The Poison Master Read online

  Dee took the liberty of peering over her shoulder and saw that an image had appeared in the black opacity of the glass: a tiny ship, tossed on a storming sea.

  “The Muscovy Company,” the Queen said slowly. “I recognize the ship. I saw it set sail from Tilbury not more than a month ago.”

  “Was this what you wished to see?” Dee asked.

  “Yes.” Her glance this time was oblique, half concealed by the heavy lids, and Dee realized that she had refrained from seeking something of political sensitivity, in case the glass had worked and he had seen. He swallowed a brief bitterness, for the Queen was smiling.

  “My Lord Walsingham will be most intrigued,” she said, and it was Dee's turn to smile. Ever since the spy- master had had word of the mirror, he had pestered Dee until he had been shown the device in operation. The mirror accounted for most of Walsingham's visits to Dee's household; Dee supposed that it was good of the man to bother, when he could simply have had the thing impounded. However, the mirror was not always wholly reliable when Walsingham consulted it. There were long periods when it remained dark, or when a cataract like the bloom of a plum appeared over it, and then it was useless. This, Dee reflected, was true of most of the wonders in his possession: they worked erratically, if at all. It was as though the universe occasionally condescended to confirm his theories, but most of the time was unwilling to play fair.

  “Well,” the Queen remarked, “it is indeed a great delight.” She ran a gloved finger across the surface of the mirror, dispelling seas and ship alike. “You had some interest in the voyage to Cathay, I recollect.”

  “Richard Chancellor was well beloved of me,” Dee replied. “When the Cathay expedition was first conceived of, he came to me with his instruments and we prepared charts for his voyage, of the northern seas.”

  “And that voyage was to result in the establishment of the Muscovy Company,” the Queen mused. “He did not reach Cathay, but he did us no small service nonetheless. Did he speak to you of the voyage?”

  “Indeed he did, and a most arduous time he had of it. He spoke of the far north, beyond the uncharted world, where he found no night at all but a continual light and brightness of the sun shining clearly upon the sea.”

  “I have heard it spoken of as Meta Incognita,” the Queen said.

  Dee smiled. “Much of this world could be named as such.”

  “It would,” the Queen said, “be good to learn more of it.” For a brief, disconcerting moment, Dee met Elizabeth's gaze. “If you see any such unknown or foreign places, you will tell me of them, will you not?”

  For a moment Dee was afraid that she somehow knew of the spirit, the star-demon, and what it had promised him. The thought chilled him, despite the summer warmth of the day.

  “I will tell you first among all,” he said, and the Queen's cold eyes looked past him for a moment, into some unimaginable future. For a moment Dee was afraid that she might insist on taking the mirror with her, but then she handed it back to him, saying, “Keep it safe for me.”

  “I shall, Your Majesty.”

  When Elizabeth and her retinue—her dwarf, her maidservants, her carriage, the whole glittering procession—had swept away, Dee went slowly back inside the house and returned the mirror to its hiding place. Then he sat down at the desk and stared unseeingly at the manuscripts scattered across it. The Queen had been delighted by the mirror, but she saw it, as a monarch must, principally as a means to establish her own security. Walsingham was the same, and as Elizabeth's spymaster, his concerns would reflect her own as surely as the black mirror reflected the sun.

  As a satellite of the outer court, Dee was sufficiently trusted in neither the political nor the intellectual sphere for the Queen to take the action that mattered most: the endowment of money. Without money, Dee's research would be kept to a minimum, tinkering about with small devices such as the bronze bee. His most valuable possessions had been given to him by others. Even the house belonged to his mother. With the debts left by his father's financial ruin, and the deprivation of his own living at Upton during the course of his imprisonment, Dee was entirely too dependent on charity for his own liking. Perhaps the expeditions mounted by the Muscovy Company, the search for that elusive north-west passage, might prove lucrative—but Dee wanted to explore so much farther than that, to break these bounds of Earth and head for the unknown.

