The Poison Throne (The Moorehawke Trilogy)

  He stepped from Christopher's room, still dressed in last night's clothes, though he'd cast the long-coat aside. He had a bloody cloth in his hand and he glanced back into the room before stalking towards her, his expression obscured as he passed from the candlelight into the shadows.

  "You can't be here yet," he said firmly and took her by the elbow, manoeuvring her back into the passage. "He needs some time."

  "Wait, Razi, wait." She pulled her arm from his grip and put her hand on his chest, resisting his attempt to back her from the room. "How is he? I just want to know."

  Razi continued to try and walk her from the room, and she punched him hard in the chest. "Stop crowding me, Razi! STOP!"

  He made a strange little oh sound, and stepped back immediately, his hands up. She took a chance and stepped back into the room.

  "How is he?" she peered up at him.

  "He needs a bath," managed Razi, "he... has a terrible headache. You can't see him, Wynter. He needs some time..."

  Then Christopher called softly from his room, "Razi." It was barely audible but Razi turned on his heel and disappeared into the room as quick as Wynter had ever seen him move. She stood listening to their quiet conversation, feeling very uncomfortable and off balance.

  "Let me see her." Christopher's voice was soft, but what he said was not a request.

  "Chris. Give yourself a chance..."

  "I need to see her."

  "I already told you she's fine."

  And now Christopher was pleading, still in the same soft whisper, and there was no way that Razi could withstand the desperation in his voice.

  Razi came back to the door, angled in such a way that he was nothing but a long narrow shape against the light. "Come on," he said quietly.

  Christopher was sitting at a little table, various vials and bottles and cloths and a bowl of steaming water at his elbow. He was wrapped in a loose Bedouin-type striped robe of many colours, and his filthy hair was tied back off his face. He was still stiff-necked and shaking, and he peered at her from barely opened eyes. "Wynter?" he said, hardly moving his lips.

  "Yes."

  "I can't see you."

  She stepped closer, into the circle of light. He seemed to be looking her up and down, trying to make her out through the awful swelling of his face and the poor light.

  "Did they hurt you?"

  That surprised her so much that she didn't answer right away. He leaned forward, his breath quickening, scowling against his impaired vision, grunting with the pain that his frown brought him. She could hardly understand it when he said, "Answer me. You need to tell me. Did they hurt you?"

  She stepped closer again, swallowing her revulsion at the terrible smell. "No, Christopher. Nobody hurt me."

  The doubt in his face was obvious. She forced strength into her voice when she repeated, "Nobody hurt me, Christopher. I spent a peaceful night in my own bed."

  He believed her then, his lips cracking as he grinned in relief. "Ahhhh," he said softly, the slivers of his eyes sparkling brokenly in the candle light. "That's grand so. That's fine..."

  "I'll let you have your bath."

  He nodded stiffly and closed his eyes against the light, taking delicate little breaths through his abused mouth, pain overtaking him for a moment.

  "I'll come see you later?"

  He made no acknowledgement, and she thought he might have drifted away.

  She turned to go and he said suddenly, urgently, "You promise? You'd tell us... if they hurt you?" Why did he keep asking? Wynter wondered if he was delirious. He continued, "It... if you don't talk about those things..." his hands began to shake rapidly under the cover of the robe's wide sleeves and he drew them to his chest. Suddenly his lips were trembling and his breath was coming fast and ragged as he tried to finish his sentence. "It gets to be like... m-maggots in your head. If you don't tell. It'll eat you up."

  "I swear," she said. "I swear, Christopher. Nobody laid a hand on me."

  Razi grabbed her shoulder and pulled her from the room. She let him manhandle her to the secret door, before she came to herself enough to lift her arm in protest and push him back.

  "What was all that about?" she hissed.

  "Nothing, nothing. I'll explain later."

  "Jesu! Razi!" He was really starting to infuriate her. But she lost all her rage when he stifled a sob into his hand and leant down to rest his head against her shoulder, muffling a brief, violent storm of silent crying into her neck. "Oh, Razi," she whispered, reaching up to wrap her arms around him. It's all right. It's all right, Razi. It's all over. He's safe."

