The Lascar's Dagger (29 page)

“I’d think about it,” he replied with as much nonchalance as he could muster.
The Pontifect would kill me if she heard me giving this advice
… He wasn’t even sure why he was doing it.
No, that’s not true. I’m doing it because Juster has proved himself a friend.

“Imagine: all the Princess’s royal luggage and dowry, and the baggage of her entourage, gifts to the Regal, horses, saddlery and tackle,
bride price agreements
– all has to be properly packed and all of it assessed and loaded. Can you imagine the hubbub on the waterfront? You’d be
better off long gone with your letters of marque
. After all, I want my share of your privateering as soon as possible, don’t I?”

This time Juster pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Oh. Never thought of that. You’re right. Of course. But before I leave, what can I do to help you? And as you may have noticed, the only way I got in to see you was to promise Prime Fox that Master Turnkey here could listen in. No doubt he will quite rightly do his duty and relay the conversation to the Prime, so you’d better watch what you say. I don’t want to be associated with any hint of treason. My family owes all to the King’s line, and my loyalty is always to my liege.”

The jailer grinned at the two of them and began to clean his fingernails with the point of his knife.

“Of course,” Saker said. “Do you know when my trial will be?”

“Day after tomorrow, according to Fox.”

“You could get me a decent advocate. I’ve asked Master Turnkey to hunt for someone who’ll argue my case, but he tells me he can’t persuade one of our learned pettifoggers to oblige for the amount of money I’m offering.”

“Right. I shall dangle a heavier purse then. You hear that, Master Turnkey? Witan Rampion will be having a visit from an advocate tomorrow.”

“Not for me to say,” the jailer replied. “You got to ask his eminence first.”

“I’ll do that.” He turned back to Saker. “Anything else?”

He shook his head. “I’ll be fine, don’t worry. If I don’t see you before you leave: safe voyage and fair winds.”

“Welcome to sail with me, you know, once you’ve been freed. Don’t have a cleric on board. Won’t be leaving until after your trial.”

The invitation was clear: he was offering Saker a way out of Throssel, but they both knew it was unlikely, at least on this particular voyage. “I’ll bear that in mind. And thanks for the wine, too.” He nodded towards the demijohn on the table.

“Thought you’d appreciate it. Drink it to the last drop. From our best vines – the ones on the south slope that I showed you when you visited – and it would be a shame to waste any. If there’s anything else you’d like, tell Master Turnkey here, and he’ll send word to me, won’t you?” He grinned at the jailer.

“I don’t do nothing without the say-so of the Prime, m’lud. You know that. Not worth me job, it’s not.”

Juster sighed. “No, I don’t suppose it is, at that. Scurvily lucrative position you’ve got here, if what you’ve been charging me is any indication.”

The man smiled at him cheerfully. “If you say so, m’lud.”

Juster stood. “Good luck with the trial, Saker. I was told I can’t ask you about whatever it was you said to get you here, but I reckon it wouldn’t make any difference to me. Unless of course it was treason. Owe you my neck, so take care of your own, right? And enjoy the wine.”

Saker stood too. “Thank you. I never thought the best friend I’d ever have would be a buccaneer.”

“
Privateer
. And I never thought I’d owe my life to a preacher!”

“A
witan
!” Saker rejoined.

They clasped hands for a moment, then Juster left with Turnkey, who locked the door behind them.

Saker waited a moment, then went to pick up the demijohn. He pulled the cork and smelled the bouquet. He took a sip. A very ordinary wine, as far as he could tell. Juster had once taken him to the family estate, so one thing he knew for sure: Juster’s family did not grow grapes.

The door opened again, much later.

Saker awoke, startled. The person in the doorway was no more than a silhouette, thrown into relief by the lamp held by one of the two people behind him. He sat up hurriedly.

“So,” the silhouette said, “you thought it was all right to ask Lord Juster to get you an advocate, did you?”

Blast. Valerian Fox.

“Well, just to make it quite clear – it was
not
all right, Rampion. This trial follows the pattern
I
design for it, not the path you think you can make it go. We had a bargain, and you seem to have forgotten it.”

