The Lascar's Dagger (33 page)

“Well, what would that matter to you? You’re already a murderer, so what difference would one more make?”

Sorrel felt the blood leave her face. She gave a quick look at the nuns, but they were still praying, oblivious. “Believe me,” she whispered, “it makes a difference.” And for one fleeting moment, the scene, that horrible, ghastly moment in time she was always trying to flee, flashed before her. Nikard tumbling to his death.

The spoken words that were both liberating and shaming:
This is for Heather
…

She took a deep breath. “Milady, I need to know what shrine he’s being taken to. Can you find out for me?” Her voice was remarkably steady, although she had to keep her hands locked together behind her back to stop her doing something she’d regret. Sweet cankers, what did a man like Saker ever see in such a – such a self-centred
flirt-skirt
?

The Princess pouted. “I think you’re exaggerating.”

“And what if I’m not?”

There was a long silence before Princess Mathilda replied. Then she said, “So what do you propose?”

“If I know where—” she began, then stopped as the door to the sitting room was flung open and Prince Ryce strode in with a couple of his fellhounds. The expression on his face was grim. With a gesture he dismissed the nuns to their bedroom and they scuttled away in silence.

“Thilda, Father wants you out on the balcony now.”

“What the pox for? It’s cold out there! Ryce, has he reconsidered his decision to insist on my marriage to Vilmar?”

“No. Thilda, accept its certainty. He believes we need the trade treaty and there’s nothing you can say that will change his mind. And if you tell anyone what Saker did, and the marriage doesn’t go ahead, well, I’ve already told you what Father will do.”

She stared at him, her face hardening as if she was finally realising there was no way out for her.

“I’m sorry,” he said, more gently. “I did try, truly. Not once, but several times. He was adamant. He puts Ardrone first, before either of us. That’s who he is – the King.”

She muttered, too low for him to hear, “It was all for nothing. Everything, for nothing.”

Ryce waved his hand towards the balcony. “Saker Rampion is being brought up from the Keep and the King wants you to see him from out there.”

Mathilda paled. “Why?”

“He wants you to see how Rampion was punished, and I suppose he wants to humiliate the hedge-born lout.” He walked to the door that led to the balcony, opened it and gestured her out. She rolled her eyes, but did as she was told. “Come with me, Celandine,” she ordered.

Sick to her stomach, Sorrel followed the royal siblings out on to the balcony, pausing only to grab a wrap for herself and another for Mathilda. She arranged the shawl over the Princess’s shoulders and stepped back, effacing herself as usual, schooling her glamour into dull uniformity. The balcony was narrow, which meant that even standing behind Mathilda’s copious skirts she had a good view.

She glanced at the King’s balcony further along the palace facade. Edwayn and the Prime were both there, and fifteen or more courtiers. The formal garden below, with its rose-covered walls, neat flower beds and gravelled paths, was empty. There was still autumn colour in some of the bushes, but the last of the flowers was gone, and the fountains had been emptied. She shivered, feeling the first touch of winter as the wind gusted in from the north.

“Celandine says Father is going to have Rampion killed. Is that true?” Mathilda asked her brother.

Oh, Va rot her. Why did she have to say that to him?
Sorrel shot a glance at the Prince. His look of startled shock was more profound even than the statement warranted.

Worse, he turned on her in barely controlled fury. “That’s a vicious thing to say, mistress. Watch your tongue!” He glared at his sister. “I wouldn’t repeat that kind of thing if I were you, Thilda. Your ladies should have more discretion!”

It’s not me that should have more discretion
, she thought.
It’s Mathilda.

“Here they come,” the Prince said. “The soldiers are bringing him into the garden now.”

“Sweet Va,” Mathilda said. “He’s naked.”

“Milady, look at his face,” Sorrel whispered. His face, so – so
damaged
. Her heart constricted in her chest, as if she was suddenly made small and helpless. A mouse against the hunger of a mastiff. Alone against the cruelty of the world.
I’m crazed. How can I possibly do anything to help him?

