The Lascar’s Dagger Read online

  Saker smiled wryly at the thought of keeping himself out of trouble. He seemed to attract trouble, swinging towards it like a compass needle pointing north.

  A moment later, right on cue, he knew he wasn’t alone in the warehouse.

  He wasn’t sure what had alerted him. A faint inhalation of a breath? The almost inaudible scrape of a shoe against the rim of a cask? Something. While counting the cargo, he’d circled the whole warehouse, walked down every narrow alley between the stacks. And I didn’t see or hear anybody. The hair on the back of his neck prickled.

  He eased himself down into a crouch, holding his breath. No one shouted an alarm. The silence remained as intact as the aromas saturating the air, yet every instinct told him he was being stalked. It wasn’t a mouse or a warehouse cat. It wasn’t the creak of timber warming up as the sun rose. Someone was there, in the building, following him.

  Va rot him, he’s good, whoever he is.

  about the author

  Glenda Larke was born in Australia and trained as a teacher. She has taught English in Australia, Vienna, Tunisia and Malaysia. Glenda has two children and lives in Erskine, Western Australia with her husband.

  Find out more about Glenda Larke and other Orbit authors by registering for the free monthly newsletter at www.orbitbooks.net.

  BY GLENDA LARKE

  The Mirage Makers

  Heart of the Mirage

  The Shadow of Tyr

  Song of the Shiver Barrens

  The Stormlord trilogy

  The Last Stormlord

  Stormlord Rising

  Stormlord’s Exile

  The Forsaken Lands

  The Lascar’s Dagger

  COPYRIGHT

  Published by Orbit

  ISBN: 9781405529198

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2014 by Glenda Larke

  Maps copyright © 2013 by Perdita Phillips

  Excerpt from Ice Forged by Gail Z. Martin

  Copyright © 2013 by Gail Z. Martin

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.

  The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

  Orbit

  Little, Brown Book Group

  100 Victoria Embankment

  London, EC4Y 0DY

  www.littlebrown.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Table of Contents

  About the Author

  By Glenda Larke

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Map

  One year before

  1. The Touch of Spice

  2. The Lascar’s Legacy

  3. The Haunted Woman

  4. The Pontifect and the Spy

  5. Gift of Glamour

  6. A Witan Goes Home

  7. A Witan at Court

  8. The Princess and her Spy

  9. The Spy at Work

  10. The Geese in Winter

  11. The Fox in Summer

  12. The Glamoured Woman

  13. A Touch of Dusk

  14. The Dagger by Night

  15. The Buccaneer’s Wager

  16. Witchery and Taint

  17. The Fox, the Falcon and the Princess

  18. The Witan’s Folly

  19. The Witan’s Downfall

  20. The Witan Betrayed

  21. The Witan’s Trial

  22. The Branded Man

  23. Risk

  24. The Reluctant Pilgrims

  25. The Hunter and the Hunted

  26. The Shattering of a Dream

  27. Picking Up the Pieces

  28. The Anger in the Aftermath

  29. Paying Another’s Price

  30. Exiles in Lowmeer

  31. Twins and Trepidation

  32. The Devil-Kin Dilemma

  33. A Princess Awakening

  34. The Way of the Dagger

  35. The Crime of the Vollendorns

  36. The Man from Chenderawasi

  37. The Chenderawasi Trap

  38. The Falcon and the Mouse

  39. The Reluctant Alliance

  40. The Breaking Storm

  41. Thieves in the Night

  42. Royal Twins

  43. The Company Factor

  44. On the Run

  45. Spice Winds

  Postscript

  Acknowledgements

  Extras

  For my agent

  Dorothy Lumley

  to whom I owe more than I can possibly say

  One year before

  The youth ran, running as he’d never run before, racing time itself down the beach. White coral sands scudded under his bare feet, muscled arms pumped, breath laboured. He raced, yet his mind screamed at him all the while, You’ll be too late … too late … He sailed over the fallen trunk of a coconut palm, leapt the sun-whitened driftwood of a forest giant, splashed through a stream trickling to the sea.