Saker stood. “I thought it would look better if I was represented by a man of legal letters.”

The Prime moved aside and gestured one of the men behind him to enter. “Deal with him,” he said. “But remember, not a mark on his face.” Smiling, he turned to Saker. “Let this be a lesson to you. No one plays games with me and wins. Ever.” He picked up the demijohn from the table and drank.

Oh, pickle it.

He knew what was coming. And he knew, no matter what, that he had to accept it.
Va, grant me courage.

The man who had entered with Fox was huge, built like a longshoreman used to lugging cargo. The first blow from his balled fist landed just above his waist, driving the breath out. The second punch cracked a rib. Saker, gasping, sank to the floor and curled himself up into a foetal position. Knowing the man had been forbidden to touch his face, he didn’t bother to protect his head. Instead he wrapped his arms around his body.

Even so, several more ribs cracked under the onslaught of boots. A kick to the kidneys brought tears to his eyes. Somewhere far away, he heard himself grunt and groan at each impact. Pain drowned him, tore him to pieces, ripped his thoughts to an incoherent litany:
This will end, it willend, itwillend
…

And then silence, apart from his own moans. He opened his eyes.

Valerian Fox was smiling at him, his eyes alight with joy. He gestured the two other men out of the cell and bent down. Saker flinched. “I hate you Shenat,” Fox whispered. Words meant for him, and him alone. “I will never rest until you are all gone from this world. Remember as you die, Rampion whoreson, that it will be my hand behind the blade, even if I am not the one to wield it. I shall enjoy telling Fritillary Reedling exactly how and why you died. And know this: one day I shall be Pontifect, and I shall rule all the Va-cherished Hemisphere. Kings and regals shall be my puppets, dancing a galliard to my flute. And the Shenat will crawl into holes in the hills – and die.”

Fox straightened, only to aim his final insult. He heeled Saker from above, aiming for his privates. If he expected a scream, he was disappointed. The pain was so intense that Saker was robbed of all breath, of any ability to move, of any capacity to make a sound.

All he could do was watch through a red mist of agony as Fox grabbed the demijohn from the table and emptied the contents over his face and neck. Then he pulled the ceramic container from the wickerwork cover and threw it to the floor. It smashed, the shards bouncing up and scattering. The noise made Saker wince, and even wincing shafted him with pain.

Then the Prime was gone, and Saker was alone. The key rasped in the lock from the outside and he lay once more in blackness.

Every breath was a tortured ache to be endured.

Every beat of his heart pained him.

Pox on it, Juster. I know why you fainted
.

The next coherent thought he had, a long time later, was how glad he was that he’d earlier swallowed the two perfectly polished rubies he’d found inside the wine.

Sometimes being overly cautious was wisdom.

The passages through the palace were largely deserted in the hours before dawn. Prince Ryce and his carousing companions, boisterously drunk, had returned from their foray into the town several hours earlier, and now all was quiet. The torchman had passed on his rounds a few minutes earlier, replacing the burned-out flambeaux.

Two of the King’s Guards stood outside the door to the Princess’s rooms. The only people with free access were the two cloister nuns, the King himself, Prince Ryce and the Prime – which was why, when one of the nuns came out of the apartment before dawn, the guards let her pass.

She was fully dressed in her shapeless habit, the white starched cornette-shaped coif sticking up like horns on her head, her long linen skirt scraping the floor. Over the top, the panels of the black scapular hung loosely from her shoulders.

She nodded to the guards but did not speak.

“Is there something we can do, sister?” one of the guards asked. He knew better than to expect a spoken answer. The nuns belonged to the silent order, and spoke to no one. The guards recognised her, though. This was the plumper one with the big nose.

The nun smiled and shook her head, put her hands together in a gesture of prayer, pointed in the direction of the chapel before walking away. She walked quickly, as if she knew exactly where she was going, looking neither to left nor right until she’d turned the corner.

“They give me the creeps,” the guard said to his companion as she disappeared. “Never a word, an’ with their funny hats an’ all. Reckon they’re virgins, Simmik?”

“Want to investigate?”

“Not likely!”

They laughed and settled down to wait out the rest of their watch.

