The Poison Throne (The Moorehawke Trilogy), Page 20

  Oh Razi. This is wrong. All wrong. This is all so wrong.

  A curious, detached sorrow came over her then, and she'd never felt anything like it. She made no effort to hide her tears as she unthinkingly shambled into the retiring room and stood at her father's door.

  Lorcan was still in bed, though it was obvious that he'd been up and washed himself and combed his hair. The chamber pot had been emptied and cleaned, so the maids must have been around. She wondered if he had lain abed while they were here, but it would be hard to imagine him doing that. It was more likely that he had roused himself to leave everything outside his bedroom door, and had locked himself in until they were done.

  He didn't notice her standing there, which was in itself alarming. He was lying half on his side, his right hand curled by his face, looking out the window with an expression that seemed relaxed and unguarded. His eyes were roaming the tops of the orange trees, following the flitting movements of the many multi-coloured birds that made their home in the branches. His room smelt of warm, clean skin, tincture of opium and orange blossom. It was heavy and peaceful, and she could not intrude on it with her loneliness and her selfish tears.

  Wynter backed slowly away and retreated to her room, quietly washing her face and hands and brushing out her hair before going in to see him again. Her father noticed her this time, and he grinned drowsily and dragged himself up a little straighter in the bed.

  "Baby-girl!" he drawled, his raspy voice a balm. "How went it?" He patted the edge of his bed, and settled back heavily into his pillows.

  She swallowed her desire to bury her head in his shoulder and weep out her loneliness and despair. Instead she went and perched next to him and tried to smile. "Hello, Dad. How fared you today?"

  "Oh, Razi was in and out, fussing and fiddling... bloody boy... and I'm bored out of my mind... I need news and gossip." His words were thick as slow-flowing honey, and Wynter glanced at the telltale brown glass bottle and half-empty beaker of water on the bedside table.

  She adjusted the covers and patted his hand. "Did Razi give you some tincture of opium?"

  He sighed and his smile grew dreamy and blissful. "Oh aye. He claimed I wasn't relaxed enough." He breathed happily, "I must say, it's wonderful. No more pain."

  Her father's unwitting acknowledgement of his constant pain squeezed her heart. She looked away, for fear he'd notice the pity in her eyes.

  "I'm to take your place at the banquet tonight," she said, for want of something better to break the silence.

  "Oh bloody hell," Lorcan moaned, wiping his hand over his face. "What a pain in the arse for you." And he left it at that, his eyes heavy.

  Great! thought Wynter, Great sympathy there. She eyed the brown glass bottle wryly. Maybe I'll have a little swig of that beforehand. Float my way through the proceedings on a nice fluffy cloud.

  "Tell me..." he asked with a lazily amused smile, turning his head on the pillow to see her better, "what think you of Pascal? And how were the apprentices? Rotten to the core? Lecherous thugs? Did you have to beat them into submission?"

  She did her best to chuckle, but he took one proper look at her raw eyes, her unsteady mouth and his face fell into pantomime concern and dismay. "Oh God in heaven," he drawled. "What have they done? Have they set fire to the library? Pissed on the books?"

  That actually made her grin and she pucked his arm. He nodded fondly at her and took her hand in his.

  "Darling," he said, "We'll get through this. It's all just wind and farce. We just have to duck the debris and hang on until the bitter end."

  "Dad...?"

  Something in her tone sharpened him, and he waited while she plucked up the courage to speak.

  Oh, she thought, I shouldn't do this. Not now. It's not fair of me! He's not strong enough. But was there ever going to be a time again when Lorcan would be strong enough?

  "The King is wrong, Dad," she said suddenly.

  He tutted impatiently and tried to pull his hand from hers, but she tugged back and forced him to look at her. "He's wrong, Dad. He's wrong. When you said that the people would never accept Razi, you were right." She shook her head in disbelief at the memory of the apprentices. "The things those boys were saying." She looked him in the eye. "The things Master Huette was saying! It was... it was like listening to Shirken. It was just like being up North again. It was awful."