“That’s the branding,” said Prince Ryce. His voice shook and she wondered why. It wasn’t anger she could see on his face. He looked sick.
They were friendly
, she thought.
They must have been. They practised their swords together, they rode together. And often, in the evenings, when there were revels or music, or other entertainment at court, she’d seen them talking and laughing together.

“Where are they taking him?” Mathilda asked the Prince. “Which shrine?”

“The one up at the top of Chervil Moors, near the pass to Crowfoot.” His voice was tight with emotion. Perhaps there was anger there, but there were threads of so much more as well.

“They’ll be lucky if they get that far by tomorrow night,” Sorrel muttered. “He’ll be dead by then if he’s travelling naked. I thought the whole idea was to get him into a shrine where
Va
could make a judgement on him.”
Oh, Saker
…

The Prince gave her a hard look. “I hope he
is
dead by tomorrow night,” he said. “After what he’s done, he deserves no better.” He continued to regard her as if he was puzzled that a mere handmaiden would venture to have an opinion. “No thanks to you, mistress! Whoever gave you permission to defend that – that knave in court?”

“I was unaware that I had to seek permission to tell the truth before a court of law, your highness.” She said the words steadily enough, but her heart was racing.

“You are both insolent and foolish,” he snapped, and turned away, his dislike palpable.

He probably doesn’t even remember my name
, she thought.
A servant means nothing to these people. By the oak, how much longer do I have to live like this?
She turned her attention back to the small group of people now crossing the garden. A dozen guards under the leadership of a sergeant surrounded Saker Rampion.

She tried for dispassion as she gazed at him. Tall, broad across the shoulder, muscular too, in the way of a man used to an outdoor life rather than that of a more sedentary witan or scholar. His arms were pinioned behind his back. He stood tall as if not ashamed of his nakedness.
Courage
, she thought.
And honour too, I suppose. To save Mathilda’s reputation, he’s kept his mouth shut about her willingness.

He looked up towards the King, his gaze neutral. One of the guards lost his temper, and kicked the back of his leg so that he fell to his knees. Instead of continuing to look at Edwayn, his gaze moved to Mathilda. It was only then that his eyes dropped to the ground.

“The arrogance of the hedge-born scallion! How dare he look at you like that,” Ryce muttered to Mathilda. “It would be a pleasure to strike his head from his shoulders.” To Sorrel’s ears, there was something odd in his tone; it lacked the viciousness of his words.

She couldn’t stand it any longer. She turned on her heel and went back inside. Curse them all, she
hated
feeling helpless. She was so sick of it. Too many years penniless under Nikard’s thumb, and now under Mathilda’s…

She squared her shoulders. The time had come for her to
do
something. Damn them all! If it was up to her to save Saker, she would. She bent to pat the fellhounds that had followed her inside, trying not to remember what she had just seen. The dogs fawned and wagged their tails in delight. “One day,” she whispered to them. “One day soon, I swear I’ll be free again.”

Saker tried not to think about the humiliation. To stand there naked, and look up to see the faces staring down on him from the balcony … He shivered, and it wasn’t entirely the cold. Rage. Contrition. Embarrassment. Shame. How was it possible to feel so many things at once and to be seared to the soul by them all? Somehow he managed it.

The King stood in front, outrage and scorn and hatred in the folded arms, in the glower of his brows. At his shoulder stood Valerian Fox, faintly smiling, that smug vulpine smirk of his. A whole array of courtiers were lined up behind them. Some laughing and chatting – he could imagine the jokes – but most just standing there, looking at him, which was worse.

He’d been so proud of himself. So sure no one would get the better of him, not him, not smart, skilled Saker. He was the Pontifect’s best; the hunter after truth, the clever spy, the sharp-witted investigator. He was both the quiet man who noticed things other men didn’t, and the fighter who could battle his way out of any corner.

And now humbled, disgraced, naked, a figure of fun.

Knocked to his knees, he took a deep breath and moved his gaze to the next balcony along. The one outside the Princess’s apartments. Mathilda was there, and so was Celandine Marten, and Prince Ryce. He ignored Celandine. Mathilda’s face was expressionless. She was holding on to the balustrade, looking down on him and the guards.

Oh, in the name of Va, I’m sorry, Mathilda
.

