I believe a ship is merely a piece of wood to get me from one place to another, preferably without sinking,” he said diplomatically.

“Sacrilege! I hereby rescind my affection for your person.”

“I think perhaps that’s wise, Lord Juster.”

“Oh dear, again you disappoint me. But if you’re not interested in swinging in a berth in the captain’s cabin, may I offer you a word to the wise about avoiding the enticement of the fairer sex? Beware the lady who is approaching right now, because a maiden’s innate predatory charm is hard to combat.”