The Poison Master Read online

  “Ghairen is assisting the local assassins, then?”

  “You might put it like that. But they are not here to see Ghairen. They are visiting another Master.”

  Alivet pulled the robe more closely over her hair, determined to keep her face out of the sight of any monitors. The Sanguinants entered one of the elevators. Alivet cast covert glances in their direction as the elevator soared upward. One of them spoke in a rasping voice:

  “Does this Master understand the situation, Raclaud?”

  “Vareyn, I believe that he does. And if it should prove that he does not, then he must be made to understand.”

  The second voice was fat with anticipation: a gloating beneath the quiet words. Alivet decided that this was as close as she ever wanted to get to the Sanguinants. She was relieved when the elevator slowed to a halt and the two men stepped out into an opulent entrance hall. Iraguila, following, pulled Alivet behind a curtain.

  “Keep quiet!”

  Alivet did not need to be told. She heard a low mumble of voices, a brief conversation, and then footsteps receding down the hall. Iraguila took her through a nearby door and then they were out into the stairwell. Alivet took care to count the number of flights: the Sanguinants' appointment was seven flights below Ghairen's apartment. What that might say about the relative social status of the two, Alivet could not say.

  Alivet held her breath as they stepped into Ghairen's hallway, but the place was silent, with an early-morning feel.

  “Do you have your key?”

  Alivet held out the bloodied splinter of glass. Iraguila inserted it into the lock.

  “Here,” she said, handing Alivet a twist of paper. “Take this if you feel tired today. Ghairen must suspect nothing.”

  “What is it?” Alivet asked.

  “Quickly, now,” was all that Iraguila would say. A moment later, Alivet was back in her bedroom, staring out over the red dawn light of Ukesh as though nothing had happened.

  Chapter III

  TOWER OF THE POISONERS, HATHES

  Alivet, unhooking the numerous fastenings of her garments in order to bathe, found that her fingers were trembling. She could not stop yawning: great gaping yawns that felt as though her face was splitting in half. This was a fine way to start a working day. Ghairen would surely notice her fatigue, especially if she fell asleep with her head among the crucibles.

  Dressed in her shift, she sat down on the bed and examined the paper twist that Iraguila had given her. Unwrapping it, she found that it contained a pale powder. Experimentally, she licked her finger, then caught up a few grains and rubbed them over her gums. After a moment, her mouth grew numb. The powder was a stimulant, then, probably some kind of amphetamine like the powder extracted from the leaves of the hermetic plants, to give swiftness and speed of thought. They also made your teeth chatter for hours at a time.

  Despite her fatigue, Alivet frowned. She did not approve of such drugs. There was no spiritual element to them; they were purely a crutch to help folk get through the day, and that was a good way to develop an addiction. If Ghairen asked, she would simply say that she had not slept and reproach him for giving her sufficient cause for insomnia. She wrapped the twist of paper and put it in a drawer by the bed. Then she bathed, dressed once more in her confining clothes, and left the room.

  To her relief Ghairen was not present at breakfast. The only other occupants of the dining room were the shiffrey servant and Celana. Alivet regarded her with interest. The girl wore her usual sullen expression, but there was a glaze of tiredness in her eyes. Alivet entirely sympathized with that, but it did raise the question of why Celana was so weary this early in the morning. Maybe she'd been having night escapades of her own. Alivet suppressed a wry smile. No one in Ghairen's household seemed able to keep to their beds. There was a more sinister explanation, however, which Alivet did not feel up to contemplating.

  “Good morning, Celana,” she said, primly.

  Celana glanced at her, but did not reply. Alivet found herself startled at the content of that glance. It contained a kind of wary desperation, as if the girl was longing to reach out, yet did not know how.

  “Are you all right?” Alivet asked, in an undertone.

  “Celana is a little tired this morning, aren't you, my dear?” Ghairen appeared in the doorway and a dozen curses ran through Alivet's mind. “She didn't sleep well last night.”