  The study seemed suddenly to hem him in, the wide garden beyond no more than yet another cell. Dee stared into the glare of the sun and slowly, gradually, the thought began to emerge into the daylight like an uncoiling seed. The star-demon, with its four stark faces, had come to Dee twice, and twice only. But it had come nonetheless and this meant that it could come again. Dee had never sought to challenge heaven, but he knew that mechanical means were increasingly becoming more remote due to his lack of funds. The Family of Love, now firmly installed in London under Hendrick Niclaes' guidance, were already preparing for their voyage to the new world. If he could not go forth into the universe, Dee resolved, then he would have to bring the universe to him. He would summon the star-demon. And for that, he needed a scryer.

  Chapter II

  TOWER OF THE POISONERS, HATHES

  Alivet spent the next day in the alchematorium, working on a variety of substances. Toward the end of the afternoon Ghairen came to watch, perching on the stool and making light conversation with which Alivet found herself incapable of engaging. She could barely bring herself to look at him, consumed by frustration, fury, and fear that the previous night's wanderings were somehow inscribed across her face: a map of the landscape of guilt. At least he was present in the alchematorium; if she was to collect a sample of his blood, then it must be done here. She wondered whether saliva might be easier, if she could trap Ghairen into kissing her. The thought was both unnerving and enticing, and opened the prospect of further intimacies. Was that really what she wanted; to sleep with a professional poisoner who might be molesting his daughter? To her horror, Alivet realized that she did not know.

  Blood, she decided, would be easier. She began to formulate a plan.

  Ghairen seemed at first to suspect nothing of her night's activities. He treated her with the same unsettling solicitude that was the hallmark of his manner toward her, commenting upon the weather, the chemicals that she was using, the neatness of her preparations. But there was a nervous edge to his conversation that she found hard to define: was it simply stress, over the little progress they had made, or was there some deeper concern which she could not fathom? Mindful once more of the issues of conscience that might face a professional murderer, Alivet buried herself in her work and answered in monosyllables. Then it occurred to her that she did, in fact, have a question.

  “Those books you gave me,” she said, glancing up at last from the workbench. “Where do they come from?”

  “You're not familiar with The Days of the Delta? I felt sure that it was a much loved classic on your world.”

  “Not the ones from Latent—the other books. Jerusalem, or whatever it's called. And the one with all the diagrams.”

  “Ah,” Ghairen said, looking vaguely pleased with himself. “I felt sure that you'd find those of interest. They're from another of the human worlds. A place called Malkuth.”

  Alivet frowned. “Never heard of it.” But then, she had never heard of anywhere until Ghairen had appeared.

  “A strange place. Some people claim it to be of interest. Most, however, feel that it's a backward world, with little to offer the casual visitor.”

  “Have you been there? What's it like?”

  “Oh, I've never been there, I'm afraid. The books might repay your attention, however.”

  Something about his tone caught Alivet's interest; he spoke with studied indifference, as though delivering some hint that lay beyond her current understanding. His eyes were fixed on a spot just above her head. Doubtless yet another game, thought Alivet with annoyance. As though she didn't have enough to fret over without reading books
about a place she'd never heard of.

  At that thought, she remembered her planned meeting with Iraguila. Her hands grew clammy with nerves and she wiped them hastily on a nearby rag. What if the blood trick didn't work? What if she couldn't get free of her room and Iraguila concluded that she was simply too scared to take the risk and lost patience? Alivet took a deep breath of acrid air and steered her thought away from this dangerous channel. Life was already too congested with “what ifs.” She turned to face Ghairen.

  “That's everything for now. I need to put the next batch of samples in the athanor.”

  “You might as well eat while you're waiting. I won't join you; I have an appointment.”

  “I just need to rinse these beakers.” Alivet picked up one of the delicate glass containers, making covertly sure that it was still wet from its previous immersion. It slipped through her fingers and shattered on the floor. Ghairen swooped and Alivet knelt to help him.

