The Lascar's Dagger (34 page)

“You might have trouble convincing people I am Sorrel Redwing. Sorrel was blue-eyed and black-haired, and I’m just … grey and mousy. Besides, no one would believe you knowingly employed a murderess!”

“I’d tell them about how you use glamours!”

“Unwise. Imagine admitting to taking me into the royal household
knowing
I possess a witchery making it easy to spy on the court! I think your father’s anger would be something to behold if he knew that.”

She softened her tone, gentled her voice. “Mathilda, you saved my life. I owe you. I’ll go to Lowmeer with you because you say you need me. I’ll be on that ship when it leaves Betany, I promise. But right now, I have to save Saker Rampion, because if I don’t, his death will haunt both of us for the rest of our lives.”

“I don’t want him to die. I thought Va would save him.”

“I know.”

“What guarantee have I you’ll return?” She was tearful now; Sorrel could see the glisten in her eyes, hear the quaver in her voice. For the first time, she believed she was seeing a genuine emotion from the Princess. No artifice, no pretence.

“Where would I go? Here in Ardrone, one false step on my part could lead me to the gibbet. I
want
to go to Lowmeer. I’ll be safer. Help me save Witan Saker, and I’ll go with you, I swear.”

“I warn you, if you betray me, or if you don’t return, I will make you regret that you were ever born.” She took a deep breath, and the tearful eighteen-year-old was gone. She was the Princess again, the royal daughter who was never allowed to be weak. “So what do I have to do?”

“Tell everyone my moon’s bleed is upon me, I feel unwell and have taken to my bed. Tell the nuns I sleep a lot and eat little at this time of the month. Keep them out of my room. That should give me five or six full days to go and return. If someone
does
realise I’m missing, pretend amazement and say I was here last time you looked. If something goes wrong and I can’t get back into the palace, I’ll join you on the ship. Trust me. I’ll be there.”

“Swear it on the Way of the Oak. Swear it!”

“I swear,” she said, and wondered if she’d live long enough to fulfil the vow.

Midnight, a night of deep dark. If there was a moon, clouds smothered its light. Outside in the palace grounds, the watchman called the hour. Sorrel walked to the door of the nuns’ bedroom and listened with her ear to the panelling. One of the women was snoring. Apart from that, all was quiet.

“Ooh,” Mathilda said, sounding awed as she watched. She clapped her hands, laughing softly. “You really do look like Ryce! I wish I could do that. It would be such
fun
.”

It wasn’t fun; it was hard work that left her exhausted, and she’d only just begun. The clothes she wore were Saker’s, not Ryce’s, so she’d glamoured them to rich lace and velvet and adorned herself with rings and brooches, none of which was real. She could glamour the way the Prince walked, the set of his shoulders, the swing of his arms, but there was nothing she could do disguise the fact that she was a hand span shorter than he was.

She picked up her cloak from where it lay on the bed, placed it over her shoulders and tied it at the neck. Lastly she put on Saker’s velvet hat and sword, then glamoured both to fit Ryce’s taste.

Mathilda was only satisfied after a number of adjustments, but in the end Prince Ryce was ready. He was a little smaller than usual, but nonetheless convincing, or so Mathilda said.

“Time to go.” Sorrel sounded calmer than she felt.

Mathilda jumped. “Oh, Va above! It’s so – so strange to hear your voice coming out of Ryce’s lips. You – you will be careful, won’t you?” For the first time in the two years since they’d met, the Princess looked genuinely woebegone. “I mean, it’s night-time. You may look like a man, but it’s dark out there and you’ll have no escort and you don’t know how to use that sword of Saker’s and you can’t fight and there are all sorts of cutpurses and fiends and horse thieves in the city and what about the midden-dwellers under the wall outside…”

Sorrel, touched, had opened her mouth to utter something kind and comforting when Mathilda added tearfully, “What will I do without you? I’ll be
so
alone here! I can’t speak to those nuns with their silly silence vows, and no one but Ryce is allowed to talk to me and he said he’s going off hunting and it will be
so
lonely without him…”

“It will only be for a few days,” Sorrel said brusquely. “You’ll have the dressmakers in every day, and the shoemakers and the lacemakers and who knows who else. You may be about to marry far from your family, but you’ll show everyone how you have the courage of Throssel kings and queens in your blood.”

