The Fall of the Dagger (The Forsaken Lands) (5 page)

The king gave him a slightly puzzled look, but did not contradict him.

“Sire,” Juster said, “
Golden Petrel
is my ship. Have I offended in some way that you should take her from me?”

“You supported my son! He has rebelled against my wishes. Ryce is a traitor to the Crown!”

“Sire, I know nothing of any of this. I have been away and heard naught of any disagreement between Your Majesty and Prince Ryce—”

“Do you think I did not see you two in collusion? Do you think
I did not hear how you and that – that – that traitorous spawn of my loins cooperated to wrench our naval forces out of my control?”

“But, sire, it was on your command that I aided Prince R—”

King Edwayn half rose from his seat, levering himself up, spluttering with rage. Spittle dribbled down his chin but he didn’t appear to notice. “You dare to contradict your liege lord?”

Juster, still kneeling, did not move. “Never, sire,” he said quietly, breaking a silence just before it evolved from a mere pause to an act of unpardonable rudeness. He bowed his head. “Whatever you order, this humble servant shall obey, as is my duty.”

Sorrel almost snorted. She knew Juster better than that.

Edwayn fell back into the chair. Masterton once again bent forward to whisper in his ear. She wished she was close enough to hear, but there was no way she could risk moving, not in the bright candlelight, not when she couldn’t be positive she would not be reflected in half a dozen mirrors.

The king’s gaze switched from Juster to the salt cellar, still on its tray. The two servants holding it stood ramrod straight, faces expressionless.

“Bring that thing here,” Edwayn ordered.

They crossed the room until they were level with Juster.

“Get up, get up, and explain this contraption to me,” the king ordered, waving an agitated hand.

The buccaneer stood, more sober and restrained than Sorrel had ever seen him. “It is an exceptional example of Javenka glasswork, carving and gilding,” he began. “A salt cellar I deemed precious enough to grace the table of the king of Ardrone. The salt is placed in the little mother-of-pearl dish, here, where it poses as the ship’s longboat suspended above the deck.” He pointed amidships. “The spoon for the salt is the oar, here. There’s a delightful whimsy in this, sire. When someone picks up the salt spoon, it sets off a music box within the bowels of the ship, and also starts the automaton within, like this.”

He raised the spoon from the miniature boat and the tinkling sound of a music box started up. Sorrel didn’t know the tune, but it was unmistakably of Pashalin origin. At the same time, without Juster doing anything further, the silver flags – pulled, she guessed, on
strings threaded through the hollow masts – dipped halfway down and then scooted up to the mast-tops again. The figure on the foredeck, clad in Pashalin costume and wearing a captain’s ceremonial headgear, gazed ahead and raised an arm in salute. In the crow’s nest, a sailor put his spyglass to his eye. Simultaneously, one of the cannon on the foredeck – no longer than a man’s thumb – rumbled and gave off a puff of smoke.

The servants holding the tray nearly dropped it in shock. Lady Nerill gave a squeal that sounded more scared than amused, which made her lady companion produce a bottle of smelling salts to wave under her mistress’s nose. The king pursed his lips and glowered.

Oh, fob it. He’s working himself up into a rage.

“A Pashali monstrosity!” he cried. “A sorcerous artefact concocted by Va-forsaken heathens and you
dare
to bring it here, into my palace?”

His reaction caught Lord Juster by surprise. She saw the flicker of amazement cross his face, followed immediately by a rueful recognition of how much he had erred. He went back down on one knee.

“If I have offended, sire, it is out of a desire to please you. It is but a toy—”

“You would give your king a toy?” Masterton asked, enraged. “As if he is a child to be humoured?”

“I thought to give my liege a work of art!”

“It’s a work of Pashali heathens. A corruption that defiles our sight,” the king roared. “You have brought an abomination into our company!”

She winced. She had not thought Edwayn had the strength left in him to express himself with such volume and with such passionate vituperation. Juster was in dire trouble.

“Masterton?”

“Yes, sire?”

“Why did you bother me with all this?” In the blink of an eye, rage was replaced by the petulance of a child. He sank back against the chair, just a wizened old man again.

