The Poison Throne (The Moorehawke Trilogy), Page 22

"Well, he didn't."

  "Christopher is no thief, Lorcan. And if he lied it was only to protect me." Wynter was stunned by the bitterness in Razi's voice. His voice was trembling as he answered her father's question. "He is a good, honest man. I made an enormous mistake bringing him here. My friendship has caused him nothing but trouble since day one, and now he is ensnared as a pawn to my father. I wish I had sent him home when first I--" He cut himself short and looked down at his feet.

  Lorcan dropped his hands to his lap and regarded him compassionately. "So what happened to...?"

  But Razi's expression changed even as Lorcan was speaking, and the big man's voice trailed away as he watched his young friend come to some great and sudden realisation. There was something dawning in Razi's face, a huge, surprising rush of inspiration. He had an idea.

  Lorcan's gaze drifted and he jumped a little when he saw Wynter standing in the early morning shadows. She met his eye and tightened her lips. You were talking about me, you old meddler! Lorcan raised an eyebrow and ducked his head. He gave her a little shamefaced, you caught me smile. She narrowed her eyes in mock aggravation.

  Razi remained oblivious to everything, completely preoccupied by his racing thoughts. It didn't look like he intended answering Lorcan's question anytime soon. "Of course..." He stood very still a moment, his mouth half open, his eyes distant. "Of course..." he said. "But how... without getting him killed?" He began to walk slowly from the room. Wynter opened her mouth to say something to him as he approached, but he didn't notice her.

  Instead, he turned abruptly back to Lorcan and retrieved his crop from the bed. "I'll need this," he said, holding the crop up and nodding absently. He tapped Lorcan's foot with the tip of it. "You stay abed and do as you have been told." With that, Razi wandered thoughtfully from the room, blind to everything but his inner calculations, sliding the secret door shut behind him.

  Wynter met Lorcan's eye. "Jesu!" said her father, "what was that all that about?"

  Wynter didn't know, but for some reason it made her heart race in her chest and filled her with fear for her two friends.

  It was still extremely early when Wynter reached the library. She knew that Pascal and the apprentices had an hour's journey from town to reach the palace every day, and she did not expect them to be there until the beginning of the next quarter. So it was quite a shock when she opened the library door and found them all standing, raw-eyed and anxious, in the centre of the room.

  It was obvious that she had interrupted something. Gary was hugging Jerome, while the others stood about in a loose, shuffling, helpless circle. At her entrance, Jerome immediately broke free of Gary's arms and turned his back, quickly swiping tears from his eyes. Pascal stood a little to the rear of his boys, his face stricken.

  Wynter closed the door carefully behind her, and put her roll of tools on the floor. "What is it?" she said warily.

  To her surprise, Gary rounded on her, his face red with anger and fear, and Pascal did nothing but watch. "Where is yer master?" Gary snarled. "You said he'd be here! Where is he?"

  Wynter blinked at the ferocity of the questioning.

  "Where is yer master?" repeated Gary, his gentle face changed utterly in his distress.

  "Yer know where he is!" howled Jerome suddenly, flinging his arms up and turning to show his tear ravaged face. "Everyone knows where the good Protector Lord is! Poisoned! Taken from the King's side in his time of need! The only working man on the whole royal platform! The only decent soak in der whole bloody crew! Poisoned! And you," he pointed a shaking finger at Wynter, "dancing with the evil bastard what done it! Dancing and making merry while decent men are dragged ter der... d... doom!"

  Pascal raised his hand to quiet the boy's wild torrent. "Hush, Jerome."

  Gary grabbed his friend's shoulder. "Tat it, Jerome," he said gently, his wary eyes on Wynter. "Tat it!"

  Wynter raised her hands in placation and she addressed Pascal, her voice calm and low, despite her rapidly escalating panic. "What has happened?"

  It must be something terrible, she though frantically. Something huge! These wild accusations, this barely contained aggression... none of that had been evident yesterday. Something must have happened! Someone must have said or done something, because these accusations hadn't sprung from nowhere.

