The Lascar’s Dagger

by Glenda Larke

  Fox straightened, only to aim his final insult. He heeled Saker from above, aiming for his privates. If he expected a scream, he was disappointed. The pain was so intense that Saker was robbed of all breath, of any ability to move, of any capacity to make a sound.

  All he could do was watch through a red mist of agony as Fox grabbed the demijohn from the table and emptied the contents over his face and neck. Then he pulled the ceramic container from the wickerwork cover and threw it to the floor. It smashed, the shards bouncing up and scattering. The noise made Saker wince, and even wincing shafted him with pain.

  Then the Prime was gone, and Saker was alone. The key rasped in the lock from the outside and he lay once more in blackness.

  Every breath was a tortured ache to be endured.

  Every beat of his heart pained him.

  Pox on it, Juster. I know why you fainted.

  The next coherent thought he had, a long time later, was how glad he was that he’d earlier swallowed the two perfectly polished rubies he’d found inside the wine.

  Sometimes being overly cautious was wisdom.

  The passages through the palace were largely deserted in the hours before dawn. Prince Ryce and his carousing companions, boisterously drunk, had returned from their foray into the town several hours earlier, and now all was quiet. The torchman had passed on his rounds a few minutes earlier, replacing the burned-out flambeaux.

  Two of the King’s Guards stood outside the door to the Princess’s rooms. The only people with free access were the two cloister nuns, the King himself, Prince Ryce and the Prime – which was why, when one of the nuns came out of the apartment before dawn, the guards let her pass.

  She was fully dressed in her shapeless habit, the white starched cornette-shaped coif sticking up like horns on her head, her long linen skirt scraping the floor. Over the top, the panels of the black scapular hung loosely from her shoulders.

  She nodded to the guards but did not speak.

  “Is there something we can do, sister?” one of the guards asked. He knew better than to expect a spoken answer. The nuns belonged to the silent order, and spoke to no one. The guards recognised her, though. This was the plumper one with the big nose.

  The nun smiled and shook her head, put her hands together in a gesture of prayer, pointed in the direction of the chapel before walking away. She walked quickly, as if she knew exactly where she was going, looking neither to left nor right until she’d turned the corner.

  “They give me the creeps,” the guard said to his companion as she disappeared. “Never a word, an’ with their funny hats an’ all. Reckon they’re virgins, Simmik?”

  “Want to investigate?”

  “Not likely!”

  They laughed and settled down to wait out the rest of their watch.

  The nun did not go to the royal chapel. She continued on her way until she came to the door of Saker’s room. Plucking a burning torch from the sconce on the wall nearby, she lifted the latch and stepped inside. Closing the door behind her, she propped up the torch in the fireplace, where it continued to burn brightly while she looked around the room. As she relaxed, the nun’s habit – and her face – faded away as if it had never been.

  Methodically, Sorrel Redwing began to search. She ignored her reluctance to touch Saker’s belongings, swallowed back her distaste at her invasion of his privacy. Instead, she collected his sword in its scabbard, and a selection of his clothing, including a pair of boots and a velvet hat.

  She removed her outer clothing and pulled on a pair of his britches and a woollen tunic. After strapping on his scabbard and sword, she put on her own dress again, lacing it much looser to allow for the extra layers underneath. The boots went on over the top of her own flimsy slippers, his hat on her head. More clothing and a few other small items she stuffed into a cloth bag she’d found. Taking a deep breath, she carefully rebuilt the glamour of the nun’s face and habit.

  Back in the passage a moment later, she replaced the torch in its holder on the wall, and adjusted the cloth bag at her waist under the image of the scapular. She then walked briskly back to the royal wing of the palace apartments. She nodded politely to the two guards on duty and re-entered the solar.

  As she tiptoed past the sleeping Mathilda on her way back to her own poky bedroom, she banished the glamour. Once in her room, she placed everything she had taken in the chest at the foot of her bed. It had all been simpler than she’d expected, but it was only the first part of her plan.