  “Be careful,” Ghairen said, raising a finger to his mouth. His hand was smeared with dark blood. Relief clashed with an unexpected impulse to reach out and comfort him. Instead, Alivet fetched a cloth and retrieved the shattered fragments.

  “Make sure you find all of them,” Ghairen said, sharply. “I don't want splinters of glass lying around.”

  Alivet collected the fragments onto a piece of paper, but as she was straightening up she saw a gleam from beneath the workbench. It was a sliver of glass, stained with blood.

  “Is that all?” Ghairen asked.

  “Yes.” Alivet glanced up. “Are there any pieces on the workbench?” Ghairen was gazing around him, searching for stray fragments. As he turned his head, her hand shot out and snatched up the bloodstained splinter.

  “I can see none,” he said.

  “Good,” Alivet remarked, standing up. “I think we found all of them.” She tucked the splinter loosely into the palm of her hand as she threw the rest of the fragments away. “Sorry,” she added. “That was clumsy.”

  “Happens to us all,” Ghairen remarked, magnanimously.

  To her relief, Ghairen vanished to his unnamed appointment and Alivet was once more left alone at the meal. She picked at her food, too fraught to eat more than a few mouthfuls of the pungent broth. When the shiffrey came in,gliding along the floor in its unnatural manner, Alivet told it to take the plates away, then went to her room.

  Just as she reached the door, Ghairen came back along the hallway.

  “Good evening,” she said. He murmured something in response. His face was drawn and tense; she wondered just whom his appointment had been with. The mysterious Soret, his masters, or one of his two-too-many mistresses? Alivet wished him a hasty good night and ducked into her room.

  She felt strange: light-headed and unreal, as though she were drifting through a dream. Was it simply anxiety, the prospect of once more breaking out of her room and skulking up the stairs to her host's poisonous fern-fronded garden, or was the toxin with which Ghairen had allegedly infected her beginning to work? What if he had misjudged the dose, or built in some fail-safe so that exertion or unwarranted anxiety would trigger the poison? She pictured herself falling down the dark stairwell, spinning to the mercuric waters of the canal and disappearing beneath them without a sound, or folding down among the dangerous ferns just as Celana would have fallen, had her father not caught her…

  Alivet ran a hand over her face. The metal water-jug that stood on the table had been filled in her absence. She poured a glass and drank it slowly, beginning to feel a little better. Beyond the window, it was growing dark. To pass the time, Alivet picked up the book on symbolism and studied it, but it made no more sense than last time. The diagrams were baffling: the pillars of severity and mercy, what were they? She frowned over the lists of correspondences.

  The creature of Yesod is the jackal, who waits at the gates of the moon… Its order of angels are the Kherubim, called the Strong. It grants the Vision of the Machinery of the Universe.

  It meant nothing to Alivet, but as she read farther, she saw a name that she recognized:

  And I have passed through the gates of the moon, and looked upon Levanah…

  Levanah. The city in which Alivet had been born, in which she lived. Alivet stared at the book. What was a “moon”? And what were its gates? She wondered how old the book might be.

  Glancing up, she saw that it was now quite dark. The lamps were going out across Ukesh. Alivet rose to her feet. Then she inserted the splinter into the lock of her opulent cell, and after a nerve-racking moment, the door swung open.

  Once again, the hallway was silent. Alivet thought of all those locked doors and shivered. The lamp cast a pool of light across the floor. Alivet slunk across the hall and up the stairs to the poison garden. At first, she thought that Iraguila Ust was not there, but then the governess crept forth.

  “Alivet? I thought you weren't coming.” Iraguila was not wearing her lenses and her eyes were sparks in the dim light. A prickle ran up the length of Alivet's spine.

  “It is not too late. But we have to leave now,” Iraguila whispered.

  “Where are we going?”

  “To see someone who can help you.” Iraguila turned, but instead of moving back onto the landing as Alivet had anticipated, she glided out into the poison garden. “This way.”

  Alivet followed, taking care not to tread on anything thorny. Iraguila led her to the far side of the garden, where a round window looked out over the side of the tower.

