The Lascar's Dagger (15 page)

“No, and I’m not worried about mysterious daggers, either. Come, let me buy you a drink…”

“Not until you tell me what you think threatens us.” He stayed stubbornly still, refusing to move as the nobleman began to walk away.

When Juster realised he wasn’t following, he stopped and regarded him with a sober stare. His next words were said so quietly they were hard to hear. “The greatest danger is always the closest. The hound guarding the crib, the man carrying the lantern to light your way, the worm eating its way into the ship’s hull, the woman lying beside you. You’ve already seen the seeds of your downfall.”

“Oh, a pox on that. I hate riddles. Say what you mean out loud.”

“I will, when I’m sure of the truth and when you’re ready to hear it. Neither of which is so yet. Right now, I’m going to have that drink. Are you coming?” This time when he walked away, he didn’t stop.

Saker ground his teeth, exasperated. Who or what did he mean?
Patronising fobbing bastard, speaking in riddles like a stage player!

Standing there in the sea wind, he shivered. First Gerelda, then Iska, now Juster. All spouting warnings. It was enough to make him want to curl into a ball and hide under his bedcovers. He looked down at the kris, unresponsive in his hand. Alive? In the sunlight, the gold strands shone brightly, the metal unmoving.

Don’t be stupid, Saker.
All these warnings are about as tangible as a wisp of mist, like tales of ghosts told to children.
Still, he’d feel so much easier if he could find a way to rid himself of the fobbing Va-forsaken blade. He slipped it back into its sheath with a sigh; even
thinking
about throwing it away was difficult, damn it.

Briskly, he walked after Juster, trying to leave his vague unsettled feeling behind. He could do with a pot of ale.

“Va’s balls! Where did you learn to do that?” Prince Ryce, disarmed and shaking his fingers to relieve the sting of having his sword spun out of his hand, regarded Saker in exasperation. “How many times have we sparred over the past moon? Four? Five? And every single time you’ve disarmed me at least once! How the curdled damn does a witan learn to use a blade better than a prince?”

Saker bent to retrieve the Prince’s weapon from the floor of the palace’s Great Hall. He returned it, hilt first, with a placating smile. “He starts as a university student. Nothing students like better than fighting one another. Then he serves as a cleric to the border patrol, up near Coldheart Pass in the Principalities. Nothing much to do there all winter long except fight. That particular trick came from a Pashali caravan guard when we were snowed in,” he added truthfully. “Would you like me to show you the secret of it?”

“Indeed I would! But not just now. I have to dress and be on my best behaviour. There’s a delegation from West Denva, and Father wants me looking suitably princely.” He flung a sweaty arm around Saker. “You know what I like about you, witan? You don’t make a mat of yourself for me to tread on. You’re the only person I know who dares to make a fool of his prince by disarming him with a trick like that.”

“It’s all part of being a prince’s spiritual adviser – making sure he remains humble.”

Ryce laughed and hit him on his shoulder with a balled fist. “Addlepate! Ah, I wish I could dine with you tonight. Instead I have to listen to the Denva delegation extol their heir as a suitable groom for Princess Mathilda.”

“Isn’t he only, what, six years old?”

“Five, I believe.”

“Well, I suppose that’s an improvement on fifty,” he said, but remained doubtful.

“Mathilda would eat him alive. But I don’t think it’ll happen. What can a piddling border principality offer us, compared to the Regal of Lowmeer? If Regal Vilmar wants Thilda enough, he’ll meet Father’s terms.”

Saker, feeling sick, turned away to pull off his sweat-soaked under-tunic. He was reaching for his clean shirt, wondering how much he could say to Ryce about the marriage without risking his position, when a burst of feminine giggling made them both turn and look upward. Movement behind the carved screen of the minstrels’ gallery told them they were observed.

Ryce frowned. “Thilda, you wretch! Who said you could spy on our sparring practice?”

One of the carved wooden casements opened and the Princess leaned out, waving. Behind her, Saker glimpsed several of her younger ladies-in-waiting, still giggling. His face reddened at the thought of Mathilda observing him stripped to the waist, and he struggled to pull on his shirt over a torso sheened with sweat. Thank Va, at least she couldn’t have heard their conversation.