She hoped he’d forgotten his anger, but his next words gave the lie to that thought and her hopes plunged still further. “Seize Dornbeck’s ships and property and behead him in the morning. And now will someone help me to my bed?”

“Sire, a trial will be necessary—” the Earl of Fremont said in appalled protest.

“Then try him! And execute him afterwards. I do not wish to be bothered with this… this tedium. Fetch the queen. Where’s my queen?”

As far as Sorrel knew, his only queen had died in childbirth when Mathilda was a toddler. Could he have married again? No. If he had, Barklee’s brother-in-law would surely have mentioned it. This was just another indication that the king was losing his wits to the creep of old age. Or to sorcery, perhaps?

“And the – er – salt cellar?” Masterton asked.

“You fellows there,” King Edwayn said, addressing the two young clerics, “destroy the abomination! Take it away and smash it to pieces. And show them to me afterwards. I don’t trust you black-clad mewlers with your weasel snouts…”

He looked around vaguely for a moment as if he’d lost track of what he was saying, then heaved himself upright. He grabbed for the staff propped against his chair and scrambled to his feet as his manservant hastened to steady him. “Seize Lord Juster and remove him from my sight,” he said to Willas Brace, who was still standing by the door. “Yes. Seize him.”

Oh, rattling pox, what do I do now?

There was a tapping behind her, as if a branch was knocking against the window glass. She thrust away that stray thought.
Concentrate. You have to do something to save Juster, that’s why you came
…

Everything was happening at once. Willas Brace, still clutching Juster’s sword belt, hurried across to obey the king. Fremont drew his formidable black eyebrows together in a thunderous straight line, even as he flapped an ineffectual hand in apparent protest at the king’s orders. Lady Nerill burst into tears as she rose to her feet, clutching at her lady attendant’s arm. The two clerics bustled forward to take the salt cellar from the servants, who thrust the tray at them with relieved expressions and headed for the door that led back to the reception room.

Sorrel laid a hand to one side of the velvet drapes to draw it back enough for her to slip through, but paused because the tapping behind
had become so insistent. She glanced over her shoulder. Something stared at her through the distortion of the imperfections of the glass: a face with two weird eyes and a long, lank black beard growing around the rim of a chin – yet with no nose and no mouth in between, and no neck or body below.

In shock, she let out a squeal. She plunged through the curtains in fright and emerged into the room unglamoured. When she snapped to her senses again and glamoured herself back into obscurity, she expected everyone to be looking at her.

No one was.

The room was in chaos, her cry lost in the noise, her flick into sight, and then out again, unremarked. No one had been looking her way. The king was bellowing and beating off his manservant with his staff, Masterton was shouting orders that were lost in the general hubbub, and the Earl was clinging to Masterton, protesting. Lady Nerill was hysterical and flung up an arm just as her attendant, attempting to calm her, waved a bottle of spirits of hartshorn under her nose. The salts solution sprayed over the two women and a strong smell of ammonia began to pervade the air, causing them and those closest to them to gasp.

In the middle of it all, all his meekness vanished, Juster snatched his sword back from Brace and hit him under the chin with its hilt. Brace, taken completely by surprise, crashed into one of the two servants who had been heading for the door, and fell to the floor, half-stunned.

The grin on Juster’s face was grim as he placed himself in front of the door, blocking the servants from leaving. They edged cautiously away.

“Sorrel?” he bawled. “Are you there?”

A leak on you, Juster.
She pushed away the weird memory of what she’d seen at the window and ran across the room towards the clerics and the salt cellar, still holding on to her glamour as best she could, a vague plan forming in her head.
A diversion. He needs a diversion.

“This is all your fault, you wretched man!” she told him, knowing her disembodied voice would just add to the consternation of those in the room.

She grabbed the salt cellar from the tray, and headed for the door.
The weight of the gift made her stagger and she came within a whisker of dropping it. She hoped her reeling across the floor added authenticity to the impression of a ship gliding through the air all on its own, apparently impelled by invisible winds filling its glorious sails of glass.

As she lurched along, her arms aching and her form fully lit by the brightness of the mirrored candles, her glamour laboured to disguise her presence by blending her into her surroundings – and failed.

