The Fall of the Dagger (The Forsaken Lands)

by Glenda Larke

  3

  Loyalty and Royalty

  “Are you there?” Juster asked softly.

  Sorrel glanced back over her shoulder to make sure the two dock lumpers he’d employed to carry the salt cellar in its wooden box were not close enough to hear her reply. The hired torchbearer had already pulled further ahead so the taint of burning pitch no longer assailed Juster’s nostrils.

  “Right at your shoulder,” she whispered.

  He jumped. “Sweet nonce and hell’s tomorrows! Do you have to curdle the blood in my veins?”

  “Well, you asked.”

  He stared right through her and lowered his voice. “I can’t see you.”

  “You’re not supposed to. I’m very good at what I do.”

  “So I see. Or rather, don’t see.”

  Afraid that the king would soon be abed if they tarried, she and Juster had not stayed long in the Barklee house. Her heart tight with fear for Piper, she took comfort from Mistress Barklee’s apparent delight at having another child around. If the woman had been astonished to have her husband arrive back with a child and the ship’s boy in tow, she hadn’t let it show.

  Information garnered from the surgeon’s brother-in-law was mostly the same as that given in Agent Rotherby’s letter, all of it more rumoured than confirmed. The man did blame the current troubles on Grey Lancers rather than Primordials, but could offer little information about exactly who they were.

  “You see grey coats and lances?” he’d warned. “You don’t linger. And you don’t complain. Ever.”

  When Juster asked who led them, the man spoke of “black-clad gaunt men with doomed eyes”, which the nobleman put down to scaremongering exaggeration rather than accurate description. Clearly, no one could predict the nature of his reception at the palace.

  Few people were in the streets at that time of night. No one approached them, not when Juster thrust his cloak back to reveal his hand on the hilt of his sword. Together with the lanky torchbearer, who carried a cudgel as well as the burning brand, and the two burly dock lumpers, they were more than enough to discourage any cut-throat, but still she did not feel safe. The king had wanted her dead once and, as Fox was a sorcerer, it was possible he’d see through her witchery. Saker said even the Pontifect had been unable to use her witchery against the Prime.

  Barklee’s brother-in-law was an advocate, a lawyer, not a nobleman or a courtier privy to the comings and goings of the notables, but he had heard the Prime now lived mainly in Vavala as that was the seat of the Pontifect. She prayed his information was correct.

  At the gates, the guards admitted Lord Juster through the small portal, and closed it after him before she or the hired men with the box could enter. She waited, alert, to one side, until a minute or two later two soldiers came out with Juster. He paid off all three hired men and asked the guards to carry the box inside. Sorrel sidled in behind them.

  Within the archway of the gate tower, a pair of hanging candle lanterns battled to dispel the gloom. The balding watch commander, lips pursed, regarded Juster and the box unhappily.

  “My lord,” he said, “I’m sure His Majesty would be glad to see you come morn, but it’s nigh near ten of the clock, and with his blighted sight, he retires early nowadays.”

  “His orders were for me to report the moment I returned,” Juster said calmly. “Best that you leave the decision to His Majesty, or to his chamberlain.” He smiled pleasantly. “You know me well, I think. Peebolt, is it not?”

  “Yes, my lord. Tomat Peebolt. My uncle was a gamekeeper on your estate.”

  “I remember. Well, I’m sure you know I present no threat to His Majesty. If he has no wish to see me tonight, then I will ask for a bed and present myself to the king tomorrow.”

  The commander capitulated, and ordered two of the younger guards to accompany Lord Juster to the chamberlain’s room in the king’s solar, adding, “They can carry your gift.”

  They set off, the guards in the lead. Sorrel touched Juster’s arm to tell him she was still with him. He nodded in acknowledgement, but didn’t glance her way. She dropped a step or two behind, careful to keep her pace steady and perfectly blended to the background.

  The solar was on the second floor, up two broad sweeping flights of stairs. She had only been into the inner chambers once – a night she preferred to forget – but she was familiar with the entrance room, which served as a reception chamber where people waited to be admitted to the king. It led into a much more impressive audience room with a line of tall windows down one side, dressed with velvet curtains.

  At the entrance to the solar, there were two guards on duty, and here Juster halted, while one of these guardsmen checked to see if the king would see him. She chose to flatten herself against the wall because the uneven linenfold moulding of the wooden panels helped to disguise her outline.

