The Poison Master Page 18

  “Alivet asked you a question, Celana,” Ghairen said sharply.

  “Why should she have any interest in what I'm doing?” Celana snapped. “She doesn't give a flick of her fingers what I'm studying.”

  “That's not the point, Celana,” Iraguila Ust whispered.

  “What is the point, then?” Celana cried. “To be polite? To someone like her?” Her lip curled as she looked at Alivet, who was too astonished by the outburst to speak. “A drugged junkie from a world of peasants? If my mother were alive, she'd—”

  “She'd box your ears and send you to your room,” Ghairen said, rising. He took his daughter by the arm and marched her through the door. Alivet could hear her protests as they receded down the hallway. Iraguila Ust leaned across the table and spoke quickly, the words tumbling over one another.

  “You must not think poorly of her, it is all feigned to give us a moment alone. I know about the work that you are doing. We must take you to someone who can help you—it is vital that Ghairen should lose his hold over you.”

  “I don't want to help Ghairen any more than I can,” Alivet hissed. “Look, we have to talk. Can you come and see me later? In the alchematorium, or my room?”

  “The doors are self-keyed, I—” Iraguila began, but at that point Ghairen stepped into the room, looking ruffled.

  “I must apologize,” he said to Alivet, ignoring the governess. “Celana has been a troubled child ever since her mother's death, and I'm afraid I do not have the time to discipline her myself. That is a task for Semilay.” He glanced at the governess, who once more sat with head bowed, the picture of dreary compliance.

  Alivet wanted to ask more about the two younger girls and their mothers, but decided that this, too, was a question for Iraguila Ust. She muttered something noncommittal and turned her attention back to her neglected food. Ust, murmuring an excuse, slipped from the room. Ghairen watched her go without expression. Then he said, as if nothing had happened, “I'm sure you're eager to return to the alchematorium, Alivet. Shall we go?”

  After the meal the dim, vaporous atmosphere of the alchematorium came as a relief. Ghairen perched himself on a high stool by the workbench, the folds of his robes settling around him like dark wings. She could feel him staring at her. Deciding that the best thing to do would be to pretend he wasn't there, Alivet ignored him and devoted herself instead to a thorough investigation of elemental preparations. Nothing worked. Whatever she tried, the tabernanthe still fractured and shattered, exploding into wafts of noxious smoke. By the end of the afternoon, Alivet's hands were covered with a dozen tiny burns and scratches, but even under the strained circumstances, it was good to be doing what she knew best. Eventually she ran out of ideas and turned to the Poison Master.

  “I can't get a result with this,” she told him impatiently, running her hand over her hair. Her fingers were smudged with ash and there was a burn on the side of her thumb, but these were familiar nuisances.

  “You need a break,” Ghairen said at once, all solicitude. “Perhaps you'd like to see the garden?”

  “I thought I couldn't go outside.”

  “In this world our gardens are covered, as you saw in the case of the parc-verticale.” Alivet started at this, as though he had somehow managed to penetrate her dreams. Ghairen went on, “My own garden is not nearly so extensive, naturally, but it has attracted much favorable comment.”

  “How nice,” Alivet said. It seemed that Ghairen did not appreciate the irony, for he beamed.

  “Yes, I think so. Gardening is a great interest of mine and one likes one's efforts to be appreciated.”

  He indicated a door at the far end of the alchematorium.

  “It's through here. You'll find it refreshing,” Ghairen said, reaching for the door panel. “The winds are simulated, of course. The air is filtered, and quite safe.”

  Alivet stepped out onto a high, bright platform and was almost lifted off her feet by a sudden gust. Ghairen had not lied: the air was fresh and sweet. She leaned back against the lintel and took a deep breath as her eyes adjusted to the light. The roof of the platform shimmered a little in the late- afternoon sun, otherwise Alivet might have thought it entirely open to the elements. The coiled, twisted peak of the tower hovered above her like a horn.