  He knew exactly what she was talking about; she could see the sorrowful recognition in his face. "They're looking for someone to blame, baby-girl. A reason for their trouble. They think that if they can find that one reason, and deal with it, then their troubles will end."

  "But they're blaming Razi. And not just that. They called him a pagan! They were talking about decent Christian women. I... I couldn't believe it. When have Southlanders ever talked like that?"

  Lorcan chuffed a little laugh out his nose, and squeezed her hand. "Wynter, it's not too long ago that Southlanders were burning each other at the bloody stake!" He fought the inertia of the drug, cleared his throat and went on, his mind sharper than his tongue. "You've no idea... what people were like... even... even in my grandfather's day. They're just reverting. When people are scared, they turn into the most awful beasts. It's just the way they are. There's naught to be done."

  "But it's Jonathon's fault!" He frowned at her raised voice and gave her a warning, slant-eyed look. "Dad, don't look at me like that! It is his fault. He's tearing the kingdom apart, and he's blaming everyone but himself..."

  "You don't understand..."

  "Do you? Tell me how you understand, and then explain it to me. Explain why it is that our good King has thrown everything out? Everything! All the tolerances, all the progress, all this kingdom's magic! His most beloved, most wonderful son, Alberon... and Oliver? Dad, Oliver? His great friend, that brother of his heart?"

  At the mention of Oliver, Lorcan shut his eyes. "Stop it," he moaned.

  Wynter shook his hand, forcing his eyes open. "The King is wrong. You know it! Whatever this machine..." He looked at her sharply, his lips thinning. Do not mention it, his face said, do not say those words. "This thing, whatever this thing was, that you made when you were young. How could it cause this?"

  He shook his head. He would never discuss that with her. Never. She pressed on regardless.

  "What could it have wrought, that would cause Jonathon to bring about the usurpation of his own heir? At the great risk of toppling the crown? The man is crazed!"

  Lorcan shook his head again "You mustn't..." he whispered.

  "If this continues - the gibbets, the repression, the mortuus in vita - everything will be ruined. We will become like all the others." Wynter spun her hand in a circle, indicating all the kingdoms that surrounded them, rancid with hate and self-imposed ignorance and fear. "It will be like a candle snuffed in the depths of night."

  Lorcan pressed his head back into the pillow and looked up at the ceiling, his face hopeless. "I thought we could just do this," he whispered "Just go blind and deaf and dumb, and walk through this and out to the other side."

  "And what would there be on the other side, worth walking out to?" she asked gently. "Do you think whatever it is will turn out to be worth the shutting of our eyes? Would you want to live there?"

  The unspoken question hung between them. Would you want me to live there without you? A woman alone, in a world like the one we just left up North?

  "What do you want me to do, girl?" he asked hopelessly. "You can see I'm bloody powerless."

  She leaned forward and smiled uncertainly. "Dad. I want you to let me look for Albi."

  He stared at her, and then he laughed, a hard, horrified bark of laughter. "This isn't the Easter hunt, girl! Alberon isn't crouched behind the wainscoting in the banquet hall, or hidden beneath a bush in the bloody garden like a painted egg! He's off up the forest somewhere, on the run with Oliver. With the King hunting him down like a dog"

  She sat back triumphantly, and gave her father a knowing, tight-lipped look. "O
h, is he? And how long have you known that?"

  He sighed. "That's all I know. I swear it to you. Oliver fled after Jonathon got it into his head that he was trying to usurp him. He had him declared traitor. Alberon followed very soon after, taking sides with Oliver against the King."

  "My God. Did they really try to overthrow the crown? Alberon? And Oliver? Those most loyal of subjects?"

  Lorcan frowned up at the ceiling, obviously just as incapable of reconciling himself to the thought as Wynter was. "It is hard to believe," he mused.

  "Well, there's only one way to find out! Who better to tell us than Alberon himself?"

  "Oh, enough!" Lorcan pulled his fingers from hers. He forced himself to sit up straighter against his pillows, shaking his fiery head to clear it. "Enough!" he cried, holding a hand up to silence her. "Let's say you did manage to sneak a horse and supplies out from the palace without being caught. Let's say you set off up the mountains at a gallop and travelled for a while without getting raped or robbed or murdered. And suddenly, lo, you find Alberon, camped in the road, cooking himself a fish supper! What in hell are you going to do then?" He looked at her so earnestly that she burst out laughing.