  Too late, too late…

  Out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed the ship anchored in the lagoon, sails furled, prow swinging to meet the incoming tide. His mind refused to consider it. Refused to absorb the significance of the rowing boat drawn up on the sand of the far curve of the beach.

  My fault … all my fault…

  At the edge of Batuguli Bay where the coastline was heaped with marbled boulders, he turned away from the sea, his feet flying from sand to forest track as if speed could halt the disaster his foolish words had nudged into motion.

  Air rasped into his lungs; pain lanced his side.

  Don’t give up … There’s always a chance…

  The path curled upwards through the trees. The canopy thickened to dim the light and block the breeze. Roots knobbled the path, but his footing was sure. He laboured on, sweat pouring over his bare torso to soak the waist of his sarong.

  The burst of a gunshot. A single explosion splintered into tens of echoes, each reverberation a promise of horror. Startled birds rose around him, bursting from the undergrowth and branches, their calls spreading their panic.

  He sped up, not knowing until then that greater speed was possible but taking hope from the lack of any further gunshots. And then, much later, a scream, a human scream of anguish. It crushed him, that anguish, as it disintegrated all hope.

  Too late.

  Yet still he ran, long past his normal ability to endure. He burst into a clearing ringed with warriors and came to a halt.

  Too late.

  All my fault.

  Raja Wiramulia lay on the ground, blood still seeping from his breast. The regalia proclaiming his ruling rank had been torn from him, part of it scattered on the ground around his body, part of it missing. Plundered. The prize the murderers had sought.

  Rani Marsyanda crouched at his side, her forehead bowed to his cheek, her grief a tangible thing spreading around the gathering, scarifying them all. The Raja’s only son, too young to fully understand, stood at her side, his body trembling with shock. The Raja’s warriors, some spattered with blood, stood in a semicircle around them, stunned, disbelieving, leaderless.

  Slowly the Rani raised her face, to look not at them, but at him. Her glance swept up over his sweaty heaving chest, to linger on his wild look of horror.

  Was it you? she asked. You who betrayed us?

  He knelt, touching his forehead to the ground, acknowledging his guilt, aware that she could order his de
ath, knowing it would be justice rightly dispensed. He heard the rustle of the warriors unsheathing, but when he glanced up, it was to see her stay them with a gesture.

  Who better than he to avenge this death? Who better to bring back what was stolen? The questions were asked, but she expected no answer.

  They shuffled and glanced away, not meeting her gaze, as she turned to him once more. You, Ardhi, with your foolish hubris, you will make this right, or die. She picked up one of the blood-spattered plumes from the regalia now lying on the ground. Glorious in colour and splendour, it had adorned her husband. Now she held it out towards him like an accusation, her gaze implacable.

  Helpless, knowing what she was doing, knowing what it meant for him, he took it from her and shuddered at the sticky wetness on the shaft.

  You will go to the krismaker and have a blade wrought. This I command. The hilt – the hilt I will make myself.

  He bowed his head.

  Then you will bring back all that was stolen from us, no matter if the quest takes you to the end of the world. Do not think of returning until you succeed.

  A sigh whispered around the circle of warriors like a flutter of leaves on the wind. They knew what she asked of him. Perhaps they even pitied him, a little. Or perhaps they were just glad she had not selected one of them.

  You know why this is necessary. You know the horror this theft can bring. You cannot change what happened. This is the closest you can come to atonement.

  Her words faltered and faded, showing how tenuous her hold on her grief was. He wanted to weep. “I know,” he whispered. “If I could undo…” Pointless words. He halted and said instead, “I know what must be done and I will do it. How – how many were taken?”

  Three. Only when you have all three will you return. Now go.