And yet, and yet, it had been so perfect. It was hard to regret something that had been so wonderful.

He wished he could talk to her one more time.

Miserably, he thought of the Pontifect. She would never forgive what he’d done. He wasn’t sure he would ever forgive himself. How could love be so wrong? And yet it had been. Of course it had.

Stupid. He should be thinking about survival. That was the only thing that counted now. He had to live and he had no idea of how he was going to do that. He looked back at the Prime.

One day,
he thought,
I’m going to kill you, Valerian Fox. If that’s the only thing I have to live for, then that’s what is going to keep me alive.

Sergeant Horntail ordered him back to his feet, and as he stood, he thought he saw pity in the man’s eyes and wondered if he’d be able to turn that to his advantage.
Because I will not die
. As he was led away, his gaze met Mathilda’s for one last brief moment. He’d never see her again and the grief he felt was the final coating on his misery.

He asked, “Tell me, Sergeant, where are we going?”

“Chervil Moors shrine. We won’t get there until tomorrow afternoon, so we have a long ride ahead of us. We’ll be camping out tonight.”

Chervil Moors? Va grant the scurvy plague to whoever had chosen that particular shrine. The highest, most windswept place they could think of, at a guess.

He said neutrally, “It’ll be a cold night, then.”

Horntail didn’t reply.

One of Fox’s clerics went ahead of Horntail’s mounted detachment of guards, ringing a bell to alert the townsfolk there was something afoot, and people came to see. He heard the whispered word that spread through the crowd: “Nullification.” He saw several men shrug and mutter that it was Faith business, and no concern of theirs. Grubby children laughed and pointed, indulging their love of gutter language to poke fun at him. Women, he noted, were kinder, wincing at the mess of his face, although he did hear some ribald comments referring to his manhood. “Pity if they nullify that,” one bawd yelled, bringing a flush to his cheeks.

A couple of youths threw muck from the street at him. When he ducked and a particularly malodorous clump sailed over his head and hit the mount of one of his escort, Horntail’s men were quick to prevent any repeat.

His shame stayed with him, though, stinging him far more than the cold, to be felt long after they left the city. Several miles beyond the walls, Horntail gave him his clothes and told him to dress, muttering, “I’m damned if I’ll let you die before we reach the shrine.” Once Saker was clothed again, the Sergeant rebound his hands, but this time in front instead of behind his back. “And I have a horse for you too.”

Mounted up, trying not to feel the ache of his broken ribs and bruised kidneys, or the agony of his face that was jabbing its damnable way into his skull to rot his brain, he forced himself to focus on the problem of Horntail’s dagger.

He was certain it was Ardhi’s Chenderawasi kris. He couldn’t believe an arbitrary coincidence had brought it into Horntail’s hands, either. It was
following
him.

Va-forsaken sorcery
. That idea no longer scared him as much as it had. After all, anything that didn’t like Valerian Fox must contain something of value.

S
orrel faced Mathilda across the expanse of the Princess’s bed, her chin raised. The Princess was speaking, and on the surface she was being at her most imperious. Sorrel suspected that underneath she was terrified.

“You are far too disrespectful! I don’t care what you know, I am still your princess and I deserve your loyalty.”

For a moment she regarded Mathilda with dispassion, wondering how best to proceed. Threaten her? Blackmail her? Reason with her?
Sometimes I forget how young she is …
Young in years, young in experience, yet bred at court amid distrust and vicious rivalry, understanding that she was no more than a precious jewel to be bartered. She knew enough to be suspicious and bitter, and to use people.

Sorrel’s initial rage at what the Princess had done to Saker faded. Mathilda had been dealt wealth and position at birth, but no one had ever loved her enough to fight for her. Even Ryce’s defence had been half-hearted.

“Milady, we both know things about the other that could ruin us. I have trusted you with my secret for over a year; now it’s up to you to trust me with yours. After all, neither of us can afford to betray the other, can we?”

Mathilda bit her lip, thinking. Then she said slowly, “I hold the best game piece. Everyone will believe me because of who I am. They believed me when I said I was ravished. No one will believe you if you say something different.”