  He coughed suddenly and pushed away from her, scrubbing his face with his sleeve. "He's still a touch confused," he ground out. "They kept him awake all night, threatening to take him to the chair. Once they even... strapped. Him. In." He took a sharp breath, released it, went on. "Left him... waiting for the inquisitors that never came.

  The two of them looked away from each other, both blinded momentarily by their own seething cloud of rage, then Razi continued quietly. "There was a woman, and a man. But the woman... he could hear her. They told him it was you. He thought, all night, that the poor creature was you."

  Wynter felt the blood ebbing from her cheeks. What he must have been through! Then she thought of the woman. "Marcos's widow?"

  She felt Razi nodding in the shadows beside her.

  "They... Razi. They didn't hurt him anymore than..."

  "Any more than what, Wynter?" Razi's rage bubbled over finally and he raised his voice to her, his shoulders hunching defensively. "Any more than my father trying to murder him? Any more than confining him in that hideous place? Any more than tormenting him all night until he's unmanned with worry and fear?"

  "Razi Kingsson..." Christopher's soft voice admonished from the next room. "I'll thank you to kindly refrain from using the word 'unmanned' when discussing me with such a delightful woman."

  That sounded so like the old Christopher that they both laughed despite themselves. Razi covered his mouth with his hand, his eyes brittle and hectic as he looked to the door of his friend's room. Wynter broke away suddenly and ran back in to Christopher.

  She didn't even think about what she was doing, she just ran straight up to him and squeezed him fiercely around the shoulders, making him moan and gasp in discomfort. Then she kissed his bruised lips, soft and quick. She pulled away just as fast and backed to the door.

  He put his hand to his mouth, his eyes unreadable under all the bruising, but a definite smile on his lips.

  "You better get Razi to de-louse you, lass. I'm a mite pestilent at the moment."

  "I'll see you later, Christopher," she said softly and slipped out to the secret passage, returning to her father's room.

  Public Perception

  "I don't think I can do this, Dad."

  "Why not? You're used to dealing with other teams. You often negotiate for me."

  "You've always been there before! I don't think I can face them alone."

  Lorcan tilted his head on the pillow and looked at her with equal measures of sympathy and exasperation. "Wynter! You have to do it sometime! Or do you plan to quit the business when I'm gone?"

  Wynter scowled. "Stop that!"

  "Seriously!" he spread his hands, half-joking, but she could tell by the tightness in his voice that he was starting to work himself up. "What do you plan to do when I'm dead - hang up your guild badge, and make yourself into some lad's kitchen slave and breed sow?"

  Her cheeks blazed. "Dad!" she gasped, mortified.

  "That lusty fellow next door, there. He'd fill your belly every year for you, no problem. Wouldn't that be lovely?"

  "Dad!" she cried, stamping her foot in embarrassment and fury. "That's enough!"

  "Well then, stop acting like a bloody girl!" shouted her father suddenly, his colour high, his anger genuine. "Do you want to bloody kill me with worry?" he cried. "What have we been doing all these years, if I haven't taught you to cope without me? Good Chris
t! Wynter!" There was fear in his eyes. "Tell me you can do this! Tell me you're fit! Or else..." he trailed off, lifting his hands in wordless panic. "What... what will become of you?"

  "All right, Dad, all right." She stepped closer. "The master will be all right, I suppose. But how do I cope with the apprentices?"

  "The master will be fine," said Lorcan, soothingly now, his tone gentle. "It's Pascal Huette, he's a good man. My father and I worked with him many times. He's talented, competent, progressive. He's courtly. I promise you that once you've proved yourself in command, he'll make the apprentices toe the line."

  Wynter clenched her hands together and took a deep breath. "Goddamned apprentices!"

  Lorcan's mouth twitched and his eyes sparkled at her when he said, "Aye, they're a bloody pain in the arse."

  She gave him a dry eye. "Ah, stop it," she said.

  "You can do it, baby-girl." He nodded at her, his eyes solemn. "You're fit. And it's just for one day. I'll be with you tomorrow."

  Wynter looked at his white lips and tired face, and nodded uncertainly. "I know you will, Dad."