“You shouldn’t spar in the Great Hall then!” she called down to her brother. She lingered a moment longer to watch Saker as he battled his shirt, her lips curling upwards in a teasing smile. Then, after another wave to Ryce, she was gone with her ladies. Her handmaiden, the grey mouse, appeared, po-faced, at the opening to pull the casement shut.

“That one’s like a cloud about to drop a cold shower on us,” Ryce muttered in his ear. “Damned if I know what my sister sees in her.”

“Who is she?”

“Celandine somebody-or-other. Mathilda had need of a maid when we were travelling up in the north. She’s the niece of a shrine-keeper. I call her the grey ghost.” He slid his sword into its scabbard. “Poor Thilda. We neither of us are more than cooked geese served up to the Crown of Ardrone. And folk
envy
us?”

He strode away, and as his footsteps echoed through the hall, Saker looked up at the minstrels’ gallery again. All was quiet, but he thought he caught a lingering whiff of Mathilda’s perfume. Va, it was hard to think of her being married off to the highest bidder. He’d always known such marriages were normal in wealthier families, but now it was more than just knowledge; he could put a face to the woman involved. He could see her tears, know her grief, picture her future.

It was so
wrong
.

He wondered if she had any real friends, any ladies, who would accept exile to be with her when she married. She needed a trustworthy confidant.

He thought,
I hope I can be that for her, at least while she remains at court. Better me than
her colourless handmaiden, who’s about as joyous as a wet dishcloth.

Just as Saker was leaving the Great Hall, Princess Mathilda arrived with Celandine.

The Princess pouted when she saw he was alone. “I wanted to catch Prince Ryce. Never mind, you shall escort me back to my solar instead, and we’ll have a game of Fox and Geese. And you can tell me the latest court gossip.”

He stepped forward, bowed and offered her his arm. “I fear my knowledge of gossip is meagre. No one tells a junior witan anything.”

“Nonsense, of course they do.” She rested her hand on his arm as they turned to leave the hall. “Does the West Denvans’ visit pertain to my marriage? The heir to the throne there is but a child, I know, but perhaps…”

Her words trailed away, and he was disturbed once again to see tears lingering on her lashes.

In his dismay, he was at a loss for words. One part of him wanted to take her in his arms and brush the tears away with soft words, a longing that was appallingly inappropriate. He swallowed and said carefully, “I’m not privy to discussions on your marriage, I fear.” Hastily, he added, “It’s years since I played Fox and Geese. I feel sure you will outwit me in the first few moves.”

“I shall play the Fox. One person against all others, for that is how I feel.”

“Ah,” he said, striving for lightness, “a fox can eat many an unwary goose.”

When they reached her solar, he hung back to allow her to enter the apartments first. Celandine followed her in, saying under her breath so only he could hear, “Indeed, foxes have very sharp teeth, and they love geese. And ganders can be so very, very stupid.”

Pox on her
, he thought. If ever something was fraught with double meanings, that was.

P
rince Ryce galloped across the meadow with scant concern for his safety, pursued by Saker lying low to the neck of his dapple grey. Hooves scattering sods of earth, the horses thundered towards the laden tables and gaily coloured tents erected at the other end of the field, where courtiers gathered for their midsummer revelry.

No matter how much he urged Greylegs on, Saker was still staring at the rump of Prince Ryce’s roan.

Just before reaching the first of the fires with kitchen boys turning the spits of roasting fowl, the Prince drew rein and waited for him, grinning. “I trust you were not allowing me to win, witan.”

“You jest, your highness. I think you know me better than that.” He patted Greylegs’ neck. The loss wasn’t his horse’s fault. Prince Ryce not only rode a faster animal; he rode like a man who didn’t think of the possibility of breaking its legs – or his own.

The Prince’s reply was sober. “True, I do. I wonder if you have any idea how good it is to have a friend who tells me exactly what he thinks, instead of what he thinks I
want
to hear?”

Friend?
He was moved. “Then may I tell you what I think, your highness? You should have more respect for your neck. You are the only prince we have.”

“Saker, if I didn’t get to risk my princely neck sometimes, I could never sit through all those boring councils.” There was no hint of amusement in the statement. “When I am King – and please Va let that not come until I’m old and grey – you shall be my Prime. And then you’ll understand!”

