The Fall of the Dagger (The Forsaken Lands) (28 page)

“The answer to your prayers,” said Fritillary, appearing in the doorway.

F
ritillary Reedling’s knowledge of the layout of the palace was key to their preparation. Gerelda unearthed rolls of used parchment from a chest in Proctor House and the Pontifect drew up detailed plans of every storey on the back of the sheets. She took them through the diagrams, room by room, detailing what they might reasonably expect to see in each.

The building, erected in stages over three hundred years, had started as a castle and evolved into a much more elegant edifice, with glass windows instead of arrow slits, and charming archways and statuary instead of a portcullis and drawbridge. The original curtain walls remained only along the river edge. The wall that divided the palace grounds from the city was more decorative than protective, topped as it was with a stonemason’s delicate lacework.

The palace interior, a maze of floors at different levels, had its integrity interrupted by the later addition of five elegant towers of varying heights, the tallest of which, built originally as a prison, was in the centre of the building. Fritillary thought that was where Princess Bealina was most likely to be incarcerated.

Peregrine, armed with a scoop and a broom from the Proctor House stables, posed as a street sweeper and kept watch on the main gate of the palace. He reckoned the busiest time was first thing in the morning.

“Of course it is,” Fritillary said. “That’s when the functionaries arrive to start work in the city’s administration offices on the ground floor and when the palace servants return from the market. Then there’s an influx of palace clerics from early morning services at the city chapel. Perusal of those entering will be perfunctory. Don’t be
too confident, though, Sorrel. They’ll know almost everybody who comes and goes on a regular basis. If they see you, there will be questions asked.”

“They won’t see me.”
Although Valerian Fox might.

Ardhi, studying the walls, concluded that the most vulnerable area was the most visually formidable: the ramparts of the curtain wall along the river. “There are no guards there,” he said. “The rest of the walls are patrolled, day and night, by men with firearms.”

“They assume attackers won’t come from the river,” Gerelda said, “because boats would soon be noticed.”

“Tides to worry about, too,” Ardhi said. “Certainly, they don’t think in terms of a single swimmer being a danger.”

“What are you considering?” Fritillary asked.

“Climbing up from the water during the darkest part of the night. From the top of the wall, I can get on to the roof.”

“Only if you can climb sheer stone,” Horntail said, not bothering to hide his scorn.

He shrugged. “I can.”

“He’s already done it,” Sorrel said. She’d found that out when she’d gone to his room on their second night in Vavala, only to find him gone. He’d returned at dawn, his hair still wet from his swim.

Fritillary looked thunderous. “What? You jeopardised this whole endeavour by—?” Words failed her.

Ardhi shrugged, not at all contrite. “If they caught me, what would have happened?”

“You’d be dead, that’s what!” Horntail folded his arms and glowered at him. “No guard is going to believe that a lascar has any business scampering about the Pontifect’s palace! You’d be killed on the spot.”

“No one will see me up on the roof, even during the day. Most of it is not visible from the ground. I just wanted to see if it was possible, and it is.”

“And what good can you do up there?” Horntail asked, still dismissive.

“Look, the problem is not how Sorrel will enter, or leave. The problem is how do we get a woman and a child out of there.”

At last Horntail began to look interested. “And your giddy-brained idea is—?”

“Lower them by rope into the water. Have a boat waiting. At night.”

“Hmm.” Horntail considered that. “Go on.”

That night, Ardhi took Sorrel up on the roof of Proctor House through a dormer window. Once they were sitting on top of the ridge in the moonlight, she asked, “What’s all this about?”

“I miss having the rigging to climb. There’s nothing like being up high. Look at the view!” He’d lapsed back into his own language, as he so often did with her. He waved a hand at the dark shapes of the rooftops, at the palace towers which were now just shadows blocking the stars, and at the river, slick and black. “When I was a boy, I was always up in the trees. Anyone who wanted young coconuts sent me up the trunk to twist the fruit down.”

They sat in companionable silence for a while, her head on his shoulder.

“You know what I envy Saker most for?” he asked some time later. “Being able to see the world from up there, in the sky! What I wouldn’t give to have his witchery…”

“He hates it.”