  "How can yer do it?" cried Jerome. "Take yer father's place at the feast? And he locked away! Dying mebbe. No one ter see him all day but you and that Arab? How can yer - shaking yer arse all night in the black bastard's face! Suppin' from his cup like a harem wh--"

  "Hush, Jerome... come on!" Gary pulled his friend back, trying to steer him away from Wynter, his face alarmed. Wynter stood with her mouth open. Her stomach and heart frozen in icy shock.

  Jerome began crying almost hysterically, pulling aimlessly against his friend's grip. Gary's face crumpled with sorrow and sympathy, and he tried to gather his friend into his arms, pulling him away from the others who stood, distraught and useless around the thrashing boy.

  Pascal, with tears in his eyes, gestured to the back of the room, and Gary and the other third year manhandled the weeping Jerome through the stacks and behind the bookshelves at the other end of the library. His distress was still audible and now and again, he would let out a wordless howl, as if he couldn't contain the grief within him.

  Wynter wanted to say something, to ask something, but she wasn't sure what. Her mouth opened but nothing came out. Pascal came and stood beside her, his jaw working, obviously fighting an overwhelming emotion. Finally he managed a tremulous hiss.

  "Protector Lady," he said as if trying to give her a chance. "Where is your father? We came here this morning hoping he'd be here. Hoping we'd be able ter talk to him..." he looked Wynter up and down. "Where is he, lass?"

  What could she say? Without betraying Lorcan's vulnerability, what could she possibly do? Wynter looked Pascal in his eyes, and tried to look convincing, but she was terrified that all she was managing was to look shifty and scared. "My father is detained on business of state, Master Heutte," she said, keeping her voice soft. "I cannot find a way to convince you otherwise; you shall just have to take my word for it. Please, you cannot possibly think that I would aid in my own father's downfall? That I would poison my own father?"

  Pascal continued to eye her warily. His little first years had retreated behind his back, their peaky faces glaring out at her from the safety of his shadow.

  "Everywan sawd yer dancing with the Arab," whispered one of them, and Pascal pushed him gently out of sight.

  Wynter wanted to shout, I was not dancing with Razi! She wanted to say, I'll dance with whom I damn well please! She wanted to ask, who told you such bloody lies? but none of those things would matter a penny. It would only lead to her having to defend herself against this atrociously inaccurate gossip. She lifted her gaze from the little boys and looked Pascal straight in the eye.

  "What has happened?" she asked.

  "They've arrested Jerome's cousin, and his wife and the two childern. They took them in t'middle ard' night. Left the wee baby crying in its cradle till Jer's mam found it at dawn."

  "Jesu Christi!" Wynter covered her mouth with her hands and gaped at Pascal. "What...? On what charge?"

  "Sedition."

  "Good God! And... the children?"

  Pascal was looking her up and down, his face wary, attentive. She realised, with a shiver of despair, that he was watching her for deceit. "They allus take the childern, lass. You knows it."

  She nodded, yes, in the past they had always taken the children. Always. Whole families thrown into jail. But not since Jonathon, never under his reign. She shook her head. She looked around her for a moment. Jerome was sobbing steadily at the back of the library; she could hear Gary mumbling to him.

  "Why?" she repeated.

  "Donny's wife... Jerome's cousin's wife. Her sister's husband was murdered by the Arab, who said he had tried ter kill him."

  Wynter snapped her eyes to him in disbelief. "Do yo
u... do you mean Jusef Marcos?" she said.

  Pascal nodded. "Jusef were a loyal man. He were loyal ter the crown, lass. He were murdered fer it, and his good wife gone missing, and his old dad."

  "He shot a guard through the head, Master Huette! He tried to kill the Lord Razi!" She almost said, I saw it myself! I saw him fling the bow from him as he raced away, but something made her stop.

  Pascal was looking at her very hard. "They beat a poor gardener ter death fer it too," he said. "Did he also shoot a guard through t'head? Or were he jurst another outspoken man who irked the Arab's eye?"

  Wynter remembered the gardener, trotting unsuspecting into the middle of things, flinging his scythe from him and fleeing at the sight of the enraged guards. Oh, that poor man! She put her hands to her head, and closed her eyes for a moment. "And people think that Razi killed those men, for...? Because...?"