  At least he had given her an opening. Alivet put her head in her hands and rubbed her eyes.

  “Neither did I.”

  “Indeed?” Ghairen's eyes widened. “And why was that?”

  “Nightmares,” Alivet said sourly. “Of death.”

  “We are a morbid little gathering this morning. Perhaps I should give you something this evening to help you sleep. We can't have you going all brooding on us, now can we?”

  Ghairen was unusually arch today, Alivet reflected. She forced herself to smile.

  “I'm sure it was nothing,” she said. “I'll be fine tonight. It's just that I may be a little slow in our work.”

  “Don't be too slow,” Ghairen said, and the avuncular benevolence was entirely absent now. “After all, we don't have a great deal of time.”

  “I'm well aware of that.”

  “May I be excused from my lessons today?” Celana asked abruptly.

  “You may not. You must learn discipline, Celana. There will doubtless be times in your life when you will be hungry, thirsty, tired, or ill, and you can let none of these things stand in the way of your work. It is not an easy lesson, but best that you learn it now while you are still young. Consider Alivet, who has come here under the most difficult circumstances and yet is in the alchematorium every day, working with a will. Is that not so, Alivet?”

  “I do what I have to do,” Alivet said, “nothing more.”

  “As Celana must learn. Have you finished your breakfast? Then go to your governess. And tell her that I should like to see her later, before lunch. I need to discuss a matter with her.”

  When she heard this, Alivet's skin started to prickle. It suddenly seemed wholly possible that Ghairen knew of the previous night's adventures, and would take Iraguila to task for it. If that was the case, then she could not permit Iraguila to take sole responsibility. Her thoughts were racing and she forced herself to put a halt to her own paranoia. Wait and see. Perhaps it was something else entirely that Ghairen wanted to discuss with Iraguila, and it was only her own fears that were leading her to the worst possible conclusion. Yet she felt that everything Ghairen said to one person was aimed at another, that there were so many layers and complexities to his speech that one looked for the meaning behind the words and not the ostensible intent. She pushed her empty plate away and stood up.

  “Let's get to work, then,” she said.

  Light-headed though she was from lack of sleep, the processes of the morning's preparations were soothing and familiar. Alivet went mechanically through her work, adding element upon element to the crucible, building up blocks of alchemical materials. A touch of flame here, the cooling water there, and then the transfer to the pelican vessel for the next stage. At least she had work in which to lose herself and was not merely a prisoner held immobile in a cell. That must be true torture, Alivet thought: to sit day after day with only the meaningless repetition of meals to break the monotony. Whereas in her present situation, the end was coming toward her at speed, whether it was life or death. And that death had at least been rendered more distant by the alchemist's intervention. The knowledge that she was no longer facing the threat of a toxic demise was an enormous weight off her mind.

  Alivet did not feel that she was a coward. The thought of cringing away from death did not appeal to her: she had come too close to the world beyond during the course of the Searches not to know how best to suppress her fear. No, empty captivity, never knowing when the end might come, would be worse. She wondered whether this was how Inki felt, day after day in the palace of the Lords, yet presumably with work to keep
her busy and tasks to accomplish.

  Had Inki managed to carve out some kind of meaningful life for herself, despite the immense constraints imposed upon her? Alivet hoped that this was so, but the memory of her sister's empty eye socket continued to preoccupy her. And what about her aunt Elitta? With a surge of horror, Alivet realized that she had hardly given her aunt a thought since she had come into the clutches of the Poison Master. Had the anube passed on Alivet's message? Was Elitta now in the relative safety of the fens, or languishing in an Unpriest's cell?

  As if he had read her mind, Ghairen put a hand on Alivet's shoulder as she bent over the smaller crucibles.

  “You look exhausted, Alivet. Tell me about these nightmares. There might be a remedy for them.”

  “I told you,” Alivet said. “I dreamed of death.” And then something—perhaps no more than the momentum of her previous thoughts—compelled her to add, “And I dreamed of my sister.”