A
rdhi leaned against the back wall of the livery stables near the palace, a hand on the hilt of his kris, and watched as a sentry marched past on his rounds. He and Saker, deep in the shadow, remained unseen.

“About twenty minutes before he’ll be back again,” he said. His grasp of the language of the Va-cherished lands was now both fluent and colloquial, but as a precaution against being overheard, they’d chatted in Pashali ever since they’d left the ship. “Do you know, until I went to Javenka when I was fifteen, I had no idea anyone broke time up into small units. We’d just say things like, ‘I’ll be back before noon.’ We don’t have a word for ‘minute’ in Chenderawasi.” He pulled the kris out of its sheath and began to pare his nails.

“Isn’t using that on your fingernails being sacrilegious? Or at the very least, disrespectful?”

“We islanders are very practical folk.”

“A practical man would wait until daylight to make sure he didn’t chop off a fingertip or two. Is it – the kris – telling you anything?” Saker asked.

“Not really. It’s… uneasy, I suppose is the best way to describe it. No immediate danger. At least, not a danger it’s aware of. Bone-headed, though, to think that it can sense all threats. If a bunch of wine-guzzled guards were ambling towards us, with no thoughts except their beds, the kris wouldn’t tell me of an approaching danger.”

“Although one of them could possibly recognise me…”

“Exactly.” Ardhi glanced towards the main palace gateway, lit by a pitch torch in a sconce. “Can we be sure Juster and Sorrel aren’t already inside the palace?”

“I think so,” Saker replied. “We did come a shorter way. Barklee’s
brother-in-law’s house is over on the far side of the docks. They’ll walk from there, I imagine.”

“This Prince Ryce – you know him personally, don’t you? What’s he like?”

Saker pondered before answering. “When I knew him, he wasn’t even married, let alone a father. He had a lot of growing up to do. I rather imagine he’s done that in a hurry, if his father has lost his senses, disinherited him and tried to take away his son. Edwayn always was a little… odd. As a king, he ought to have married again and produced more heirs, but he refused. Thought the idea was disrespectful to his deceased queen. He never quite recovered from her death in childbirth. Mind you, I believe his grief didn’t stop him from fathering a couple of unacknowledged bastards.”

“There has to be a better way of governing yourselves than relying on the sanity – or maturity – of a hereditary ruler and his ability to produce heirs. It’s ridiculous!”

“That’s probably a treasonous pronouncement. If all too true.” Saker sighed. “It’s unlikely to change any time soon, unfortunately.”

“And yet you call yourselves the Va-cherished. Your god doesn’t give you good advice, does it?”

“Now
that
sounds like blasphemy. I think, as a cleric, I’m now supposed to tell you that Va grants the freedom of choice and what we do with it is up to us.”

“Which conveniently excuses your god of any blame for the mistakes of believers.”

“That’s one way of putting it, I suppose. Va only knows!”

Ardhi gave a soft laugh.

“Anyway,” Saker said, “didn’t you recently tell me that until you messed things up, you were the heir to your grandfather – who rules part of the Pulauan Chenderawasi?”

“I was his heir presumptive, as the Pashali call it.”

“They have a word for everything, don’t they?!”

“Especially ones to do with administration,” he agreed, remembering his university days. “In practical terms, the Chenderawasi heir to someone in my grandfather’s position has to be accepted by a Council before he inherits, and the same Council can order his unseating if he makes a mess of things.”

“And who makes up the Council? Nobles?”

“Not in the way you understand the word. Every large village in an administrative area elects a representative. In theory, anyone is eligible, man or woman. In practice, only those who are wealthier can spare the time away from their fishing or farming or caring for their children.”

“I don’t think that would work in Ardrone. Prince Ryce may not be the wisest of men, but he expects to be king one day, no matter what. And he expects to be able to choose his own advisers.”

“And you’d support him in that?”

Saker shrugged. “A stable monarchy has its advantages. All I know for sure now is that my belief in Shenat teachings doesn’t waver. Ever.”

“No more than my belief in the way of Chenderawasi
sakti.
I believe that’s why I am here, with the kris, and why the Rani gave you what you wear around your neck. Our
sakti
is reaching out to help your Shenat guardians and Shenat ways, because ultimately Chenderawasi safety and independence relies on the behaviour of Lowmian and Ardronese traders. And your unseen guardians need our help because of the sorcery that’s now apparently rampant here.”

