The Lascar's Dagger (21 page)

She rested her fingers on his as he bowed low, and he resisted the temptation to kiss them. “Milady, I cannot imagine that Va is concerned with such trivial matters as my safety while performing a dare.”

“Witan, your safety is no trivial matter! However” – she clapped her hands, still smiling – “if Va is not disturbed by trivial matters, the antics of one of his witans indulging in a harmless bet will be of no import!”

“Why don’t you and I have a race to the top?” the Prince asked him, grinning.

“I can hardly race anywhere dressed in clerical robes,” he said, hoping that would be the end of it.

“That’s easily remedied,” Juster cried, grabbing the arm of the servant who had been passing out goblets of watered wine to the ladies. “Tarker, go down to my cabin and fetch the britches lying on my bunk, will you?”

Alarmed by the turn of the conversation, Saker said, “Your highness, I can hardly race against your person. The King would rightly hold me responsible for endangering your safety.”

The Princess pouted. “He’s right, Ryce, you know. You can’t be clambering about those ropes like a common sailor.” She looked up at Juster. “
You
can, though, can you not, Lord Juster? A race between you and Witan Saker!”

“I’m not racing anyone,” Saker protested.

“Oh? Not even if I make it worth your while, witan?” Juster asked. “I’ll tithe my first captured cargo, and give it to a charitable cause of your choice – if you win a race to the topgallant yard and back here to this deck.”

“I don’t even know which spar that is,” he said truthfully, although he could guess. “Really, Juster, I—”

“See the third yard on the mainmast? The smallest, highest spar above the middle mainsail?” Juster pointed upwards.

They all looked, and the Princess gave a gasp of dismay. “Oh! I thought you meant just as far as the crow’s nest.”

Saker grimaced. The crow’s nest, an easy climb up the rigging to just beyond the lower mainsail, was not even halfway up. After that, it was straight up the mast, past the main topsail to the top gallant. No climb for a man not entirely sober.

“That must be a hundred feet!” someone exclaimed from the crowd of courtiers listening to the conversation.

“More,” Juster said. He and the Prince were now handing the flagon backwards and forwards between them. “From the waterline to the top of the mainmast is over two hundred feet…”

“You’re drunk, Juster,” Saker said amiably.

“Not a bit of it! On a single flagon of wine? One I’ve been sharing around?”

He forbore to point out that this was the second flagon. “My lord, I’m not afraid of heights. You might lose your bet, and I won’t go scampering around that spider’s web of ropes up there risking
your
life because you’re too drunk to hold on.”

“I resent the implication, witan. A tithe of whatever the
Golden Petrel
brings back.”

He shrugged. “I’m not interested.”

Prince Ryce, waving the flagon, intervened, saying, “But I am, master witan! And you shall not gainsay your prince – I insist. You and Lord Juster shall race to the topgallant yard! You would not dare to oppose a royal command, would you?”

He felt the blood leave his face.
You idiot, Ryce.
The Prince was far drunker than he’d thought. Refusing a royal command, when it was named as such, could give rise to accusations of treason.

Lady Mathilda spoke into the startled silence before anyone reacted. “Oh, that’s naughty of both of you – Lord Juster and especially you, brother – to tease my spiritual adviser. Is there no end to the foolishness of men in their cups?” She turned to Saker, undoing her kerchief and handing it to him. “Pay no notice to such wild words from the Prince and oblige
me
instead. Take my favour, and tie it to the topgallant when you arrive there.” She gave him a brilliant smile and turned, laughing, to her ladies-in-waiting. “Which one of you will bestow their favour on the oh-so-wicked tease Lord Juster?” Several of her ladies instantly untied their kerchiefs to oblige and the awkwardness of the moment dissolved into good-natured banter.
Ah, Mathilda, bless you
…

He still worried, though. Juster was definitely drunk.
One day, my buccaneering friend, I’ll throttle you.
If you don’t kill yourself first in a drunken wager like this one
.

“Your britches, witan,” someone said, and thrust a pair of Juster’s trousers into his hands.