  “What did you dream?” Ghairen's voice was low, almost hypnotic.

  “I saw her in the palace of the Lords of Night—she was as I glimpsed her a few days ago. Her eye was missing.”

  “I see. Well, that is a hallmark of those who have been touched by the Lords.”

  Alivet swung to face him. “I know that. And some of the Enbonded, once freed, lose their minds, or the power of speech. Many of them have only one eye. They are the lucky ones, the ones who make it out of Enbondment. But what does it mean? What happens to their eyes? Do you know? There is a rumor that the Lords make Unpriests of them and that is why they are allowed to leave servitude.”

  Ghairen looked genuinely troubled. “I have theories and hunches, not facts. To you, the Lords appear to be creatures of immense whimsicality, performing random acts for the sake of simple amusement. I have reason to believe that this is not the case—though it is possibly true of the Unpriests.” He grimaced. “I don't like such people. They use their power irresponsibly, for their own ends.”

  Coming from someone who was allegedly planning to take over her world, Alivet found this a bit much, but of course she could not say so. She turned angrily back to the foaming crucible.

  “You say that the Lords are not whimsical. What are they, then?”

  “I told you before. They are corrupt. I think that there were once good reasons for everything that they do—for the Enbonding, for the restrictions imposed upon the population, even for the blinding. But now those reasons have atrophied into nothing more than custom and control.”

  “But what could the reasons possibly have been? Why should one race assume control over another for any reason other than power and enslavement?” Might as well hear how Ghairen would justify himself, Alivet thought.

  “To assist them, perhaps? At least in the beginning. A form of benign dictatorship—or maybe not dictatorship at all but a genuine effort to help.”

  “Well, they've been going about it in a strange manner, then,” Alivet snapped.

  Ghairen smiled. “I told you—they have become corrupt.”

  “And so must be challenged?”

  “And so must be changed, or sent elsewhere.”

  “Changed how?”

  But Ghairen did not reply.

  “Say we could send them somewhere else—back to where they come from. What then?” Alivet asked. She could not bring herself to look him directly in the eye, afraid that he would read her knowledge of his intentions. Instead, she bent low over the workbench to hide her face.

  “Then your people will be free to follow whatever path they think best,” Ghairen replied, smoothly. “How are you getting on with those preparations?”

  “Well enough. The structure is holding. This combination of elements seems more stable than the last.”

  “I'm pleased to hear it. I will stop pestering you with chatter, then, and get on with my own work.”

  He turned to go. Alivet waited until he was out of the alchematorium, then went to sit down on the workbench. Fatigue hit her like a sudden blow. She would not sleep, she would only close her eyes for a moment…

  She awoke to discover that the crucible had boiled dry. An acrid smoke was curling about the ceiling of the alchematorium and her eyes were red and watering. A thick residue remained, coating the crucible like rust. Alivet rose, feeling stiff and sluggish. She wondered what the time might be, but though she went to the window and drew aside the blind, the chilly light seemed unchanged. Sighing, Alivet picked up the crucible and examined the residue. It crumbled against the glass in a soft shower. It resembled dried blood, glittering with golden flecks.

  The lessons that Alivet had been taught early on in her training, about wasting materials, and also about the role of serendipity in scientific investigation, returned to her now. Carefully, she scraped the residue from the crucible and placed it in the Philosopher's Egg. Later, when she had finished the rest of the testing, she would draw up a schematic for the analysis of the residue. Chances were that it would prove to be of limited interest, but one never knew.

  As she was finishing the last of the tests, the door of the alchematorium opened and Ghairen reappeared.

  “Alivet? You're working very hard. I expected you at lunch—you must be hungry as well as tired.”

  Alivet forbore to remind him that she was locked in the alchematorium, and it depended on Ghairen himself as to what time she was summoned to her meals. She felt sure that he had indeed returned to the alchematorium and found her sleeping. Yet the red gaze was as guileless as ever.