  It was the next step that filled her with dread.

  21

  The Witan’s Trial

  The accused was not offered a chair.

  Saker stood behind the U-shaped railing of the dock facing the three judges, headed by the elderly Earl of Fremont. He knew the Earl by sight, but he’d never seen the other two before, and no one bothered to tell him their names. They were both district Va-Faith arbiters; he could tell that much from their clerical robes. It didn’t matter who they were anyway; their names would not make any difference to the outcome. They were just ciphers for Valerian Fox. Besides, Saker was far more preoccupied with the physical pain of standing, aware that he might have to do so for hours. Every joint throbbed, every muscle felt sore, every breath was a painful stab in the chest. His back ached and he’d been pissing blood ever since his beating.

  Take shallow breaths. I won’t let you see my pain, Master Prime. I won’t give you that satisfaction. Not now, not ever.

  He’d only just realised that Fox was assuming the role of prosecutor. No wonder the poxy bastard had wanted to make sure the prisoner didn’t have an advocate.

  Doing his best to disguise a real need to prop himself up, he leant against the railing, face impassive. He suspected the result was a false nonchalance that came across as a deliberate display of arrogance. He knew it would be taken as a subtle insult to the court, but what difference would it make? His case was pre-judged. He was guilty before it even began.

  The Earl glowered at him, something his wild bushy eyebrows allowed him to do particularly well, and said, “The Prime informs me that you have refused an advocate.”

  Saker sighed, and bit back his protest. “Yes, my lord.”

  “This is your privilege, although it marks you as an imprudent young man. Let the trial proceed.”

  The first witness was a surprise, but his testimony wasn’t. From the conviction with which he uttered his lies, it was clear Prince Ryce knew of the supposed rape and was out for revenge. He hardly needed the few leading questions from Fox before he launched into a damning description of a wholly mythical conversation he’d had with his witan spiritual adviser.

  By the time he’d finished, everyone in the courtroom must have believed Saker had not only denied the existence of Va, but had outright stated that the only true faith was the worship in its oldest form, venerating the unseen shrine guardians.

  Clever. So damned clever he knew it wasn’t Ryce’s idea. This had the mark of Fox’s fingers on it, so much so that it made him want to smash a fist into the man’s face. Fox didn’t just want to brand him as a blasphemer; he wanted Saker identified as a Primordial apostate.

  And if Fox means to find me guilty of apostasy, then I’m not going to escape with a rap over the knuckles and a fine. For a cleric, the punishment for apostasy was severe. Blighted oak, I’m going to be nulled!

  At least he now knew just how he was going to be killed. Nullification was designed to be fatal. He’d never heard of a cleric who’d survived it.

  He glanced at Ryce as he left the witness’s podium, but the Prince ignored him. He felt ridiculously hurt by the testimony; he’d thought Ryce had known him well enough to know he would never have raped anyone, let alone Mathilda.

  Celandine must have spun a good story. That betraying bitch; she was more rat than grey mouse.

  The voice of conscience whispered inside his head: But you did betray your position, Rampion. Mathilda was in your charge and you took her to bed…

&
nbsp; Even Juster’s rubies wouldn’t save him now. He’d guessed that any attempt to bribe his jailers with them would result in their confiscation, so he’d decided to see what he could achieve using the gems after the trial. Now he wondered if he’d left it too late.

  On entering the courtroom, he’d seen Lord Juster in the seats reserved for people of rank, the only person present in that section. In contrast, the roped-off area for the clergy was full, as if every cleric within miles of the courtroom had been ordered to attend.

  He wondered if the Prince would join Lord Juster once he’d completed his evidence, but Ryce turned the other way, to the spiral staircase that led up to the royal gallery. It was only then Saker realised several other people were seated above. One was a nun, her affiliation to a cloister made obvious by her cornette coif. She was seated beside a veiled woman, dressed all in grey.

  Celandine…

  He felt sick. Had Mathilda sent her to find out what happened? Did she realise Celandine must have betrayed the two of them? So many questions he couldn’t answer.