“Kindred, eh? Your
sakti
and our witchery; our Shenat unseen guardians and your Avian Chenderawasi. There’s a nice symmetry to it.”

“A purpose, too.” The kris stirred in its sheath. “Ah, is that someone coming?” He withdrew the blade, but the gold flecks within did not glow red. “All’s well. It’s probably them.” Balancing it across his palm, he waited. A moment later it swung around, pointing at Saker. “Splinter it, it’s finding the
sakti
around your neck because you’re closer than Sorrel.”

“I think it’s time to fix the rope anyway.”

Keeping to the shadows, he left Saker and crossed over to the wall encircling the palace complex, the climbing rope slung over his shoulder. At the base, he lingered for a moment to make sure those on guard at the main gate further along had not noticed him. When there was no reaction from that direction, he began his climb.

For him, it was easy. His fingertips and the underside of his bare toes felt the cracks and roughness of the wall, and his skin softened
and moulded to give him traction on the stonework. In less than a minute, he was sitting astride one of the crenels, fitting the loop at one end of the rope over a merlon. He let the other end snake down the wall for Saker to climb up.

Last time I broke into Throssel Palace, it was to
find
Saker.

Grinning at the irony, he lay flat on top of the wall and gave a soft whistle. Nothing stirred where Saker was hidden. A moment later, he realised why: a torch flared near the gate, followed by voices, then the creak of a gate opening. He edged out his kris, and the flecks of gold within it glowed as the dagger responded to the presence of more
sakti.
Sorrel must have arrived.

He peered down into the palace grounds. The wall enclosed not just the main palace building with its royal apartments and administration offices, but many other structures, including stables, coach houses, kennels, a dairy, a bakery, a guardhouse and the lesser servants’ quarters. These were all separated from the main palace building by gardens and lawns, which extended down towards the river where the keep and the royal docks bordered Throssel Water. All seemed quiet. He hunkered down to wait.

After the voices stopped, he heard the main gate creak again as it was closed. A moment later, Saker emerged from the shadows and ran to the wall. He climbed the knotted rope with ease, hauled the end up behind him, then flipped it down into the garden.

“You first,” Ardhi whispered.

Saker shimmied down to the ground. Ardhi pulled the loop free of the merlon and dropped the whole length of rope into the garden. By the time he’d reached the ground, Saker had it coiled over his shoulder, ready to leave.

“Was it them at the gate?” Ardhi asked.

“Yes. With that damned salt cellar thing. I’ll lead now.”

Saker’s first guess on where Juster would be taken, the Great Hall on the ground floor, proved to be incorrect. No light gleamed behind the stained glass windows to indicate the hall was in use. Finding his next guess, the audience room in the king’s solar on the second floor, involved a fraught circuit through the gardens. Several times they had to scurry between the cover of hedges and bushes to dodge sentries.

Many of the drapes at upper floor windows were not fully drawn, and light blazed within. The tip of the kris blade obligingly pointed up to the second storey.

“It’s indicating the audience room,” Saker said.

Ardhi studied the configuration of windows and balconies. Saker had told him all the entries to the building would be either locked or guarded, so he already knew his climbing skills would be called upon.

“Unfortunately, it has no balcony,” Saker said. “Nothing to attach a rope to.”

“There’s the balcony a floor above. I can tie the rope there and dangle it past one of the audience room windows below.”

“Right. Do you know the whistle of the nightjar?” Saker whistled softly.

He imitated the call. “Like that?”

“That’s it. One whistle if you need me to come up the rope after you; two if you need a flock of birds as a distraction.”

“Where are you going to get birds at this time of night?”

“The king’s dovecote. It’s huge: four hundred nests in one brick building, just behind the stables. Did you know the argumentative little bastards hardly sleep? I can hear them now inside my head, quarrelling non-stop.”

He repressed a shudder at the thought. “Rather you than me.”

“Believe me, there are a great many times when I wish I had any other witchery but this one.”