  "Go on then."

  She took a deep breath, flexed her hands, straightened her back and left.

  There was activity at Razi's door as Wynter exited her suite, and she pretended to check something in her belt purse, watching the proceedings from the corner of her eye.

  It was the tailor, delivering a neatly folded stack of purple coats. Razi was accepting them as though they were a basket of adders. He nodded to dismiss the man and then stood watching him leave, his face tight, the pile of coats in his arms. The steam from Christopher's bath was billowing past him into the corridor, and it gave Razi the look of a rangy god, descending through clouds.

  A page was waiting and he cleared his throat until Razi turned his hooded eyes to him. "His Majesty, the Good King Jonathon, wishes to remind your Highness that your presence is required in the council room at the second half of the eighth quarter."

  "Tell his Majesty that I will be otherwise occupied."

  The page seemed to be expecting this reply and handed over a note, sealed with Jonathon's crest. Razi's jaw twitched, and he shifted his burden of coats and took the note, breaking the wax seal and snapping the paper open with one hand. Rapidly scanning the missive, his breathing quickened and his face flushed as he read the message.

  The page looked steadfastly at the wall while Razi ground his teeth and made a visible effort to suppress his rage. Eventually, he managed to grind out a terse, "I shall attend."

  The page snapped off a relieved bow and hurried away.

  Wynter stopped fiddling with her purse and moved casually up the hall. "Your Highness," she said, her tone formal but her expression soft. Razi snapped his eyes to her and she saw that he was barely in control of his emotions.

  "How fare you?" she asked lightly, her eyes saying more.

  He handed her the note. It was very brief. Written in Jonathon's elegant hand, it simply read, The Inquisitor General requests that the Freeman Christopher Garron, Hadrish, remain available for further discussion. It was signed "Jonathon Kingsson III".

  Wynter re-folded it carefully and looked up into her friend's face. Within Razi's rooms there was the sound of gentle splashing. Christopher's ruined clothes lay in a heap at their feet, the smell nauseating despite the medicinal steam that filled the air.

  Wynter swallowed hard. Though he was staring at her, she didn't think Razi was seeing her at all, it was as though he were scanning some invisible interior landscape, peopled by predators and shadowed by horrors that only he could see. He clutched the coats against his chest, creasing the carefully pressed brocades and crushing the velvet collars.

  Wynter put the note on top of the coats. "You're creasing them," she said, and she pulled his hand gently to loosen his crushing grip on the expensive cloth. Razi focused on her then and despite the guards, she kept holding his hand and looking up into his face, giving him a rare, unguarded public smile of affection.

  Razi breathed out a sigh and smiled back, squeezing her fingers, his face pained. He went to say something, and then he frowned. He looked down sharply at her hand. He looked over her shoulder at the watching guard. He looked at her face. Then he glanced around suddenly at the very public hall, and he snatched his hand away from hers.

  The note wobbled and dropped from the coats to the floor and Wynter bent to retrieve it and replaced it on the pile. When she looked back up at him, Razi's expression had completely changed.

  His eyes were hooded, his face cold. He was standing very straight, his posture remote. "This must end," he said firmly.

  Wynter wasn't sure what he meant. "I will see you tonight," she assured him.

  "No," he said, and stepped back, putting his hand on the door handle. "I shall be otherwise occupied." And he shut the door in her face without looking at her again.

  She stood for quite a long moment, looking at the dark panelled wood of the door, Razi's last words a little seed of ice in her chest. There was silence from within the suite, no sounds at all. No conversation. Wynter knew that Christopher's bath was just to the right of the door, in front of the fireplace. Had Razi spoken to him, even quietly, she would have heard the murmur of their voices, but there was nothing. Razi must have either been standing, motionless and silent on the other side of the door. Or he had passed by his friend and gone into the other room without a word.

  Goddamn you, Razi Kingsson, she thought and the strength of bitterness in her heart caught her by surprise. Goddamn you and your damned secrets and your pushing people away. She kicked the door childishly, and then laid her hand against the wood. Come back, she thought. Come back out and give me a hug.

  But he didn't, of course, and she eventually patted the door gently, as she would have liked to pat Razi's shoulder, and made her way down to the library.