  He turned and stumbled away, his shame and grief driving him forward when his legs would have failed him.

  When he reached the beach once more, the ship was already unfurling its sails, the sailors just distant spiders in the rigging. And Lastri was there on the shore, watching. Her long black hair shone in the sun, and the sea wind whipped strands across her face. He stopped, arms hanging like lifeless driftwood, one hand clutching the cascading golden feather. She regarded him in silence, her eyes filled with fear. She’d heard the gunshot, she’d heard the birds. Her gaze dropped to the bloodstained feather. She would know that it meant more than a death.

  He said, “You – you tried to tell me, but I was foolish and would not listen.” The frog under the coconut shell, thinking it knew the whole world. “The Rani has bade me leave.”

  “Then … then go with the spirit of the wind, and pray that the same wind brings you back.” The words were ritual, but her voice shook with anguish and he saw the tears on her cheeks.

  “Will you wait?” he asked. But he was the one who waited, in agony, for the answer she did not give.

  As she walked away, he knew he’d lost everything. Home, family, love, honour, the life he had led until now. Perhaps even life itself. No way to change anything, only a chance, a sliver of hope, to prevent further wrongs.

  He sought the krismaker, knowing he was taking the first steps on a journey that could lead him to the other side of the world.

  1

  The Touch of Spice

  Saker paused, nose twitching. Good Va above, the smell.

  No, not smell: aroma. The intense, rich aroma of spices saturating his nasal passages and tickling the back of his throat. Gorgeously pervasive fragrances, conjuring up images of faraway lands. Perfumes powerful enough to scent his clothes and seep into the pores of his skin.

  He recognised some of them. The sharp tang of cloves, the woody snippiness of cinnamon, the delicious intensity of nutmeg. Saker Rampion, witan priest of the Faith, was privileged enough to have inhaled such fragrances wafting up from manor kitchens, but never had he smelled spices as pungent as these. Never had he been so tantalised by scents redolent of a world he’d never visited.

  Crouching on the beam under the slate shingles of the warehouse roof, he inhaled, enjoying the richness of an olfactory decadence. Any one of the bales beneath him could make him a rich man, for life.

  Enough of the daydreaming, Saker. Witans are never wealthy…

  His early-morning breaking and entering into merchant Uthen Kesleer’s main warehouse did have a purpose, but it wasn’t theft. He’d come not as a thief, but as a spy for his employer, the Pontifect of Va-Faith.

  Several hours remained before the city of Ustgrind would waken to another summer’s day, but slanting sunbeams already filtered through the ill-fitting ventilation shutters to illuminate the interior. In one corner, ledgers were neatly aligned on shelving behind the counting clerks’ desks. The rest of the warehouse was stacked high with sacks and casks from the holds of the thousand-ton carrack Spice Dragon, recently docked with a cargo purchased halfway around the world. Narrow aisles separated the rows of goods. Seen from his perch on the beam, it was as confusing as a hedge maze.

  He had already seen – or rather, smelled – enough to glean some of the information he’d been sent to obtain, but he wasn’t about to leave without proof.

  Tying one end of his rope to the beam, he lowered the other end on to the burlap of the bales. He rappelled down the wall until his feet hit the top bale. Leaving the rope where it was, he crouched to examine the sacking beneath his feet.

  He peeled off his leather gloves and tucked them into his belt, then used the tip of his dagger to tease apart the strands of burlap. The hole he made was just large enough to insert the tips of two fingers and pull out a sample. In the dim light he wasn’t sure what he had. It felt like wood and was shaped like a star, no larger than his thumbnail. He lifted it to his nose and inhaled. A tantalising smell similar to aniseed, but stronger and subtly mixed with a hint of … what? Fennel? A spice obviously, but not one he knew. He slipped several of the wooden stars into his pouch, smoothed over the hole in the sacking and moved on to another bale.