  Shortly afterwards, Conrid Masterton came bustling out of the solar. She knew him well enough by sight. When she’d been Lady Mathilda’s handmaiden, he’d been the palace’s resident prelate. She was appalled to see that now, although still clad in clerical robes, he was also wearing the elaborate chain of the king’s chamberlain. The elderly, pragmatic man who had held that post previously had been replaced by a cleric who owed much to Prime Valerian Fox. Almost as bad, it was a deviation from the usual separation of Va-faith from political dominion.

  “My lord.” Masterton inclined his head towards Lord Juster in barely polite acknowledgement. “Welcome. The king expected you earlier this afternoon when he was told your vessel had been sighted…”

  Frowning slightly, Juster stared at the chain, then, with deliberate disregard of its relevance, said airily, “Prelate Masterton. I had to make sure that my ship was well anchored. A captain’s duty, you know.”

  “I believe the harbourmaster expected you to berth at the wharf.”

  “Oh? I was unaware of that. I would have done so if my agent had arranged it. But alas, there has been no sign of the fellow. Thus I fear this is a late hour to pay my respects to His Majesty. Is he perhaps already abed?”

  “No. He awaits you.” Masterton held open the door to the solar apartments and gestured for Juster to enter.

  Juster, however, lingered to divert his attention in order to give Sorrel a chance to precede him. “My gift…” he said, and pointed to the box.

  Hugging the wall, she slipped inside the reception room and glanced around. Besides several distant relatives of the king, there were a couple of young clerics she didn’t recognise, and several men whom she guessed to be wealthy merchants, if the expensive foreign cloth and cut of their suits was any indication. Three or four servants were attending to their needs, bringing wine and food.

  Still in the doorway, Juster beckoned to the guards. “Bring that box inside and unpack it, will you?” He waved them in without waiting for permission, even as he smiled pleasantly at Masterton. “A token of my esteem for His Majesty. Can’t visit the king without a suitable gift from my travels, can I? Tell me, what happened to Chamberlain Brockhart? Passed away in my absence?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Masterton replied with a tight-lipped smile.

  “Sorry to hear that. He was my mother’s cousin, you know. Used to dandle me on his knee when I was a nipper. Delightful man, if a little pedantic. Can’t be easy for you to be both chamberlain and prelate… surely you are overworked, Masterton! I shall have a word to say about that to my old friend, Prime Fox. Is he here tonight?”

  “I’m afraid not. He’s a busy man and had matters to attend to in the north. And it’s Pontifect Fox now.”

  “Indeed? Yet I’ve heard he’s been advising His Majesty in the capacity of Chancellor! Well, doubtless that will be just a temporary affair. We need our clerics to guard our spiritual well-being, not our temporal concerns, as you doubtless agree, Master Conrid. It must be such an imposition for you to be tasked with matters so mundane as civil administration when your talents are needed in matters spiritual!”

  Sorrel a
lmost laughed. Justified or not, nobles were experts at making their underlings squirm, even as a veneer of impeccable manners never wavered. Still, she wondered if Juster’s words were wise. As he prattled on, each apparently artless, offhand comment as pointed as a sharpened dagger, he interspersed his remarks with greetings to the noblemen, requests for introductions to the merchants and exhortations to the guards to be careful not to break the glass of the gift. Masterton, barely able to insert a word in edgeways, looked increasingly irrelevant. All eyes were on Juster, and no one as much as glanced her way.

  The guards lifted the salt cellar from the box and two of the servants, wide-eyed, bustled forward with a large silver serving tray to place it on. It was her first glimpse of the gift, and she was just as astonished as everyone else. That was a mere salt cellar?

  It was a model of a three-masted sailing ship, as long as a man’s arm from shoulder to fingertip. Mounted on a gold-plated base, the opened shell of a huge clam formed the hull. The deck, of exquisitely carved wood, supported an array of carved onyx cannons. The sails and rigging, crafted out of Javenka glass, glistened and shone. The crow’s nest was studded with pearls, and flags of hammered silver topped each of the masts of polished horn.

  For a moment even Masterton was dazzled into speechless admiration, but then he glared at Juster, saying, “The king awaits.”

