The Lascar's Dagger (43 page)

“Allies are those you trust, not those you deceive.”

The truth of his words made her feel ill, but the old man didn’t know what it was like to see into the head of a child and sense the nascent talent there, to know there was the possibility of a witchery within unlike any other the world had ever known. A witchery she would one day need at her side, no matter the price.

I am the Pontifect. Nothing else matters, only my duty to the Pontificate. And to Va, of course.
“Right now he is a willing ally and a loyal servant
because
he doesn’t know the depth of the deception.
And that’s exactly the way I want it.”

She knew the price, though. In the end, Saker Rampion would walk away without a backward glance. There were some things that were indeed unforgivable.

Only when he’d left the Pontifect’s palace and was sitting in a local hostelry did Saker remember that he’d intended to tell her all about the lascar’s dagger. And yet he hadn’t said a word.

He dropped his wooden spoon back into the bowl of potage he’d been eating, and drew the kris out of his sheath to lay it on the table. Thinking back to Throssel, he now remembered his earlier intention to write to her about it, and yet he never had.

You fobbing maggot-pie
, he thought, addressing the dagger,
you made me forget.
More lascar witchery.
Ardhi, you’d better find me soon, before this thing curdles my brains
.

He ran a finger over the wrought metal of the blade. It seemed solid, inanimate. The times when it had been more fluid were either in its efforts to reach his side, or to warn him of danger.

You know what I think I’ll do? I’m going to take you to a shrine, and see how you react.

The dirty smudge on his fingers came back the moment he stepped under the bare branches of the oak at the main Vavala shrine later that day. When he placed his hands flat to the bark of the trunk, he half expected something awful to happen, but nothing changed. He prayed, his forehead touching the tree, but found little solace. He fumbled for the dagger and touched it to the bark in turn. A stray shaft of wintry sun slipped down through the canopy to illuminate the blade and make the gold flecks shine, but apart from that, nothing happened. The dagger didn’t move, the oak twigs hung still in the windless air, and the shrine-keeper noticed nothing.

Outside once again, standing near the edge of the tree’s spread, a warbler chirped its friendliness and came down to perch on a branch only inches from his shoulder.

“Who asked you here, you saucy ball of fluff?” he growled. “You don’t care enough to give me a single feather off your back, even if I asked!”

The warbler cocked its head, staring. Then it preened its back. When it had finished, it bent down towards him, offering up a single feather in its beak. He gaped at it, aghast.

No, oh no. That didn’t just happen
. He backed away, stumbling, then turned and fled.

A totally useless, boil-brained witchery. He could charm birds into giving him their feathers … Va above, was he mad? Had the whole fobbing world gone curdled crazy?

He began to laugh. There was Pontifect Fritillary Reedling thinking she was the one sending him to Lowmeer, when of course that wasn’t it at all. It was Ardhi’s doing, or the Chenderawasi kris, drawing him back to Ustgrind.

Part of him, the part that knew he was being manipulated by forces far greater than he, wanted to howl at the wind in frustration. In terror. The rest of him – the part that acknowledged he was going to Lowmeer to face whatever he must, whether it be Horned Death, or devil-kin, or A’Va, or just a life without ever seeing Mathilda again – knew that he had finally grown up.

Life,
he thought,
is really about accepting that, in the end, you have to deal with whatever happens
.

M
athilda sank into a deep curtsey, her skirts spread and her head bowed. She stayed that way, perfectly balanced, afraid to look up.

What if he’s ugly? I wager he is. I wager he’s repulsive. And old and wrinkled…

It wasn’t entirely a guess. She’d seen his portrait, painted when he was at least ten years younger, and even then the Regal of Lowmeer had been an austere, grim-faced prune of a man. She’d heard rumours at court that he’d murdered his previous Ardronese noble wife because she’d proved barren.

“My lady, arise.”

A hand wavered under her nose, thin-fingered, knobbled and swollen at the knuckles. She placed her hand on the palm offered to her, then raised her head to look.

“Your Grace,” she whispered. Her sapphire-blue, pearl-studded wedding gown billowed around her, and her first impression was that she was the only splash of brightness on a ship draped in funereal colours. An awning, erected over the deck in case it rained, dimmed the sunlight and accentuated the sombre. Everyone within her range of vision was wearing black or grey, with white trimming.
Va save me, they’re a congregation of pied auks!