The nun did not go to the royal chapel. She continued on her way until she came to the door of Saker’s room. Plucking a burning torch from the sconce on the wall nearby, she lifted the latch and stepped inside. Closing the door behind her, she propped up the torch in the fireplace, where it continued to burn brightly while she looked around the room. As she relaxed, the nun’s habit – and her face – faded away as if it had never been.

Methodically, Sorrel Redwing began to search. She ignored her reluctance to touch Saker’s belongings, swallowed back her distaste at her invasion of his privacy. Instead, she collected his sword in its scabbard, and a selection of his clothing, including a pair of boots and a velvet hat.

She removed her outer clothing and pulled on a pair of his britches and a woollen tunic. After strapping on his scabbard and sword, she put on her own dress again, lacing it much looser to allow for the extra layers underneath. The boots went on over the top of her own flimsy slippers, his hat on her head. More clothing and a few other small items she stuffed into a cloth bag she’d found. Taking a deep breath, she carefully rebuilt the glamour of the nun’s face and habit.

Back in the passage a moment later, she replaced the torch in its holder on the wall, and adjusted the cloth bag at her waist under the image of the scapular. She then walked briskly back to the royal wing of the palace apartments. She nodded politely to the two guards on duty and re-entered the solar.

As she tiptoed past the sleeping Mathilda on her way back to her own poky bedroom, she banished the glamour. Once in her room, she placed everything she had taken in the chest at the foot of her bed. It had all been simpler than she’d expected, but it was only the first part of her plan.

It was the next step that filled her with dread.

T
he accused was not offered a chair.

Saker stood behind the U-shaped railing of the dock facing the three judges, headed by the elderly Earl of Fremont. He knew the Earl by sight, but he’d never seen the other two before, and no one bothered to tell him their names. They were both district Va-Faith arbiters; he could tell that much from their clerical robes. It didn’t matter who they were anyway; their names would not make any difference to the outcome. They were just ciphers for Valerian Fox. Besides, Saker was far more preoccupied with the physical pain of standing, aware that he might have to do so for hours. Every joint throbbed, every muscle felt sore, every breath was a painful stab in the chest. His back ached and he’d been pissing blood ever since his beating.

Take shallow breaths. I won’t let you see my pain, Master Prime. I won’t give you that satisfaction. Not now, not ever
.

He’d only just realised that Fox was assuming the role of prosecutor. No wonder the poxy bastard had wanted to make sure the prisoner didn’t have an advocate.

Doing his best to disguise a real need to prop himself up, he leant against the railing, face impassive. He suspected the result was a false nonchalance that came across as a deliberate display of arrogance. He knew it would be taken as a subtle insult to the court, but what difference would it make? His case was pre-judged. He was guilty before it even began.

The Earl glowered at him, something his wild bushy eyebrows allowed him to do particularly well, and said, “The Prime informs me that you have refused an advocate.”

Saker sighed, and bit back his protest. “Yes, my lord.”

“This is your privilege, although it marks you as an imprudent young man. Let the trial proceed.”

The first witness was a surprise, but his testimony wasn’t. From the conviction with which he uttered his lies, it was clear Prince Ryce knew of the supposed rape and was out for revenge. He hardly needed the few leading questions from Fox before he launched into a damning description of a wholly mythical conversation he’d had with his witan spiritual adviser.

By the time he’d finished, everyone in the courtroom must have believed Saker had not only denied the existence of Va, but had outright stated that the only true faith was the worship in its oldest form, venerating the unseen shrine guardians.

Clever
. So damned clever he knew it wasn’t Ryce’s idea. This had the mark of Fox’s fingers on it, so much so that it made him want to smash a fist into the man’s face. Fox didn’t just want to brand him as a blasphemer; he wanted Saker identified as a Primordial apostate.

And if Fox means to find me guilty of apostasy, then I’m not going to escape with a rap over the knuckles and a fine
. For a cleric, the punishment for apostasy was severe.
Blighted oak, I’m
going to be nulled!

At least he now knew just how he was going to be killed. Nullification was designed to be fatal. He’d never heard of a cleric who’d survived it.