  “We go through here.”

  Alivet stood on tiptoe and craned her neck. She could see one of the spines that ran up the side of the tower, like a row of shining glass teeth. There was no sign of a ladder, or footholds. She said to Iraguila Ust, “You're mad. We can't go out there!”

  Iraguila smiled. “But we must, Alivet. There is no other way. The apartment is sealed; there are wards on the elevators that would betray the presence of anyone traveling into the lower depths. Don't be afraid. It can be done.”

  She put a gloved finger to her lips and licked the tip, just once. Then she rubbed her wet finger along the frame of the window. It opened with a hiss.

  “Wait!” Alivet said, frantic.

  “What is the matter now?”

  “The air—Ghairen told me that I could not set foot outside. I thought the atmosphere was contaminated.”

  “Not so, it is just cold. Do you believe all that Ghairen tells you?”

  “Of course not,” Alivet said, feeling foolish.

  Iraguila, moving with serpent swiftness despite her heavy skirts, hoisted herself upward and out of the window. Alivet hesitated. There was no further sign of Iraguila. It was as though she had vanished into an abyss. Alivet thought of Ghairen, infecting her with death and smiling as he did so. It was pure resentment that made her jump for the windowsill, cling on by her fingertips, and haul herself up.

  A blast of cold air smacked her in the face, snatching her breath away. She glanced down and saw the sides of the tower sheering away to the base, far below. Alivet rocked backward and closed her eyes. Her fingers would not move from the sides of the sill.

  “Alivet?” Iraguila asked, reprovingly. Alivet looked up. Iraguila stood on a narrow ledge, no more than a couple of feet wide. Her chin was tucked in against the arctic air, her gloved hands were folded primly in front of her. She looked like a governess waiting for a recalcitrant child to enter the schoolroom. “Come along, quickly. If you do not, the garden thermometer will register the change in temperature. The plants will start to wilt. Ghairen may be alerted.”

  Slowly, Alivet willed her fingers away from the sill. Iraguila reached down and with sudden alarming strength pulled her out onto the ledge.

  “Be careful,” she said, with what Alivet felt to be unnecessary caution. “The ledge is frosty.”

  Then she disappeared. Alivet gaped after her, before the realization dawned that Iraguila had not plummeted into the depths, but had simply stepped around the corner. Alivet forced herself to follow.
The ledge was as slippery as a skating rink. She took tiny, mincing steps, packing the frost down beneath the heels of her boots as she did so and flattening her hands against the wall. She did not repeat the mistake of looking down. Eventually, her groping fingers encountered a sharp edge; she had reached the corner. Alivet inched around it and gasped.

  The ledge widened to an immense shelf. She was standing at the very summit of the tower, looking out over a glittering expanse of icy roof. The roof raced away, falling perhaps fifty feet to a narrow chasm before it rose once more in a frozen wave above the tower. The architecture was inherently inhuman, all strange angles and veering plateaus, and seemingly at odds from the dark, organic interiors. Alivet wondered fleetingly what this said about the people of Hathes, but she was too glad to be away from the awful edge to care greatly.

  “Come,” Iraguila said again. She was standing at the far end of the shelf, holding a chain in one hand.

  “What's that?” Alivet asked.

  “We have to get to the other side of the roof. There's a way down from there.” She tugged on the chain and Alivet saw that it was attached to a narrow curve of metal: lacy with frost like a frozen wave. “A roof-runner. They use them for maintenance.”

  As she drew closer, Alivet saw that the runner was attached to thin rails, which extended over the edge of the shelf and away over the roof. The chain presumably attached the runner to some form of support. Iraguila Ust settled herself at the front end of the runner. “Sit behind me,” she instructed. “Hold on to me and do not let go. We will be moving swiftly.”

  Alivet sat gingerly on the narrow seat at the back of the runner and clasped Iraguila around the waist. She could feel the lower rim of Iraguila's corsets digging into her arms. The woman's body was hard and unyielding and Alivet felt as though she were embracing a large beetle.