“Welcome on board,” the Regal said. “We’ve been awaiting our royal bride with impatience.”

He bent to kiss her fingers as she rose from her curtsey, and his dry lips lingered on her skin longer than was customary. She had a whiff of bad breath; the ruler of Lowmeer had rotting teeth. Her next impression was of a long face ending in a jowled jawline, and a paunch that obliterated his waistline. The rest of his figure was too thin. His neck was scraggy, his arms lacked flesh, and his thighs were as scrawny as those of an underfed rooster.

Sweet Va,
she thought in revulsion.
I must bed a man who resembles a starveling fowl with a pot belly?
She fought a desire to scramble back on to the galley that had rowed her out to the anchorage. Instead, she said, “Your Grace is indeed kind.” Her voice wobbled, more in horror then fright.

“Allow us to present our cousin, the Lady Friselda Drumveld. She will be milady’s wards-dame.”

Sweet Va, she had to be fifty. At least. A solid trunk of slate grey was finished with white cuffs at the wrists and topped with a white linen headdress. Her only adornment was a plain gold widow’s band on her finger.

“It will be my honour,” the woman said. Her voice rumbled like approaching thunder.

Mathilda inclined her head in acknowledgement.
What in Va’s name is a wards-dame?

“We are sure Lady Friselda will be of indispensible service to milady.” Vilmar’s gaze fell to the curve of Mathilda’s breasts, pushed up by the tight bodice of her wedding gown, and lingered there. “Shall we proceed with the ceremony?” He offered her his arm, and she slipped her fingers through the crook of his elbow. He patted them with his other hand.

Prime Fox bowed and stepped forward to face them.

Sweet cankers, how she hated him!

She looked around the deck, desperately seeking a friendly face. In answer, Ryce moved forward until he was standing at her shoulder. She gave him a frantic look of entreaty, but he ignored the message.

Where’s Celandine? I need Celandine. No … Sorrel.
She must remember that. Celandine had ceased to exist. And Sorrel wanted to be unobtrusive until the ship sailed.

She was close to panic. Trapped. There was no way out, not now. The Prime spoke, something about the sanctity of marriage, but she didn’t listen. The Regal was leaning heavily on her arm, as if his knees wouldn’t hold him erect. She riveted her gaze on to his hand where it covered her own. Liver spots splotched his skin. She thought wildly of breaking free, of flinging herself over the railing into the cold waters of the Betany estuary. Her heavy gown would drag her under in seconds.

She shivered.

No. You are the daughter of a king. You are about to become the Regala. You will show the world what it is to be a queen…

She raised her chin and prepared herself to recite her wedding vows.

The festivities dragged on.

Festivities?
No,
Mathilda thought savagely, there was nothing festive in the way the Lowmians conducted themselves. Regal Vilmar ignored her and spent his time speaking to Ryce. Someone had brought him a chair, and he’d eased himself into it like an old man. When his glance did stray her way, it was to fixate on her neckline.

My husband.

Dear Va. I am truly married. Tonight he beds me; tomorrow morning we sail with the tide for Ustgrind.

As the afternoon wore on, and it grew colder up on deck, the wedding party dispersed. Most of the Ardronese guests departed for the shore and the town hall, where a banquet had been prepared to celebrate her marriage. The Regal, determined not to set foot on Ardronese soil because he believed it would show him to be the lesser monarch, ordered food to be ferried from there to the Lowmian banquet, planned for the lower deck of his own vessel.

Prince Ryce and several of their royal cousins stayed on, together with the four ladies-in-waiting who were to accompany her to Lowmeer. The only other Ardronese in attendance was the Prime. She couldn’t see Sorrel anywhere, although she’d promised she’d be on board.

She won’t break that promise. She won’t.

Yet her handmaiden was tender-hearted and still so angry about what had happened to Saker. Which wasn’t fair, really. Mathilda hadn’t thought Saker would be
killed.
The idea that Ryce would be sent to murder him had never
occurred
to her. When he’d been nulled, she’d thought the shrine guardian would save him because he was innocent – and she must have been right to think so. He
hadn’t
died. Ryce hadn’t killed him. Sorrel knew that. She
needed
her. She
had
to be there.