“Am I to pull these on in front of the maids?” he asked. As he intended, this led to ribald comments, teasing and laughter. The Prince held up his cloak in front of the ladies-in-waiting, and Saker dressed himself more appropriately for a climb. Fortunately, his undershirt was clean; unfortunately, it was sleeveless, which led to more feminine giggles and teasing about his muscles when the Prince whipped the cloak away.

When there was enough chatter to cover a remark to Juster, he said, “Why don’t we do this some other time when you’ve drunk a little less?”

Juster gave the faintest of shakes of his head. “Too late. Don’t worry, I just sobered up.” He moved away to take up his position at the foot of the main shrouds, where he removed his gold-buckled shoes. Realising that climbing in his stockinged feet would be easier, Saker followed suit.

The Prince offered to start the race. Saker moved after Juster, sure that the man was not as sober as he thought. Around the deck, he heard bets laid. From the suggested odds, it was clear Juster was favoured to win.

Juster pulled on a pair of leather gloves brought for him from his cabin. He grasped the rigging and grinned at his opponent. “You’re pompous enough to sour beer sometimes, my friend. You deserve what’s coming to you.”

Saker sighed. “And you’re a tipsy bilge rat who sails far too close to the wind on occasion.” He lined up beside the lord, and the Prince waved them off with his hat.

The first few feet were easy climbing, side by side. The shrouds narrowed in width as they approached the crow’s nest; and only then did he realise why Juster had chosen to climb on his left. The rope ladder to the lookout was on that side. They reached the top of the shrouds together, but it was Juster who had access to the crow’s nest.

Saker, seeing him fumble drunkenly with his feet for the new ladder, readied himself to grab the man if he fell. A moment later, however, Juster was safe, grinning at him over the edge of the lookout.

“You’ve lost the race, my friend,” he said. “There’s no way you can pass me now!”

“Crowing from the crow’s nest, my lord?” Saker asked sweetly. “I believe the race doesn’t end until one of us has his feet on the stern deck again.”

“That’s the poop deck, you lubber. Now, how long shall I leave you hanging there?”

“As long as you like.” He turned his head to look straight down at the deck. “The view is spectacular. Why, I believe I’m looking straight down the cleavage of Lady Sevaria’s ample bosom…”

Juster laughed and turned to climb from the crow’s nest on to the ropes leading upwards.

Saker hauled himself into the vacated lookout and studied the way up. He saw what Juster meant now. The rope ladder up the mast was narrow all the way to the tiny platform of the trestle trees, from where it would be possible to tie the favour on to the topgallant yard.

Damn. Juster was right: the first person to reach the crow’s nest had the race won. No, wait a moment. He had to come down again, but he couldn’t pass Saker, who’d be on his way up. So how was he intending to descend?

Only then did he realise how well he’d been tricked. The mainmast itself, and the area between the masts, was a thick forest of ropes of varying thickness and purpose, some taut, some slack, some looped, some tarred. Vaguely he knew they all had names: clewlines, buntlines, leech lines, bowlines, halyards, stays … He could only guess at their varied purposes, but Juster would know – and he’d know exactly which one he could slide down, all the way down, until his feet hit the deck.

The gloves. That was why he had wanted to wear gloves.

Damn, damn, damn.
He’d been well and truly outwitted.

Odd, at first he hadn’t cared a whit about the race; he’d just wanted it over, with the drunken Juster down safely. Now that he knew he’d been so easily duped, he wanted to win.

He started up the ladder towards the trestle trees as fast as he could move, glad to see he was actually overhauling Juster, whose feet kept slipping on the ratlines between the shrouds. While he climbed, he eyed the numerous ropes. The logical one to use ran from the mast at the trestle trees to the aft hull. It was, he guessed, a fixed stay for the mainmast. Tar-covered and taut, it would be ideal, as long as the person sliding down it had a pair of tough leather gloves.

He caught up with Juster as the man was tying his favour. Juster gave him a delighted grin and bent to grab the stay rope. “So long, ninny,” he said, and dropped, using his momentum to swing his legs upwards and wrap his ankles around the tarred hemp. Secure, he hung there for moment while Saker ruefully tied on the Princess’s favour. Then, loosening his hold a tad, Juster began sliding towards the deck.

Saker watched him go. Juster’s weight made the rope dip a little, enough to bring it in contact with a stay for the aft mizzenmast.