  Juster flicked his hand at the prelate. “Then lead on, man. Lead on.” Glancing back at the servants holding the tray, he beckoned them to follow. With all eyes on him and the magnificent present, Sorrel slipped ahead into the audience room, still unobserved. Even the king’s personal bodyguard, standing by the door, did not look her way. She knew him. What was his name?

  Brace, that’s right. Willas Brace.

  She’d never expected to return to the palace, never thought to come face to face with King Edwayn again. As she looked around, the cold of unwelcome memories turned her insides into a quivering mess. The last time she’d been here was the morning Mathilda accused Saker of ravishing her, and life had changed for all of them.

  Blending herself against more of the solid oak linenfold panels, she stared at the king. Somehow she’d expected him to be standing; instead he was huddled into a winged chair, more shrivelled than she remembered, not just older, but shrunken and frail. His right eye socket was empty and puckered, but his left eye, hardly more than a faded pearl nestling in a sunken hollow, could still focus if its glare in Juster’s direction was any indication.

  Not blind then, but not far from it either.

  To her alarm, the room was ablaze with light, perhaps in an attempt to compensate for the king’s poor eyesight. Every candle in the huge central chandelier was lit, as was every taper in the wall sconces. Mirrors had been erected on the walls where once there had been royal portraits. Aghast, she caught sight of her reflection in the one opposite where she stood, every detail of her appearance as clear as day. Fortunately, she was the only person looking at a mirror; everyone else had their gaze riveted on Juster. No one appeared to notice her entry into the room.

  Don’t be a goose, she thought, pulling herself together. Of course you can see yourself in the mirror. But no one else can. At least, she hoped that was right. Just to be sure and to remain unobtrusive, she slipped stealthily into one of the window embrasures and concealed herself behind the thick velvet of the drapes, adjusting them so she was peeping through the smallest of gaps between the two halves. There wasn’t much space separating the curtains in front of her and the diamond panes of the leadlight window behind her. Her back was flat to the glass. If there was anyone in the gardens below who bothered to look up…

  Don’t be silly. If someone glanced up, they wouldn’t know she was an intruder.

  She concentrated on the scene before her. Tonias Pedding, Prime Fox’s secretary, thinner and paler than she remembered, had been standing at King Edwayn’s left, but was now elbowed aside by Masterton, who bent low to whisper something in the king’s ear. A manservant hovered to the right of the king’s chair. The Earl of Fremont, the man who had been the chief judge at Saker’s trial, also more frail than she remembered, stood nearby, leaning on the back of an armchair occupied by one of Edwayn’s second cousins, Lady Nerill. The grey-headed flat-chested woman standing next to her was her lady attendant, whose name Sorrel couldn’t remember. Another two male clerics, strangers to her, stood side by side watching from the other end of the room. Ten people for her to keep an eye on… no, twelve. The two servants carrying the salt cellar had just entered. Brace, the bodyguard, closed the door behind them.

  All eyes were on Juster, but no one greeted him. Brace did murmur something, and by way of answer Juster unbuckled his sword belt and handed it over, blade and all. That was new: no nobleman had been obliged to disarm in the king’s presence in the past.

  Juster marched across the room, and knelt on one knee before the king. He briefly bowed his head, then looked up straight at Edwayn as he spoke. “Your Majesty, greetings to my liege. I have returned with a cargo of spices for the health and prosperity of your kingdom. For Your Majesty, I bring a gift from far-off lands, worthy of a great monarch. I am also the purveyor of intelligence concerning the other side of the world and, alas, I have grievous tidings of the perfidy of sailors flying Lowmian colours.”

  “Your ship is forfeit,” the king replied as if he’d heard nothing Juster had said. “All seagoing traders now sail under the flag of my house. You will berth Golden Petrel in the city docks. Your spices will be unloaded and sold by my agents. The proceeds will go into the royal coffers as taxes. Our land fights the Primordials and the heretics that assail us and our brave soldiers and the clerics who lead them need to be paid!”

  Before Juster could marshal a coherent answer, Masterton intervened, his words smoothly suave. “Of course, my lord, you would still be captain of the vessel, but you will sail it under the king’s orders, and be paid a fee from the king’s coffers for your services. The land has need of sailors and merchants.”

  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 exampl
e 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!”