  Ahead stretched the garden. Ferns coiled from walls of black rock; fronds and skeins of vines obscured a delicate arch of ceiling. Light filtered down to cast an underwater glow over the scene. As Alivet wandered out, guided by the watchful Ghairen, she saw that small plants and lichens grew between the ferns: ocher cushions of anemone, patches of viridian moss, a honey-colored fungus exuding clouds of spores that caught the light like sparks.

  “So this is where they come from,” Alivet said. “Your toxins.”

  Ghairen nodded.

  “This is my poison garden, yes. Don't step too close to that fungus—it's my best source of immanita.”

  “This must have cost a fortune,” Alivet mused. “How long did it take you to gather all these plants?”

  “Almost twenty years. I have been diligent in my approach, and also disciplined.” Ghairen's dark robes fluttered across a carpet of moss as he stepped forward. “Nothing but the best quality. And organically grown—one doesn't want one's preparations contaminated by chemicals, after all. These plants contain the poisons in their latent form—the live material is over there, behind the glass wall. You need protective clothing to venture in there.”

  “Can I see?” Alivet asked.

  “But of course.”

  She followed him across the garden to the partition and peered in at a toxic jungle. Harnify creeper snaked along the wall, its blooms extending their raw red tongues; Fatal Orchis curled fleshy leaves above a small pool. Alivet did not recognize many of the species and said as much.

  “Many are combinations and grafts. I am constantly refining and mixing the genes. There are even animal crossbreeds. That lily contains scorpion venom, for instance, and the soke—a common household bloom, entirely innocuous— contains the exudations of the shriek-bat. Some of my developments have been described as revolutionary. I've had a lot of papers published.”

  “You must be very proud,” Alivet said.

  “One does what one can,” Ari Ghairen murmured modestly. “Come and take a look out of the main windows. I often come up here at sunset. The view is really quite spec tacular.” His hand hovered around her waist, guiding her toward the windows.

  Despite the distraction of his touch, Alivet was obliged to agree. From this high vantage point, she could look out across all Ukesh. Some of the more distant spiral towers seemed no bigger than the tendrils of the poisonous creeper; others rocketed into the heavens, too immense for the eye to absorb. A high pile of cumulus was massing on the far horizon, its anvil head promising more snow. To her right, Alivet could see the parc-verticale and she thought again of the woman of her dream, beckoning from a tangle of vines.

  “Do you let your children come up here?” she asked.

  Ghairen smiled. “No. But Celana comes anyway. She sneaks out from her lessons or her bed when she thinks I'm not looking, to steal and secrete away poisons. Her main talent is for music, but she still takes after me. Though not, I feel obliged to add, in the manner of her rudeness.”

  “With so many poisons around,” Alivet said with careful nonchalance, “and your children taking such an interest in the family business, I hope you have plenty of antidotes.”

  “I keep antidotes for everything here”—Ghairen glanced at her sidelong and indicated a tall metal case—“all safely locked away. There's another cabinet at the back of the alchematorium. You might have noticed it yesterday.”

  “You keep duplicates?”

  “If someone was exposed to something up here, they could die in the time it took to fetch an antidote from downstairs.”

  Alivet took careful note of the case and decided to change the subject. “Celana,” she ventured, “does not seem happy.”

  “There is
no ‘seeming’ about it. She isn't happy. She blames me for her mother's death. But she'll get over it. She'll be an heiress one day; that goes a long way to sweeten a bitter pill.”

  “What happened to her mother? How did she die?”

  “She was poisoned,” Ghairen said evenly.

  “Why does that not surprise me? Did you poison her?”

  “Alivet, I don't go around poisoning everyone. I don't have the time. But so that you don't get some crusading impulse into your head and start asking awkward questions at the dinner table, no, I did not poison my late wife, and I don't know who did. I deeply regretted her demise, as a matter of fact.” He paused, then added, “If you really want details, her name was Arylde. She died in a place called Loviti, on the Small Sea. I sent her there for a holiday, with Celana. She was dead within a day.” He looked somewhat surprised, as if he had not intended to impart such a relative wealth of information.