  After quarter of an hour he’d extracted samples of eight different spices and done a rough count of sacks, bales and casks. In the interests of secrecy, he’d resisted the temptation to break the seal around the bungs on the casks to see what they contained. His instructions had been explicit.

  “Just for once, no one is to know what you are doing, Saker,” the Pontifect had said with weary sternness after giving him his instructions. “No adventuring, no brawling, no sword fights, no hair’s-breadth escapes. You’re supposed to gather intelligence, not be a one-man army.”

  “Not so much as a bloody nose,” he’d replied cheerfully. “I swear it, your reverence. I find out if Lowmeer’s merchant traders have found the Spicerie and, if they have, what their intentions are, then I return with the information. No one will know the Pontifect’s witan spy was even in Ustgrind. Simple.”

  “Somehow nothing is ever simple if you’re involved.” As this was said with a sigh that spoke of a long-suffering patience not far from being shattered, he’d had the wit to stay silent.

  Now, however, he smiled wryly at the thought of Saker Rampion keeping out of trouble. He seemed to attract trouble, swinging towards it like a compass needle pointing north.

  A moment later, right on cue, he knew he wasn’t alone in the warehouse.

  He wasn’t sure what had alerted him. A faint inhalation of a breath? The almost inaudible scrape of a shoe against the rim of a cask? Something. While counting the cargo, he’d circled the whole warehouse, walked down every narrow alley between the stacks. I didn’t see or hear anybody. The hair on the back of his neck prickled.

  He eased himself down into a crouch, holding his breath. No one shouted an alarm. The silence remained as intact as the aromas saturating the air, yet every instinct told him he was being stalked. It wasn’t a mouse or a warehouse cat. It wasn’t the creak of timber warming up as the sun rose. Someone was there, in the building, following him.

  Va rot him, he’s good, whoever he is.


  The warehouse doors were barred on the outside, and the street was patrolled by arquebus-toting guards of the Kesleer Trading Company. His only escape route was the way he’d come in, over the roofs.

  Edging down a narrow canyon between stacked casks on one side and layers of bulging sacks on the other, he headed back to the rope. Each step he took was measured, silent, slow. As he moved, he ran through possibilities. A thief? A spy for another trading company? A warehouse guard? The thought of someone skilled enough to stay hidden and quiet all this time sent a shiver tingling up his spine. His hand dropped to the hilt of the dagger at his belt. Confound his decision to leave his sword back in his rented room! He’d feared it would hamper his climb to the roof; now he feared its lack.

  He’d almost reached the rope when a soft slithering sound gave him a sliver of warning. Too late, he threw himself sideways. A man dropped on him from the top of a stack of sacks, his momentum sufficient to send them both sprawling. His heart skidded sickly as he tried to roll away, but there was no escaping the grip on his shoulder. Face down, his nose ground into the floor hard enough to start it bleeding, his dagger inaccessible under his hip, he was in trouble.

  So much for his promises…

  He relaxed momentarily, allowing his muscles to go soft. The hand jamming him down to the floor was powerful, yet the body on top of his felt surprisingly slight.

  A woman? Surely not. His assailant had the muscles of an ox. A strong smell of salt, though. A sailor, perhaps. Yes, there was the confirmation – a whiff of tar from his clothes.

  He arched his body up and over, reaching backwards with his free arm. Clutching a handful of hair, he wrenched hard. The fellow grunted and punched him on the side of his face. He let go of the hair and they separated, rolling away from each other and springing to their feet.

  The young man facing him was at least a head shorter than he was, but the real surprise lay in his colouring. Black eyes stared at him out of a brown face, framed by black hair long enough to be tied at the neck. Not Lowmian, then. Pashali? A Pashali trader from the Va-forsaken Hemisphere? He was dark enough, but his clothes were all wrong. He was dressed in the typical garb of a tar straight off a Lowmian ship. In the dim light it was hard to guess his age, but Saker thought him a few years younger than himself. Nineteen? Twenty?