  It was my fault. I was the older one. The cleric. I should have been her guide, her mentor. Not her lover. Never her lover.

  And now, how she must be suffering for it! How could that bitch of a grey widow have done this to her? Maybe he’d deserved it, but Celandine should have kept Mathilda’s secrets. She’d known the Princess had planned a tryst, and instead of using her influence to stop her, she’d betrayed her.

  Perhaps she’d been Fox’s spy all along. Perhaps she was now Mathilda’s guard.

  The insufferable hellion. He’d always thought that folk granted witcheries were chosen for their virtuous piety and dedication to Va, whether through the Way of the Oak or the Flow. How did she ever come by a glamour? He looked away, face schooled to calm.

  The Prime was calling the next witness. A young witan cleric with a Shenat name: Chub Saxifrage. Saker had never seen him before, yet there he was, recounting another conversation that had never taken place.

  “And what did Witan Rampion tell you about your faith?” Fox asked him.

  “He said we were both Shenat, both witans, and that meant more than being an ordinary cleric of Va. He said it was time the Shenat returned to their roots, to the old faith.”

  “Did he suggest you do that?”

  “No, not exactly. He gave me some tracts to read and suggested I think about the contents as they portrayed a fundamental truth.”

  “And what did you do with those tracts?” Fox asked, his voice deceptively gentle.

  “I gave them to you, your eminence.”

  “Are these the ones?” Fox approached the man where he stood and showed him a couple of sheets of flimsy bark paper.

  The young witan glanced at them. “Yes, your eminence.”

  “Thank you. That will be all.” Fox handed the papers to the Earl, who read them slowly, then handed them to the other two judges. Saker thought of asking to see the papers, but there wasn’t any point. He could guess their message; he’d seen such writings before, usually poorly penned by semi-literate folk from some backwater village in the northern mountains. It would be a beautiful spot where the villagers hated to see the woodcutters come with their contracts from city merchants to fell the big forest oaks on Crown lands. Ignorant peasants, if you listened to people like Fox. Saker pitied them, and sympathised. But he didn’t believe a return to the old Shenat ways would solve their problems.

  His anger was building at the way he was being maligned, but he’d agreed to keep silent for Mathilda’s sake. He had to find another way out of this mess, and accusing the witnesses of lying was not it.

  The next piece of so-called evidence came from a report written by the arbiter of the ward where Saker had been born. Fox read out the relevant part of it with relish. It included a list of names of known Primordials in the area – and one of them was Gromwell Rampion.

  “Your brother, I believe?” Fox asked him calmly.

  “Half-brother,” he amended, without comment. He had no doubt the report was accurate. There seemed no point in mentioning he had not spoken to Gromwell in seven or eight years.

  The next witness was another surprise. Penny-cress, from the King Oak shrine. How did they know he’d been there recently? Oh, of course. Tonias Pedding, Fox’s secretary. Va above, why had they dragged the ancient shrine-keeper all the way across the city to the court? One thing was for sure, they could never persuade her to utter a lie.

  The Prime was solicitous, ordering one of the clerics to bring her a chair and a mug of water. While she was being settled, Penny-cress gazed around at the panelled walls in displeasure. Saker guessed she didn’t like to see dead oak.

  “You keep the witan shrine at a place called King Oak on the Throssel river, is that correct?” Fox asked gently.

  “Ay. For more years than ye’ve been born.”

  “And five days ago, Witan Rampion came to the shrine, is that right?”

  “Ay, he came to pray.”

  “What did you notice about one of his hands while he was there?”

  “The black shadow was on his fingers.”

  “Black shadow? And in your opinion, what was that?”

  “The mark o’ A’Va as made by his minions, the devil-kin. Seen it too many times in my lifetime to have a doubt. Step into the shadow of the oak, and A’Va’s mark will shine if a devil-kin’s laid his hand on you.”

  “And you saw this mark on Witan Rampion.”

  “Ay. A black smear across his fingers.”