“I knew there had to be a disadvantage to friendship with a prince! I would make a
terrible
Prime.”

Ryce grinned again. “I know. We can be incompetent clodpates together.”

They rode into the heart of the revelry, and handed their mounts over to the grooms. The King was not there, but Lady Mathilda was, with all her younger ladies-in-waiting. Saker even caught a glimpse of Celandine, looking bored as she threaded her lone way through the crowd behind the other ladies. He felt a moment’s pity for her. It couldn’t be much of a life, always trailing after her mistress, clutching a pair of gloves, or a fan, or a cloak, for when the Princess might need it.

The Prince rejoined his courtiers, including Lord Juster, so Saker headed for the refreshment table. He was sitting on a stool eating a meat pie when a familiar voice grated in his ear, the last person he’d expected to be present.

Prime Valerian Fox stood at his shoulder, asking, “You really do not understand the position of a spiritual adviser, do you?
Racing
with the heir to the throne? For a
wager
, I believe? Is that the kind of example you wish Prince Ryce to follow?”

Scrambling to his feet, he hurriedly wiped the gravy from his mouth with the back of his hand while debating what to do with the rest of the dripping pie. “Your eminence.”
Blast you.

“Do you think the King would be pleased if his son were to take hurt in a fall from his horse?”

There was no good way to answer that, so he tossed the pie to a nearby hound and stayed silent.

“You should wear your witan’s robe at all times, both figuratively and actually. And your monthly report is late.”

Sure that Fox had chosen his words carefully to make him feel like a schoolboy again, he was about to give a sarcastic reply when the kris jabbed his thigh. “Argh … Ah, I’ll – I’ll write it this evening. My apologies.”

Fox’s gaze fell to the hand he had clamped over the dagger sheath at his belt. “What is that thing you’re wearing?”

Va’s teeth, at least when I wear the witan’s robe, no one sees the blithering blade.
He strove for nonchalance. “A lascar dagger.” He pulled it from the sheath, keeping a tight hold to the hilt. “Weird thing, and not all that useful, but I like it. Beautifully crafted.”

He held it up, and Fox took a step backwards, his expression pinched. “Totally inappropriate for a man of the Faith! Heathen-made. Get rid of it!”

“As you wish,” he said lightly. He turned and detained a passing serving lad by the arm. “Throw this away, will you?” he asked, and dropped the kris on to his serving tray.

The lad stared at it, his surprise robbing him of speech.

Fox gave Saker a narrow-eyed look of fury and waved the lad away. He scuttled off, and Fox said, “Mock me, witan, and you’ll find out there’s always a price.”

“Try not to treat me like a half-witted acolyte and we might rub along together a little better.”

“You overstepped a line today.” A cold malice saturated the stare Fox directed Saker’s way before he stalked off, brushing past Lord Juster as he went.

Saker remained where he was, cursing his too-quick tongue.

“What the fobbing hells did you just say to the Prime?” Juster asked. “If looks could curdle, you’d be no more than soured cottage cheese right now.”

“I don’t think he likes me much.”

“My friend, you need to be a lot more careful. That man is dangerous.”

“More of your dire warnings, Lord Doom?”

“Bad things happen to people who upset the Prime.” He glanced over Saker’s shoulder, then looked away hurriedly. “Uh-oh, and here’s more trouble on her way.”

Princess Mathilda, her full skirts held high, stepped daintily through the grass towards them, Celandine at her shoulder like a permanent shadow. Saker, annoyed with Juster, said under his breath, “That’s a gratuitous remark.” When someone momentarily detained the Princess, he asked, “Have you heard anything more about her impending marriage?”

“Not a word. I assume that means there is much negotiation in the process.”

“Have you any idea what bride price could be offered that would tempt the King?”

“I’d conjecture something long-lasting. A trade advantage, perhaps? Especially if Lowmeer is involved.” When Saker failed to hide his distaste, he added, “Whoever the Princess weds is no concern of yours. It’s the price nobility pay for their power and their luxury.”

“The price women pay is higher than men’s, I imagine.”

“We all marry for reasons that have nothing to do with personal happiness.”

“You’ve managed to stay single. You, at least, appear to have had a choice.”