  "After all that! I'd ask him for a bite to eat!" she said.

  "Jesu Christi!" he flung his hands up, and sank back in defeat. "You're so like your bloody mother."

  "Actually," Wynter took his hand again. "I think I'm quite like my dad."

  He snorted, "Oh shush," he said, but he drew her hand to him and held it clasped to his chest. "You'd never find him anyway," he said quietly, "there's nowhere for you even to start. I'm not going to worry about it."

  "And if I did find a place to start..."

  "If you did, you'd want to be bloody quiet about it, Wynter. Because you'll be actively taking sides against the King."

  Wynter swallowed. Treason, he was telling her, she would be committing treason.

  There was a long moment of silence between them. Lorcan watching the sky, Wynter pondering her next move.

  "How's your Hadrish boy?" asked Lorcan suddenly, surprising Wynter from her thoughts.

  She laughed. "He's not my Hadrish boy, Dad! Stop it!"

  His lips curved and his eyes sparkled. "Still and all, though. I bet you're dying to go check on him."

  "Oh, that's enough!" She snatched her hand from his. "You're a menace! You were swearing me off men this morning!"

  "Does he play cards?" Lorcan asked, and the question so threw her that she coughed in surprise, losing her breath for a minute.

  "Does he... what?"

  "Your Hadrish, does he play cards?" he repeated slowly, emphasising each word for her.

  "Dad..." she said uncertainly. "Christopher's in pretty bad shape... I doubt..."

  "Go ask him," he urged.

  "Now?"

  "Now. I'm bored beyond endurance here all day. I need some company while you're supping my beer at the banquet."

  "But..."

  He waved his hand at her. "Go, go!... I promise not to gamble... it's just for fun."

  Wynter eyed him as she got up. "Yes," she said, dryly. "I think that would be wise."

  "Ohhhh," he crowed, raising his eyebrows accusingly, his gaze not quite steady. "You think he'd best me, eh? You think he'd be my match?"

  "Even with his brains dribbling out his ears, I think Christopher Garron would walk home with your eyes in his pocket tonight."

  Lorcan grinned blearily, and waved her out. "We shall see! We shall see!"

  Wynter shook her head and headed into the secret passage to see if Christopher felt up to beating her father at a game of cards.

  A Game of Cards

  The shutters in Razi's suite were still closed against the evening light, and the candles had been extinguished so that the retiring room was very dark. Wynter could barely see. She had to feel her way around the dim shapes of furniture and the many piles of books and scattered objects on the floor.

  Shuffling, banging and quietly cursing, she eventually groped her way across the small space and peered in at Christopher's door. The shutters let in a diffused light, which, though still very dim, allowed Wynter to make out the interior of the room.

  "Christopher?" she called softly, and stepped over the threshold.

  He was on the bed, curled on his side, lying atop the covers. He was dressed in his long Bedouin robe, his bare feet tucked up, his fists pressed to his forehead. Wynter thought at first that he was sleeping, but as she neared him she saw the slits of his eyes gleaming in the soft light, watching her as she approached the bed. She could hear his soft breathing.

  "Christopher," she said again, her voice laden with sympathy, "How fare you?"

  He didn't reply, but his eyes followed her as she knelt by the side of his bed.

  There was a strand of sweat-damp hair caught in his eyelashes and Wynter gently pulled it free and tucked it behind his ear. He closed his eyes at her touch, but opened them again quickly and focused on his hands as though to keep his eyes shut made him feel ill. He swallowed delicately.

  "Is the pain very bad?" she asked needlessly.

  His lips twitched, his dimples lost in the terrible bruising that had spread down his cheek. "I'm mortal feared my head will fall off," he whispered.

  "Have you taken nothing?"

  "Willow bark tea."

  Wynter snorted, he might as well be taking milk for all the good that would do for this kind of pain. "No hashish? No tincture of opium?"