  “You must miss her very much,” Alivet said, taking advantage of the moment to probe. But then there were the mistresses…

  “I owed her many pleasures and many sorrows. Arylde was not an easy woman.” He fell silent for a moment. She could not read his expression. “Shall we return to the alchematorium?” He offered her his arm, which, after a moment, Alivet took. Whatever might have befallen Celana's mother, Alivet thought, she did not believe Ghairen's explanation for a second.

  Chapter III

  TOWER OF THE POISONERS, HATHES

  Neither Celana nor Iraguila Ust appeared at dinner that evening. Alivet dined alone, thankful to be spared her host's attentions but with a head full of plans. The shiffrey servant glided silently in and out, bearing a selection of broth and wine.

  “So,” Alivet said to it, when it next entered, “can you speak? What's your name?”

  The shiffrey stopped dead and stared at Alivet out of its ball-bearing eyes. The small hands were closer to claws: thin twig fingers ending in a bulbous pad. At first, she had thought that the thing lacked a mouth, then realized that there was a narrow hole tucked away beneath its pointed chin. Its skin had the smooth pallor of wax. She was unable to read its expression.

  “Who are you?” Alivet said again. “Talk to me.” She reached out and patted one of the little hands.

  The shiffrey became agitated. It emitted a low hooting noise and spun about, its skirts whirling. Alivet caught a glimpse of two tiny feet, clawed balls like the casters of a chair. Ghairen had told her that they were a native life form, but there was something almost mechanical about the creature.

  “It's all right,” she said hastily. “I won't hurt you. You can go.”

  The shiffrey shot away through the door. It did not return. Alivet put down her knife, took a final fortifying swig of wine, and went out after it. Ghairen rose smoothly from the armchair in the hall.

  “Did you enjoy your meal? Was everything all right?”

  “Fine, thank you,” Alivet muttered. Evidently she was still being kept beneath Ghairen's watchful eye. She thought of spending the evening with him and was filled with sudden nerves. “I'm a little tired.” She put a hand to her brow, as if feeling faint. “I'd like an early night.”

  “Naturally. A strange day in a strange place and you've been working so hard…You're looking quite pale.” Ghairen put a steadying hand on her arm. “I've taken the liberty of putting some books in your room. I thought you might like some reading matter.”

  “That's very kind,” Alivet said. Actually, it was a relief. The prospect of spending hours in her room, brooding on her possible death sentence, had not been appealing. But then, she did not plan to spend all that much time in her room if she could possibly help it. Ghairen walked her the short distance to her door, then left her mercifully in peace.

  Alivet closed the door behind her and leaned against it. This constant attention was getting on her nerves; it would have been less alarming if she had been kept in a cell. Ghairen's presence was so—unsettling. She wondered whether this was what her sister must feel, a mouse in a gilded cage. At least Ghairen wasn't in the same league as the Lords of Night. Or was he? If Iraguila was to be believed, he'd poisoned her, and she had no doubt that he was prepared to see her die if he didn't get what he wanted. And what was that, exactly? Iraguila Ust had been emphatic; Ghairen must not be allowed to succeed in his preparations. Was he really trying to find a way to dispatch the Lords? Or had that simply been a convenient explanation, to further engage Alivet's help and insert a level of ambiguity into their relationship? A relationship, she felt, that possessed enough ambiguity already.

  The books sat in a neat pile by the side of the bed. Alivet wanted to make sure that Ghairen was out of the way before she started trying to open the door, so she sat down on the bed and began to peruse the Poison Master's idea of reading material. Two of the books were from her own world: classics relating to an old man's pilgrimage into the fens and a girl growing up in a privileged family in Shadow Town. It seemed remarkable to Alivet that she had been standing in those very streets only a few days before. She felt as though she had been incarcerated in Ghairen's household for months.

  But her aunt had drilled these books, and other classics, into Alivet and Inki when they were still children and the novels had not become Alivet's favorites. She put them aside and turned to the other books. First on the pile was a tome entitled A Guide to Hathes and Its Customs. Much more interesting, Alivet thought. She flicked through it. There were pictures of the towers and the canals, and an illustration of a shiffrey in a peculiar, crenellated hat, brandishing something that looked like a kitchen spatula. The caption read, Shiffrey in war bonnet, with ceremonial spear. Alivet couldn't help feeling sorry for the shiffrey; they seemed such a pathetic, inoffensive species.