  Wynter stood outside the library with her heart hammering in her chest and her cheeks ridiculously red and hot. Her tools felt unbearably heavy on her shoulder. She wasn't going to be able to do this! She just wasn't!

  She thought about the cluster of gangling apprentices that were bound to be on the other side of the door and felt her stomach roll like a carp in a jug. She was quite certain that she was going to open the door, stumble, trip, fall, fart and then puke.

  Wynter slapped herself in the face, hard enough to bring tears of pain to her eyes. She took a sharp breath and held it. Exhaling slowly, she opened the door and stepped into the room. She didn't look around her until she'd carefully shut the door. At the click of the latch she was suddenly in control. Her cheeks were cool, her tongue was loose and able, her belly was calm. She raised her eyes to the small knot of youths in front of her and took them in with one cool sweeping glance.

  There were five of them. Two first years, two third years, and one fourth year apprentice like herself. None of them were chartered for the green, in fact all but the fourth year lad wore only basic black laces, and none of them had guild approval for wages. They were, for the most part, the usual rough-looking, sly-eyed bunch. They turned as one to stare at her, at first with surprise and then with sneering laughter. The older boys eyed her with undisguised lechery.

  "What we got here then?" crowed a slim, shock-haired fellow, looking at her crotch and licking his lips. "This a bloody joke or what?"

  "Who told yer you could wear them clothes?" asked one of the small first years, his peaky little face sharp with accusation.

  Wynter swallowed. She knew that their master was here, lurking in the stacks somewhere, pretending not to notice that she'd arrived. He would be listening to how she handled his boys, using it as a measure of her worth. This was make or break for her in terms of how she would get on with his team, she had to get this right, because there'd be no second chances.

  "Mebbe she'd be here to give us some relief," laughed the shock-haired boy and his eyes roamed over her breasts. His companions whooped and knocked each other about in crude delight, though the smallest on
e couldn't have been more than seven or eight.

  She ignored this coarse opening volley and looked each boy up and down with slow, cold deliberation. She had already taken in everything she needed to know about them, but now she was using her father's old trick of marking each boy and dismissing him as unimportant. She passed over the first years as if they were thoroughly beneath her contempt and turned her attention to the third year apprentices.

  Wynter purposely started with the one who had first spoken to her, the foul-mouthed, shock-haired boy. She looked pointedly into his face, down to the guild mark on his tunic and then to the black laces in his boots. When she got to his laces, she allowed her eyebrows to lift a little as if to say, oh, is that all?

  Then she did the same to his companion, a raw-boned, freckle-faced lad with striking blue eyes and crooked front teeth. He frowned at her scrutiny and glanced at the fourth year boy for support. Wynter had already realised that the older boy was the one she'd need to deal with, but first she made a show of glancing at the third year's laces and dismissing him with a tut. Only then did she turn her attention to the important fourth year lad.

  He was of medium height, a stooping fellow of about seventeen, with a round good-natured face and a head of silky brown hair, clubbed, as was befitting his status, at the nape of his neck. He had stayed watchfully in the background as his companions had jostled and pucked and leered, and now he was regarding her with careful interest. She took in his face, the guild mark, his boots. She allowed her eyebrows to rise approvingly at the yellow colour of his laces, and let herself nod. A good grade, only one level down from the green. She let her eyes meet his, and caught him flicking a glance down to her guild approval pendant. His lips twitched and he met her eyes, his face guarded.

  "I've no doubt your master has left you excellent instructions, and that you are hard at work on his behalf," Wynter said, speaking directly to him and only him. "I'm sorry to have interrupted you. Please, I beg you, continue with whatever tasks he charged you to perform. My master is most eager that we make progress."

  This put a large burden on the boys. If their master had not left any instructions, then it implied that he was lazy and incompetent and that his early absence from the workplace was a great dereliction of duty. Wynter knew that apprentices were unruly and insubordinate to a boy, but loyal beyond belief to their master. For these boys to continue their larking now would be a bad reflection on the man who supplied them with their bed and board, and on whom their futures depended. It would also shame him in front of another master's apprentice.