“I hope we don’t need birds. And maybe we’d better say three nightjar whistles means get the pox out of here as blistering fast as you can.” He grinned at Saker through the darkness.

“Understood. Get going. If they are meeting the king, they’ll probably be up there in that room by now. Good luck, and don’t intervene until – and if – you’re sure they need you.”

He took the rope from Saker and hoisted it over his shoulder. “Don’t worry, I’d prefer to make it back to the ship without Juster knowing we’d ever left it.”

Saker gave a low laugh. “You reckon no one on board will let him know?”

“I’m sure they won’t. We swabbies stick together.” He grinned
again, and set off up the wall. The age of the stonework made it an easy climb with lots of crannies into which he could insert his fingers and toes. When he stopped halfway and looked back down into the garden, Saker had disappeared into the shrubbery to wait. Silently he resumed the climb, avoiding the windows of both the first floor and the audience room above.

Once he’d scrambled up to straddle the balustrade, he tied the rope securely to a stanchion, then dropped the free end down to the ground in such a way that it ran past one of the windows below. The casement was closed and the rope dangled about an arm’s length from the glass. He slid down it until he was directly opposite. Twisting one leg into the rope, and steadying himself by clutching the brickwork at the side of the window with one hand, he was comfortable – more so than in the rigging of a ship above a heaving sea.

The trouble was he couldn’t see anything.

The drapes were not completely drawn and he’d assumed he would be able to see through the gap into the room; instead his view was blocked by someone standing with their back to the window.

Someone hiding, obviously.

Sorrel?

He couldn’t be sure. Whoever it was, they were standing in the dark, no more than a shape to him. Hauling himself up above the window, he twisted his leg into the rope, then turned himself upside down. Only the top of his head and his eyes now dipped below the top level of the frame. If the person who had their back to the window turned around, they wouldn’t see him unless they also looked upwards.

Relaxing a little, he studied the audience chamber. At least now he could peek through the gap in the drapes.

He’d never seen King Edwayn, but everyone’s attention was directed towards an old man huddled into a chair. His jewellery was certainly the most impressive in the room, rivalled only by Lord Juster’s.

Juster was there, still safe, pointing out to the old man some of the features of an ornamental ship. Ardhi puzzled over that, until he realised it must be the salt cellar and that the buccaneer’s flamboyance evidently extended to his gift-giving.

He was unable to view the entire room, but if Juster had arrived at the stage of presenting his gift to the king in front of members of
the court, then perhaps all was well. He turned his attention to whoever was hiding behind the curtains.

Sorrel. It had to be, even though all he could see now was the top of her head, most of that shadowed. When he concentrated, he could see the vague glow about her that was the working of her witchery. So, at this point all was well. She was undiscovered and Juster was talking to the king.

Ardhi settled down to wait.

Just after he’d made himself comfortable, there was a sudden change inside the room. First there was a popping sound, followed by a puff of smoke. Someone squealed. Voices were raised and several people moved, gesticulating. With his narrow view of the room and the distortions of improperly made glass, it was difficult to know who was shouting, let alone why. Nor was it possible for him to hear exactly what was being said, but it was clear Juster was in trouble.

For a moment, he hesitated. When the king scrambled to his feet, his expression furious, Ardhi decided the best thing he could do would be to let Sorrel know that he was there, and to show her the rope.

Holding on to the top ledge of the window, still upside down, he tapped on the glass behind her head. She didn’t look around. When the disturbance in the room ratcheted up a notch, he tried again. This time he knocked louder.

Just as his headband fell to the ground and his hair streamed free, she turned to look at him. Her mouth dropped open and she gave him a fleeting look of bafflement and alarm. Before he could show her the rope, she squealed and turned away leaving the window embrasure through the curtains.

Aghast, he saw her glamour slip and thought for a moment she’d given herself away, but no one appeared to notice. When she moved out from the embrasure, she left the curtains open wider and he had a better view of the room. No one was looking her way. Everyone was on their feet and Juster was using his sword to fend off a uniformed guard. A middle-aged cleric had hold of the king on one side, while a man in servant’s livery helped to hold him upright on the other. Edwayn’s face was twisted with rage and he appeared to be trying to throw himself at Juster.