  “Thank you, mistress. One of the guards will escort you back to the shrine, unless of course Witan Rampion wishes to dispute your account?”

  Saker looked towards the Earl. “No, but I’d like to ask the shrine-keeper a question, if I may, my lord.”

  “That is your right.”

  “Is the black shadow a sign of the evil of the man who wears it on his skin, or of the evil of the man who gave it to him?”

  “Why, the man who gave it to him, to be sure.”

  “Thank you, mistress.”

  Penny-cress frowned, as if she didn’t understand why all this was happening. He moved his hand in a gesture of calm, telling her not to worry, and she was escorted from the room.

  “I would like to point out to the court,” Fox said, “that the mark is proof that the recipient keeps the worst of company. I’ve even heard it said that it is A’Va himself that puts the mark there.”

  You slithering snake. So that’s it. Twisting the truth to paint me as tainted by A’Va! He felt a wave of nausea. Penny-cress was far too canny to volunteer knowledge of his black mark, but if asked if she’d seen it, she’d never tell a lie. Fox had sent someone to ask because he knew about it beforehand, and he knew the black mark would appear under the canopy of the oak.

  Fox. It always comes back to Fox.

  You were warned, you fool. Fritillary warned you. Gerelda warned you. Juster warned you. Pus and pustules, maybe even the lascar’s dagger warned you! But no, as a witan, you wanted your Prime to be above suspicion.

  If they find me guilty of A’Va worship, I’ll be hanging from a noose before the day ends. I have to fight this accusation.

  The Earl frowned so deeply his eyebrows met in the middle of his brow. “Prime Fox, please explain to me this business of a devil-kin. Is it not just a mythical tale to scare children?”

  “I fear we now have sufficient evidence that devil-kin exist,” Fox said. “They’re the human servants of A’Va in this world of ours, doing his bidding. The Pontifect has recently asked all clerics to watch for signs. I believe the black mark, which manifests itself to us only under the canopy of a sacred oak, is one indication that someone has had some kind of contact with one of the devil-kin. Or even with A’Va. Its precise significance is, alas, less clear.”

  “Ah. Proceed, then, your eminence.”

  “I have no fewer than five more witan clerics who are willing to present evidence against Witan Rampion. They all have the same story to t
ell – that the witan tried to influence them away from Va to the earlier form of the Shenat faith, the Primordial, now recognised as a heresy—”

  “Your honour,” Saker interrupted, “let me save the court some time. I am willing to plead guilty to all charges of blasphemy. Indeed, I shall plead guilty to apostasy too, while stating that I have made a sincere and humble return to the Faith, for Va has had the grace to show me the error of my ways.” He had a slim hope his capitulation might be sufficient for the court, although he doubted Fox would be so lenient.

  The Earl conferred briefly with his fellow judges, then turned back to Valerian Fox. “I think, under those circumstances, we do not need more evidence on the blasphemy and apostasy charges.” His frown had lightened a shade as he addressed Saker once more. “Your repentance or otherwise does not change the nature of the crime, or its punishment.”

  Saker bowed. “I know, my lord. And I will take my punishment for blasphemy, and for flirting with apostasy.”

  “But the mark of the devil-kin? That is a much more serious matter,” Fox protested.

  “It is indeed,” Fremont agreed. “I am assuming there is no such mark on the witan’s hands now.”

  “No,” Fox said, “but Saker Rampion is not under a sacred oak, either. We could take him to a shrine…”

  Saker brightened. Outside in the open, he’d have a chance to escape. To bribe someone with Juster’s rubies.

  “No one would ever accuse Mistress Penny-cress of a lie,” Fremont pointed out. “My family has supported her shrine ever since I remember, and I have known her since my childhood. She is renowned for her honesty and plain speaking. If she says she saw the mark, then she did.” He glanced at his fellow judges, who both nodded in agreement.

  Damn. No chance of getting outside, then. He said quickly, “My lord, if I may defend myself on this more serious charge…?”