  "The people don't think narthin. They know. They know it's acause them men spoke out fer the Royal Prince Alberon."

  "God help us!" Wynter whispered. The utter conviction in Pascal's voice had her digging her nails into her scalp. "And now they're arresting Jusef's associates? His family?" Oh God. It had become a purge. Jonathon was just making things worse and worse. What were they going to do? She looked up at Pascal again. He was hard eyed and watchful. "You are in danger, Master Huette."

  "You don't harve ter tell me that," he whispered coldly. He put his hand on the knotted head of the little first year who was trying to peep at her, and pushed him back out of sight again. They were all in danger. If the arrests spread to Jerome's immediate family, then his friends and their families and all their friends were in imminent danger of arrest, and of questioning and of execution.

  At the back of the library Jerome and Gary were arguing now.

  Gary was saying, "Yer need ter just calm down! Just hold yer horses 'til me dad tells us what ter do!"

  She could hear poor Jerome's wavering voice, his words too garbled to make out from here. But Gary interrupted him with a yell, "Tat it! Tat! Yer wanner get yerseln kilt? Just tat it, Jer!"

  Jerome began crying again, loudly and without restraint. Then the sounds were muffled, as if Gary had suddenly drawn his friend into a hug. Wynter saw a little hand reach around from behind Pascal's leg and discreetly take hold of the old man's fingers. Without looking down, Pascal enclosed the first year's hand in his and held on tight.

  "Let me talk to my father," whispered Wynter, dragging her eyes up to Pascal's face. "Please stay here," she said, "Please, please do not let Jerome leave the library."

  Pascal did not even nod. He was still standing in the exact same position when she shut the library door behind her.

  Hopeless Causes

  Wynter closed the door softly and stood for a moment, leaning against the wood. She didn't know what to do. It was a measure of her confusion that she had committed the unthinkable crime of leaving her tools in the library with another master's crew. That was the equivalent of leaving the family jewels on a tree stump in a gypsy camp, but she couldn't bring herself to return for them now, and anyway, those boys were hardly in the mood to pilfer.

  Dear God, she thought. What an evil mess.

  And what was to be done about it? In reality, when the wheel of state had begun its roll against you, there was very little that you could do, except tuck your head in your arms and hope it passed over you. Jerome's family would live or die regardless of anything Lorcan could do or say. Even if Wynter were able to persuade Razi himself to intercede, it was unlikely that the King would halt a purge. Eventually these things took on a life of their own, living and dying as a beast might live and die, for as long as it had the strength and energy to continue on, eating everything its path.

  Wynter groaned. Why had she allowed herself to get to know these men? It would be so much easier had they remained faceless, nameless, voiceless shadows. It wouldn't have made their inevitable destruction any less wrong, but it would have been easier on her, not knowing.

  God, they hadn't a chance, and she had just committed her father to the hopeless task of aiding them. What's more, these were guildsmen. Guildsmen! The King was taking on a lot by targeting them. The carpenters' guild was a huge and powerful organisation, shamelessly outspoken and independent.

  Wynter opened her eyes. Now there was an idea. Perhaps, by some stroke of madness or delusion, Jonathon might be unaware of how unhappy his people were. If the King could be made to understand just how virulent public feeling was, he might reconsider this new, overwhelmingly dangerous policy of antagonising his subjects!

  But Wynter could not approach the King herself. And if she told Lorcan, he would leap from his bed without a thought for his health and go wading into the stormy waters of state, long before he was ready to cope. If she approached Razi, as things stood now, he might well turn silently away. She had two options: getting her feelings hurt or risking her father's health. Wynter knew there was no competition. She turned left down the hall and out the door, taking the path down to the stable yards.

  She could hear Razi's shouted instructions as she approached the exercise yard. He was calling out to the grooms. "Where did she hit, there?" "Was that her right fore?" and "Raise that another rung now, Michael!" Razi was practising at the jumps.