  "Oh, how I wish..." he moaned longingly, "but Razi is afeared to dose me too soon. He says I must wait."

  "For what?" she exclaimed. It seemed so cruel!

  Christopher chuffed a little laugh at her indignance and gasped and swallowed again. "To ensure my brains haven't run to jelly, I suppose. 'Tis just 'til sunset."

  Wynter glanced at the shutters. The light was getting old; he wouldn't have long to wait now. She leant down to examine his damaged face, almost laying her head on the bed beside his bared arms. His warm skin had a spicy scent all of its own.

  Her red hair, where it spread on his covers, glowed in the gentle light from the shuttered window. "Just like a polished chestnut," he sighed. His breath was spicy warm like his skin, and she closed her eyes and inhaled without thinking.

  "Uh..." she faltered, snapping her eyes open. What had she been about to say? "R-Razi has left my father some tincture of opium, Christopher. Would you like some?"

  He shut his eyes in pained gratitude. "Oh, yes please."

  She hesitated, then she said, "My father was wondering if you'd like to play a game of cards, to pass the time?"

  "All right," he whispered amenably, his eyes still shut, and Wynter wondered if he was truly aware of what she was asking. Or perhaps, did he think he had to entertain Lorcan in exchange for the opium?

  "You don't have to, Christopher, I can bring you the dose here if you prefer."

  "Would you prefer I stay here?" It was a genuine question, no trace of bitterness or guile. It deserved a genuine answer.

  "I would prefer if you come in to my father," she said, and he smiled, a definite smile, that finally revealed a trace of dimple in the dark bruising on his cheek.

  It took a long time to help Christopher from the bed and into the secret passage, but she got him there in the end. He carried two fat pillows from his bed, and Wynter steadied him with an arm about his waist as he hobbled along, valiantly trying not to move his head or neck.

  "Stay here," she whispered, and left him leaning at the secret door to her suite. She went in to close all the shutters and light some candles in her father's room.

  At the sight of her, Lorcan pulled himself up in the bed. "Oh!" he exclaimed "Has he agreed?" He leaned clumsily towards the drawer in his bedside table.

  "Jesu!" snapped Wynter as he began tilting forward. She pushed him back before the whole long length of him could slide out onto his head.

  Lorcan fell back against his pillows, grinning, and Wynter got his games box from the drawer a
nd tossed it to him on her way out for Christopher. Her father immediately began a bleary hunt for his pack of cards.

  Christopher was waiting at the secret door like a patient shadow. Wynter slipped her arm around his waist and got him moving forward. She saw Lorcan glance up as she helped Christopher into the room, and the smile slid from her father's face as he got his first look at the results of Jonathon's brutal attack.

  Wynter knew that Lorcan was a practical, often calculating, and sometimes quite ruthless man, but she saw an almost tangible rage rise up in his eyes at the distorted mess Jonathon had made of Christopher's face.

  "Good Christ, boy. Are you sure you...?"

  Christopher waved his concern away and sat gingerly on the edge of Lorcan's bed. His body twisted awkwardly as he tried to look at Lorcan without moving his neck. "Shift your legs," he whispered, and Lorcan slid over to make room for him.

  Wynter propped Christopher's pillows against the footboard, and the young man took a deep breath and carefully hoisted himself up and over. He slowly inched his legs around so that he sat facing Lorcan and finally he sank back against the pillows with a shaky sigh. He sat for the longest moment, tense and immobile, his eyes lightly shut.

  Wynter regarded the whole process with held breath and clenched hands. She met her father's eyes over Christopher's dark head, and Lorcan glanced significantly at the opium. "I'll mix you that draught," she said, patting Christopher's shoulder and busying herself with the vials and pitchers on Lorcan's table.

  "That would be lovely," Christopher whispered. Then he straightened cautiously and peered at Lorcan. "Wh-what're we playing?" Lorcan hesitated and Christopher waved a hand at him, "Come on. What you got? F... French deck?"

  "Aye," said Lorcan holding up the big picture cards. "How about a hand or two of piquet?" he suggested.