The idiot,
Saker thought, suddenly alarmed.
He’s going far too fast
…
“Look out!” he yelled, appallingly aware that Juster’s feet were going to hit the second stay as he picked up speed.

Juster, oblivious, let go with one hand to wave.

With the horror of inevitable disaster unfolding before him, Saker began to slide back down the way he’d come up. His gaze riveted to what was happening below, he didn’t notice the friction that burned the skin from his hands.

One of Juster’s feet was jerked above the second stay. His other foot slipped below it. The taut rope from the mizzenmast slammed into his crotch and all Saker could do was watch. When Juster screamed, a hideous, searing scream, Saker heard the collective gasp from the deck.

His own feet hit the topsail yard as Juster, still yelping in agony, was jerked from his hold on the mainstay. Saker crouched there, unable to think of anything he could do to stop Lord Juster Dornbeck plunging to the deck and certain death below.

J
uster didn’t fall. One foot remained jammed in the V where the two stays crossed each other.

Kept taut by his weight, the ropes passed in front of his ankle. He was left hanging precariously upside down, midway between the two masts, high above the deck. Below, courtiers scattered and screamed.

As Juster was both silent and unmoving, Saker guessed he’d blacked out. The thought of having the most vulnerable part of his anatomy sawed into at speed by a hard, tar-covered rope had Saker shuddering.

He glanced around. Ropes everywhere, and he had both his own dagger and the lascar’s. He loosened the cover on the sheath to his own knife, his thoughts racing. If Juster struggled, if the wind blew, if the ship heeled – the result didn’t bear thinking about. The end of the spar he was on was directly over Juster’s body, but how to reach him? He dared not use the same rope. The slightest movement of the stay and Juster’s ankle could slip out of the V.

Using the footropes just below the furled sail, he edged his way to the end of the yardarm. Once there, he seized the ropes dangling from the end. A cursory glance told him that one had something to do with the sail; the other held the spar in place. His hands were sore and bleeding where he’d skinned them, but he swung under the yard and began to let himself down the ropes, grabbing both with his hands and hooking his feet around one. Agony stabbed through his fingers. He ignored it. He halted when he was level with Juster, who was groaning as he regained consciousness. “Don’t move, my friend,” he said calmly. “Don’t even open your eyes.”

Juster said nothing. His breath was ragged. Grimacing in pain, Saker switched his hold to only one of the yardarm ropes he’d descended, twisting a foot into its slack. He tried not to think about how precarious his hold was. Breathing deeply, he groped for his knife and began sawing at the other rope, now hanging loose. After an age, the bottom half dropped to the deck, and the dagger fell with it as he lost his hold on its handle. From the end of the piece still dangling from the spar, he made a noose with a slip knot.

When he looked down, he saw that courtiers had scrambled out of the way of the falling rope and blade. Sailors swarmed up the shrouds towards the crow’s nest. Good: he’d have help soon.

His hands were slippery with blood, and the pain grew worse as the hemp fibres ripped deeper into his fingers and palms. An agonising ache dragged at his arms and legs as he swung himself to and fro, until one arc of his swing brought him close to Juster.

Va’s teeth, I hurt.

Holding the loop of the cut rope, gripping his own rope with his legs and his other hand, he tried to flip the noose over Juster’s free leg. He missed the first time and had to swing back to try again. Pain brought tears to his eyes as his bloody hands slipped and he was forced to grasp even tighter.

This time the noose slid over Juster’s foot and he pulled it tight around his ankle.

Juster was now groaning louder than ever. Saker’s action had spread-eagled his legs, hardly the most comfortable position for a man who had just had a rope sawn across his genitals. He jerked and muttered, with more coherence this time. “What the flaming fucking
hell
…”

“I wouldn’t suggest you do too much moving, Juster.”

“Saker?” The word was as much a squawk of pain as anything else.

“Yes.”

“I fucking
hurt
!”

“I know. Try not to move.”

Prompted by his agony, Juster screamed invective at him.

He ignored the words and grabbed hold of the nobleman’s belt. He looked up, wondering just how long he could hold on himself. Every muscle was screaming. He twisted his other foot tighter into the rope, trying to take more of his weight from his arms and shoulders. It would be ridiculous to crash to the deck now.