  As Wynter neared the ring, the thundering noise of the horse became a physical vibration in the air. She could feel it hammering through the earth beneath her feet. She had always loved that particular sound: the steady trot of the horse on the straight, quickening in the approach to the hurdle, the anticipatory thu-thud as the horse bunched its great hindquarters before the leap, and then the sudden and absolute suspension of noise, like a silent whoop! as the horse left the ground and sailed through the air.

  It was a sound heard nowhere but here. In all her travels she had never once seen, or even heard reference to this type of riding. It seemed absolutely unique to Jonathon's kingdom, and she had missed its elegance. Its sense of beauty for beauty's sake.

  She turned into the yard, and saw that Razi was astride a powerful chestnut mare, one of his long-legged, arch-necked Arabs. Wynter had never seen a horse as light on its feet. Razi was running her through a circuit of seven jumps, kicking up the yellow dust as they went. He guided the horse into the hurdles without a trace of fear or hesitation. Rising and falling smoothly in the stirrup on the straights, sitting down into the saddle and leaning forward into each jump. His hands were easy on the reins, his sinewy body shifting effortlessly in harmony with the animal. Razi was utterly concentrated on the task at hand, completely in control.

  He would call out after each landing, and the grooms would scurry about in response, raising or dropping the bars on the jumps. They shouted out replies to his questions, telling him if the horse was hitting the bar, what leg was dragging or knocking, and Razi would adjust the approach accordingly and try for a perfect round the next circuit.

  Gone was his previous tension, the almost frightening air of iron-willed containment that Razi now habitually wore. His face was flushed with the exercise and fresh air. His eyes were clear and bright, alert with the joy of his work. He was utterly focused, and Wynter realised that he had left the world behind him. At this moment, nothing existed for Razi but this; his own body and this huge animal and the way the two of them were working together to perfect their partnership. It was as disciplined as a dance, and as beautiful to watch, and Wynter could not bring herself to intrude on it.

  She settled herself against the corner of the alley wall and glanced around, taking note of where the guards were situated. Her eye fell on a bright patch of colour on the far side of the ring, and she straightened and stared. It was the orange cat. The same fellow who had approached her the night of the first attempt on Razi's life.

  It was perched on a fence-post, regarding Razi with calculating eyes. Wynter saw one of the grooms notice. Frowning, he picked up a stone and flung it, missing the cat by only an inch. The stone hit the post just under the cat's neatly folde
d paws, but the animal did not jump or startle. Instead it turned its disdainful gaze at the groom, stood up, shook itself and dropped from the fence-post as of its own accord. The groom glared at it until it had slunk from sight.

  Wynter turned her attention back to the ring, just in time to see the big mare toss her head and rip the rein from Razi's weakened right hand? At the sudden, lopsided break in communications, the horse shied and side-stepped and hopped, causing the grooms to spread their arms and scuttle about like crabs.

  Razi was too good a rider to be unseated. He gathered the reins in his left hand, sat firmly into the saddle and clamped down hard with his thighs. He drew the horse in a tight left-handed circle, and crooned at her until she came to a roll-eyed halt under him.

  He sat erect and masterful in the saddle until the horse was calm. But then he alarmed Wynter by leaning forward, his face creased with pain, and she noticed his right arm remained hanging by his side, the hand limp and white against the dusty fabric of his leggings.

  She went to step forward but a voice behind her said, "Don't you have work to be doing, Protector Lady? Wood to shave? Carpenters to berate?"

  She turned and looked up into the smooth good looks of Simon De Rochelle. He curled an unfriendly smile at her, and held her eyes for a moment before stepping past her into the ring.

  In the short time it took for the groom to cross the ring and take the mare's rein, Razi had straightened, his momentary display of weakness gone. Wynter was sad to see that his remote, courtly mask was back in place. He slipped free of the stirrups and swung his leg across the mare's neck. Sliding unaided to the ground, he landed sure-footed and light, nodding as De Rochelle advanced towards him. Wynter saw him flexing and bunching the too-white fingers of his right hand.

  All of Razi's attention was fixed on the councilman and he didn't see her waiting uncertainly by the corner. She bit her lip and hung back, not wanting to discuss anything in front of De Rochelle.

  "What news?" Wynter heard Razi say.

  "He's arrested all of them. Men, women and children."