  It also had a section on the language of Hathes: a complex alphabet that reminded Alivet of a row of rushes or reeds. She read some of the accompanying text, which was written in an elaborate, archaic form of her own tongue, but the print required the aid of a magnifying glass.

  Alivet put down A Guide to Hathes and picked up the last two books. They looked ancient: the leather covers cracked and peeling, the pages wafer-thin. Alivet puzzled out the name on a spine: Jerusalem. She opened the book and tried to read a passage, but although the alphabet and some of the words were familiar, she could make little sense of it. The book told of places that Alivet had never heard of, and the names were strange.

  The last book seemed even older; the pages were stained. Alivet held it under the light and managed to make out the words on the frontispiece: A Most Ancient and Secret History of the Cabala. The name of the author was missing. Alivet turned the pages and found a diagram; a symmetrical pattern of circles, joined together by lines. As with the other book, the print was tiny and she strained her eyes trying to read it. She could not even tell what it might be about.

  She wondered how Ari Ghairen had made this somewhat eclectic selection. The fat guide to Hathes was the most promising so far, but Alivet had little time for reading. She stacked the books on the side table and went over to the window. It was close to dark. What time was Ghairen likely to go to bed? Did he even sleep? She wouldn't have put it past him to sit perched on the top of the tower like a leech-bird, awaiting passing victims.

  Crossing to the door, she put her ear to it, but could hear nothing. Very carefully, she tried the door handle. It was still locked, no surprises there. What had Iraguila said? The door was self-keyed, whatever that meant. Alivet frowned. The lock was made of metal: an elaborate confection of swirls and leaves. She knelt down and examined it. At the center of the lock was a little hole, no wider than a pin. Alivet cast about for something that might be used as a key. The bedroom was devoid of anything useful, but as she bent to look beneath the bed, her uncomfortable corset creaked and that gave Alivet an idea. She tore off the corset. Then, standing in her shift, she tugged at the side stitches of the garment until they gave way. A slender wire protruded. Alivet pulled the wire out and snapped it by trapping it under
the bed leg. She knelt down at the door and inserted the wire, jiggling it inside the lock. Nothing happened.

  Grimacing with frustration, Alivet withdrew the wire and inserted the other end. Still nothing. Perhaps the wire was too wide: it had taken a certain degree of pushing to get it into the hole. She pulled the wire out and picked at it, but without result. She sat down on the bed and eventually managed to detach a thin strand from the wire. She was just about to apply this to the lock when the door swung open of its own accord. Alivet saw a gleaming eye through the crack.

  “Iraguila? Is that you?”

  The figure turned and bolted. Alivet sprang for the door and peered out. A thin shape was disappearing along the hall in the direction of the alchematorium: not Iraguila, but the girl in her charge. Perhaps Celana had intended to spy upon her father's guest, thinking that Alivet was asleep—whatever the reason, the door was open.

  Still in her shift, Alivet put her head cautiously around the door and looked out. The hallway was empty. A lamp glowed in a far corner, casting a pool of light upon the floor, but otherwise the hallway was dark. Alivet slipped back into the room, picked up the thinnest book—one of the childhood classics—and wedged it in the frame of the door so that it would not swing shut behind her. But if Ghairen or anyone else took it into their heads to go prowling around, she did not want it to look wide open, either.

  She studied the door. Then, satisfied, she took her bearings. The alchematorium lay upstairs. To her right was the dining room, her own room, and a third, unknown, door. Across the hall, another two doors were visible. Alivet crept over and put her ear to one of them. It was silent within. There was no sound or movement anywhere in the apartment. She gave the door an experimental push, but it did not move. Ghairen, she felt sure, would have taken the utmost precautions to protect himself and his family and she was certain that the other doors, too, would be locked. She tried them and found that this was indeed the case. Frustrated, Alivet retraced her steps to the hallway, wondering with uneasy fancy if either of Ghairen's absent mistresses might be found behind these bolted doors.