  “Thank you for your concern,” she said, politely. Was that a flicker of amusement in his face? “Yes, I find that I am hungry. Perhaps I might take my lunch a little late?”

  “Actually, it's already dinnertime.”

  “I seem to have let my work absorb me,” Alivet remarked.

  “Commendably diligent. Do you have much left to do?”

  “No.” It wasn't true: she had a world of tasks to finish and they were running out of time, but she felt too weary to proceed and if she carried out any more work today, she was bound to make mistakes.

  Ghairen held the door open for her to leave. As she passed through he said, “Alivet? I am well aware of scientific methodology. There is a role for dreams within the practice.”

  Was he telling her that he had caught her sleeping and was prepared to forgive her for it? Well, she would take whatever ground he was prepared to concede.

  “Dreams,” said Alivet, pointedly, “are very important.” She did not wait to see him smile.

  Chapter IV

  TOWER OF THE POISONERS, HATHES

  Pleading fatigue once more, Alivet asked to be served her dinner in her room and Ghairen agreed. He seemed mildly disappointed, but Alivet dismissed this. He could hardly be longing for her company, after all. Now that the dullness brought on by her afternoon sleep had worn off, Alivet was making plans. As soon as the household was quiet, she intended to go exploring again. But the chance did not come.

  She was washing her face in the basin when there was a soft knock at the door.

  “Who is it?”

  “It's me,” Ghairen's voice said. The door opened slowly.

  “Ghairen? What do you want?”

  “Are you very tired?”

  She hesitated a moment too long for conviction. “I'm all right.”

  “I realize that locking you into your room every night is hardly the act of a thoughtful host. I wondered whether you might like to join me for a drink.”

  “Here?”

  “In my rooms.”

  It wasn't so much the prospect of a late-night drinking session with Ghairen that appealed as it was the thought of seeing his rooms and perhaps gaining some further clue as to what was really going on. And if he believed her still to be under the influence of the mayjen toxin, he was unlikely to try to poison her again.

  “Very well,” Alivet said.

  His eyes widened; she got the impression that he had been expecting her to decline. “Then come through,” he said, gesturing
toward the door.

  Alivet, burning with curiosity, followed him across the hall. Ghairen unlocked the door with a small black device like a pin, which he then placed into a little case. It vanished into his pocket. Alivet took careful note as she stepped through the door. A faint light came from a source that she could not immediately identify. It took a moment before she realized that it was coming from the plants that lined one wall. They were ferns, and their fronds glowed with a soft inner radiance. Their light was sufficient to show her that the room was large, with bookcases along the opposite wall. The walls themselves were paneled, creating an impression of gloom. In the center of the room stood a divan, covered in black velvet. Before it was a table, on which lay a collection of glass globes. Soft rugs lay beneath Alivet's feet. This room was like the rest of the apartment: luxurious yet somber. In the far corner, close to a large and ornamental desk, was another door, and this was firmly shut.

  Alivet went over to the table to look at the globes. Each one was exquisite, containing all manner of glass creatures. Anemones and sea horses were captured in aquamarine light; salamanders hissed from glass fire and a tiny serpent coiled between the fronds of a vitrified fern. When Alivet looked more closely, however, she saw that the creatures were real. She took a step back. There was something terrible about the glass globes; their occupants frozen at the moment of death.

  “They belonged to Arylde,” Ghairen murmured, lighting a lamp. “Come and sit down.”

  Alivet perched primly on the edge of the divan.

  “Would you like some wine?”

  Alivet hesitated. Caution told her to decline: it was all very well to drink at dinner, but here in this more intimate setting, the prospect made her wary. But it had been a long, grimy day and she heard herself say, “Thank you.”

  Ghairen poured a glass for her and one for himself.

  “It's a reasonable vintage, I think.” He held it up to the light; it was ruby golden in the glass.