Mathilda sniffed, straightened and raised her chin. She held out her hand to be kissed, but Sorrel didn’t take it. Instead she bent and brushed her lips against the Princess’s cheek. “Be careful,” she said and headed for the door.

Behind her, Mathilda didn’t move. When Sorrel glanced back, she was raising her hand to her cheek, either astonished that a mere commoner could be so forward, or moved by the unbidden sign of affection. With Mathilda, there was no knowing which. And, being Mathilda, she wouldn’t recognise that the kiss was born more of compassion than love.

Sorrel picked up the candle burning in its lantern near the door, and the bundle of things she was taking with her, and stepped out into the passage.

The two guards sprang to attention as soon as the door opened. They were the new watch detail, unaware that Prince Ryce had not come to see his sister that evening. She ignored them both and strode away, lengthening her stride and swinging the lantern so that shadows danced.

Perspiration trickled down her neck despite the cold of the passage. She’d stuffed the toes of Saker’s large shoes with cloth, but it was hard to walk with any semblance of nonchalance when she felt so clumsy wearing them. She half expected to hear the guards shout an alarm, and resisted the almost overwhelming desire to look back over her shoulder.

You are a prince, confident that no one will question you…

She took the branching passage that led to the chapel, and once out of sight of the guards she leant against the wall. Shuddering in relief, she allowed the princely glamour to fall away.

Sounds of drunken laughter jerked her back to reality. The danger wasn’t over yet. Pulling herself away from the wall, she walked on, building another glamour. It was easier this time around; she didn’t change the appearance of her clothing at all, and left her hair and eyes their natural colour. All she did was make a few adjustments to her face to appear more masculine. This would be the face she’d keep on the journey.

A pair of drunken courtiers passed her by, and a little further on, two manservants on their way to bed, all of them scarcely noticing her presence. Buoyed by their lack of interest, she headed for the royal chapel.

It was eerily dark inside, and her footsteps echoed back at her from the cambered ceiling. She walked briskly to the side door, only to find it bolted, with a youth sound asleep on a straw pallet thrown across the threshold. She hadn’t expected this. Perhaps it was something new; commenced as a result of Mathilda’s supposed ravishment in the chapel. She shook the lad awake.

“Unbolt the door, my fellow,” she said, pitching her voice several registers lower than usual. “I’m on royal business tonight, and in a hurry.”

To her own ears she sounded like a woman trying unsuccessfully to imitate a man, but he didn’t flinch or call her identity into question. His job was to prevent people entering the royal wing, not leaving it, and he didn’t even bother to look at her properly. He had the door open before he was even fully awake. Blessing the fact that underlings were usually scared of upsetting those they assumed to be further up the hierarchy, she stepped outside.

You can do this. Keep calm, pretend.
You are infinitely above a stable boy. Forget Celandine, handmaiden. Forget Sorrel. You are a man, your name is Burr Waxwing and you have legitimate business which is no concern of your inferiors.

Still swinging the lantern with a confidence she didn’t feel, her heart pounding under her ribs, she briskly crossed the courtyard to the stables. She was oddly aware of the freedom trousers gave her, and the way she couldn’t feel the roughness of the cobbles under her feet while wearing a man’s boots.

A small brazier burned outside the stables. An ill-dressed stable lad smelling of horses was hunched over it to keep himself warm and awake.

“Messenger on royal business to the Prime,” she said with all the peremptoriness she could muster. “I need a horse. Now.”

“Y’own or a stable hack?” he asked, jumping up without suspicion.

“Is that dappled grey of the nulled witan still here?”

He nodded. “Ay.”

“It should have been sent over to Faith Hall by now, tackle and all. Didn’t you know that? It’s all the property of the Prime’s office.”

He looked scared, so she added, more kindly, “Never mind, I’m going there now, so I’ll take the animal for you. Saddle it up. I’ll take the saddlebags and anything else that belonged to the witan.”

If he thought her request odd, nothing of it showed in his face. He disappeared inside the stable with her lantern. She stayed outside, warming her hands at the brazier. When he reappeared, yawning, he was leading the dapple grey, already saddled and bridled.