“No, he doesn’t. He hates taking command of a wild creature and making it a slave to his wishes. That’s different to hating flight.” He sighed. “Sometimes I wonder if witcheries are not granted as a test, as much as a gift. Saker recognises the potential of the power he commands over birds. In a war with this sorcerer and the Grey Lancers, he could have an army of birds darkening the sky… His dilemma is that as a witan and a believer in the Shenat Way of the Oak, he is supposed to care for your animals and trees, for the – what’s the expression?”

“‘Oak and acorn, field and forest, farm and flow’.”

“Yes. And yet, if he commands such an army and wins a battle, how many birds would die? If he doesn’t, how many of
us
will die? That’s his dilemma. His test.”

She thought about that, and felt a little sick. “And your test?”

“How much should I help you all, knowing I risk Chenderawasi’s future. If your nations grow strong and are not threatened from within by internal conflict, will you turn on us to seize our spices and our magic?”

“We will all do our best to stop that. Prince Ryce and Regala Mathilda will have reasons to help us, as well.”

He smiled at that. “Ah. Yes. You and Saker can be very… persuasive.”

“And my test? What is mine?”

“I think you already know.”

A whisper, because it was too difficult to say the words out loud. “Piper. And Prince-regal Karel. Two sorcerers who cannot be permitted to live…”

He reached out and wiped a tear from her cheek with his thumb. “We will find a way. We must.” He leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the lips. It was she who deepened it, took it to another place where there was nothing but themselves and the stars. Enclosed tight in his embrace, she felt them both start to slide down the slate tiles and abandoned the kiss for laughter, never doubting that he would keep her safe. Their feet hit the pitched roof over the dormer window, and they came to a halt.

“I think we had better go inside,” she said, rolling on to her back. “I have to sleep tonight. And you—Oh, look! A shooting star! And there’s another one!”

He looked up. “In Pulauan Chenderawasi we say the giant who sleeps on the moon, guarding his wealth, has rolled over and kicked some of his jewels into the sky. Those that fall to earth burn as they travel and become the sky-iron we find in our mountains. Some of that is in Sri Kris.” He touched the tip of her nose with his forefinger. “Be careful tomorrow, Sorrel. I’ll be watching.”

“I’ll be all right. I’ve memorised the layout of the whole palace, I swear.”

“Take care.”

“
You
take care, not just because we need the ternion…”

He smiled and whispered, “… but because we’ve barely begun our journey together.” He kissed her again, leaving no doubt in her mind of what he meant.

When she stood outside the gates the next morning, her heart beating wildly, she found her trepidation oddly pleasurable. It made her feel
alive
, bringing back memories of her time at court when spying for
the Lady Mathilda had been her one escape from the tedium of court life.

She shot one last glance over her shoulder to make sure that Peregrine was there, leaning on his broom, watching her. After sidling along the outside wall until she was close to the gate, she waited until the guards were distracted by a couple of cloth merchants wanting to gain entry, then slipped through.

The forecourt of the palace would have been bewildering if not for Fritillary’s coaching. The broad marble stairs on the left led up to the open terrace in front of the Pontifect’s quarters. The archway directly ahead led into a long barrel-vaulted passage through to the stables, the kitchens and the servants’ quarters. To the right of the archway, there were three smaller entrances, one to the administration areas, one to the Grand Hall and public audience rooms, and the third to another stairway that led to four of the five towers and all the private rooms.

All these entrances to the building were guarded.

She stayed close to the outer wall, watching for the right moment to move across the forecourt. Glancing upwards to the roof, she couldn’t see Ardhi anywhere, but from the configurations of the towers, ramparts, walkways, windows and balconies, it was obvious that there were plenty of corners and nooks out of sight from the ground.

Dropping her gaze once more, she saw a groom leading a horse through the archway into the forecourt. Behind him walked someone in better quality clothes, a couple of large fellhounds at his heels. Once out from under the archway, the man mounted his horse, whistled his dogs and headed towards the gateway. His servant followed on foot, a look of tired resignation on his face.