“Would your grace like to adjourn to your quarters before the banquet begins?” Lady Friselda rumbled in her ear.

“Indeed I would,” Mathilda replied, relieved. She’d being aching to use a privy and had been wondering how to ask. She signalled her ladies-in-waiting to follow her, and they all descended the narrow companionway to the lower deck, their dresses brushing the walls as they went.

When Lady Friselda stopped, she indicated a door on her right. “This is the Regal’s cabin. Yours is the opposite one on the left.”

She waved Mathilda in ahead of her, then closed the door behind her, shutting the four ladies-in-waiting outside in the companionway. Inside the cabin, Aureen and Sorrel, who had been unpacking Mathilda’s cabin trunk, looked up from their task and hastily sank into curtseys.

Lady Friselda fixed them with an unfriendly stare. “There is no need to unpack her grace’s Ardronese dresses. They are inappropriate for Lowmeer and will be sent ashore in the morning.” Before Mathilda could protest, she added, waving her hand at a grey gown laid out across the bed, “That is a gift from me, and it is what you will wear to the banquet. I shall leave you to change.”

“Wait!” Mathilda said, looking at the gown in dismay. “You want me to wear that? It looks like widow’s weeds! My wedding gown was sewn especially for this occasion. You
cannot
mean me to change out of it now?”

“Indeed. It is the Regal’s wish.” Her eyes narrowed in irritation. “Your grace, you came on board an Ardronese princess, but you are now the Regala of Lowmeer. You will no longer be garbed in –
such
a way.” With those words, uttered with dismissive contempt, she stepped out of the cabin and closed the door.

Mathilda gaped, rendered speechless. Then she picked up the charcoal-coloured high-necked gown and held it up against herself. “Oh,
no
.”

“You knew this was possible,” Sorrel pointed out with infuriating calm.

“She can’t be serious.
All
my lovely dresses? And today,
now
?”

“I’ve been talking to some of the Lowmian servants,” Sorrel said. “A wards-dame is a very powerful person whose task it is to initiate a new bride into the bridegroom’s family. I wouldn’t advise going against her wishes too much.”

Mathilda grew more and more furious. “Aureen, go find my ladies and have them come here.”

Aureen scuttled out the door.

“Be careful, your grace,” Sorrel said. “You need to enchant your bridegroom
before
you challenge him.”

“No. I need to challenge him
before
he gets what he craves. That is my power.”

“That might work with many men, but Regal Vilmar is a monarch. Monarchs do not take kindly to direct challenges to their supremacy.”

Va, but the woman was exasperating. Always so – so
prosaic
! She ignored her advice and demanded instead, “Is there a privy on this Va-forsaken boat?”

Sorrel waved her hand at a door on the other side of the cabin. “There’s a commode in there.”

“I need to use it, but first you may unlace me. If they want me to change my clothing, I will. Unpack my red gown.”

Sorrel raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t the bosom a little
low
on that dress? And the colour, er, a little too –
red
?”

“Exactly,” Mathilda said, steely-voiced.

Aureen returned, flustered, just as Sorrel was about to lift the dress over Mathilda’s petticoats.

“What is it?” Mathilda asked. The maid was white-faced, and Aureen was usually as phlegmatic as a well-fed cat.

“Milady – I mean, your grace – they’ve gone!”

“What has?”

“Your ladies. Lady Maris, Lady Annat…”

She couldn’t absorb what Aureen was saying. “
Gone?
Gone where?”

“They’ve been sent back to shore. On the Regal’s orders.”

“That
can’t
be right. It was agreed! I could bring four ladies-in-waiting, and two servants.”

“Milady, I seen them being handed down into the longboat. With their luggage an’ all. The Regal was there, watching them go. So I asked the Lady Friselda’s maid what was happening. She said she’d overheard the Regal talking to her mistress, telling her to get rid of the four Ardronese wenches. Only Pashali peacocks should be that colourful, he said, and there weren’t no place in his court for women who looked like tavern bawds.”