“Keep the lantern,” she said. “I’ll pick it up when I return.”

Suddenly at a loss, she stared at the horse. She hadn’t ridden astride since she was a harum-scarum child of eight or nine, romping with her brother and his pony. As an adult woman wearing a riding habit, she’d grown used to using a mounting block on the few occasions she’d had reason to ride.

Fortunately, in the darkness the youth did not appear to notice her consternation. He handed her the reins and the crop, saying, “I’ve strapped on the witan’s saddlebags for you,” and went back to huddle over the brazier.

She spent a moment stroking the horse’s nose, then stuffed the things she had with her into the saddlebags: food she’d hoarded, a few personal items for herself, the meagre amount of money the Princess had been able to scrounge, the rest of Saker’s clothes and personal belongings. Reins in her hand, she reached up to the pommel and raised her foot to fit into the stirrup. It was a long way from the ground.

Don’t be silly, Sorrel. You’re not wearing a dress now. Of course you can do this.

She forgot she was wearing Saker’s sword, and the scabbard tangled with her leg when she tried to swing herself up. The horse sidled. Hopping clumsily, she hauled herself into the saddle. Sitting astride felt all wrong. Skirtless, she felt naked and shameless. She took a deep breath.
You did this when you were a child; you can do it now.

When the night sky began to spit rain as she turned the horse out of the stable yard, she muttered under her breath, “Saker, you’d better be suitably grateful.”

At the palace gate, she told the guards she had a message for the Prime at Faith House in the city. One of them recognised her mount. “What are you doing riding the nullified witan’s horse?” he asked, suddenly suspicious.

“He’s a witan no longer. His belongings are the property of the Faith now, even if he survives the night.”

The guard grunted and waved her through.

At night, the streets of the city were unrecognisable. Gone were the crowds, the carts and carriages, the hawkers and hustlers. Shadows melted away into the darkness at the sound of her horse’s hooves. The occasional person out and about at that hour appeared just as nervous of her as she was of them. Nonetheless, her head swivelled this way and that in her anxiety. The dapple grey, taking its cue from her, was skittish. When a dog ran at its heels, barking, she was almost unseated. Her hands began to shake on the reins.

Va save me, calm down. You’ll be a quivering heap of milk curds by the time you get to the main gate if you can’t be braver than this. Remember what’s at stake. You must have courage. You can do this.

She halted the horse and, wishing she’d asked the stable lad if it had a name, stroked its neck and uttered soothing noises until it stood quietly. Only then did she urge it on once more.

Her confidence grew. She’d forgotten how secure it felt to ride properly balanced. She was relearning all she’d known as a child about using her knees. Instead of missing her voluminous skirts, she was beginning to enjoy the freedom of their lack.

At the outer city wall, she altered her story to say she was taking a message from the Prime to the Pontifect. Once again the dapple grey was recognised. “Yes,” she said before they could question her, “it was the witan’s and was forfeited. The Prime is giving it to the Pontifect, I believe.”

“Waste of good horse flesh,” the guard complained as he opened the side gate for her. “When will
she
ever ride it?”

She urged her mount into a trot as it started to rain in earnest. The city continued in a huddle of hovels and ramshackle buildings inhabited by the desperately poor, diseased or dishonest. Many lived by sifting through the city’s rubbish, or keeping pigs. Some worked in trades no longer welcome within the walls: the dyemakers and lyemakers, the slaughterers and tanners, the smelters and kiln-burners. Together they formed the midden-dwellers.

The rain, she decided, would be her protection. Luck was with her. So far. Nonetheless, she pulled Saker’s sword out of its scabbard and laid it across the saddlebow. If someone made a grab for the horse’s bridle, she knew what she was going to do, and there would be no hesitation.

She’d killed before and she’d do it again, if she must.

“Your breakfast. Sorry it’s not more lavish, witan.”

“Not witan any more, Sergeant,” Saker said, not for the first time. Perversely, all the soldiers continued to address him that way. Apparently a guilty verdict for the crimes of apostasy and blasphemy did not rate high on the guards’ list of wrongdoings, and their attitude towards him was more comradely than condemnatory.

Horntail shrugged, indifferent to his protest. He handed over a wooden bowl of hot porridge and a spoon.