She wasn’t worried, even though they were going to pass a few paces in front of her. Her concentration was total and she was sure her glamour was flawless. Anyone looking her way would see the uninterrupted stone wall of the forecourt.

Then one of the hounds scented her. In Throssel Palace all the dogs had known her and ignored her, but here?
Va-damn, why didn’t I think of that?

The dog halted, raising its snout, nostrils twitching. Neck thrust
forward, it turned to look straight at her. Its nose told it she was there. The other dog, incurious, still trotted obediently after its master.

Sorrel stayed still, barely breathing.

The nearer dog growled a warning, a deep rumbling. The rider didn’t notice anything, but the servant called out, “Heel, Brute! Heel!”

Brute. Right. And it’s not taking any notice.

It lunged at her, front paws thudding into her just below her shoulders, its weight slamming her back against the stonework. Lips drawn back in a snarl, it sniffed at her face. She was terrified. Whatever happened, she knew she must not drop her glamour. If she did, she was dead. The fellhound’s lips curled back, displaying its fangs and gums so close to her chin that she could feel the animal’s bad breath on her face. Her throat was less than a finger’s width away from being ripped out by the yellowed teeth. Saliva dribbled down her tunic top. And if ever a dog had looked crazed, this one did.

No doubt about it, her attempt to locate Princess Bealina looked like ending in disaster almost as soon as it had begun.

Keep your glamour going. Don’t let it slip. Whatever you do, don’t let it slip, not for a second.

Unless her glamour was absolutely perfect when she moved, people staring so intently might notice
something
was wrong; a distortion perhaps, or a gauziness in the air.

Every head was turned her way. Faces registered incomprehension at the dog’s behaviour, apparently clawing and snapping at the wall. A group of kitchen servants stared from the gateway, where they had just arrived with baskets of vegetables and a handcart laden with pig carcasses. Hands on swordhilts, the gate guards watched, alert but reluctant to leave their posts when they could identify no real cause for alarm.

The dog continued to whine and snarl. The groom grabbed its collar and tried to pull it away. Even though he was close, he was so preoccupied with the dog’s odd behaviour that he still didn’t see her. The horseman dismounted and stalked across, shouting angrily at the hound and cursing the servant for not controlling it.

For a moment she thought it might all subside without anyone noticing her.

It was the second dog that spoiled everything.

As the servant pulled the first one away and its master walloped it with his riding crop, the second bounded forward to see what was so exciting. It sniffed and clawed at her shoes. People watching began laughing at its antics. When the dog’s nose encountered the leg of her trousers, it snapped at it and sank its teeth into the cloth. It began to pull.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw several of the guards on the archways abandon their posts to head in her direction. Her mouth went dry.

She built herself a different glamour, making herself appear to be a larger, more ferocious hound than the one tugging at her trousers. The real hound was not fooled; it knew exactly what it had in its teeth. Her aim was to confuse the folk watching. Where there had been only one dog, they now saw two, the smaller of which was tugging at the leg of the other.

Wide-eyed and panicked, the huntsman and his servant lashed out at both animals indiscriminately, apparently unwilling to admit that a moment before there had only been one. Sorrel winced when the blows hit her arms. The real hound turned tail and fled, so she vanished her canine glamour by changing it into the wall behind her. Once she was invisible, she stepped sideways, which left her assailants even more confused. Several who had been approaching within a pace or two of her hastily backed off.

She blessed the rarity of her witchery; a cleric or shrine keeper might have thought of a glamour to explain what was happening, but not these folk. Edging slowly away along the wall, she watched the chaos of the forecourt until she thought it was safe to walk briskly towards the smaller arches. She thought she’d got away with it. No one was now guarding the door ahead. No one was following her, or even looking her way. Behind her, a hysterical servant screamed about dogs that vanished. The horse, unhappy at all the noise and babble, panicked and started to dance out of the gateway, scattering guards and visitors, barely under the control of a servant who had grabbed its reins. But a moment later, when she glanced back over her shoulder again, she saw the first dog racing across the forecourt towards her.