The Poison Master Read online

  “Of course not. Such disgrace!”

  Hathanassi customs, thought Alivet. “Why would he kill her, though? He told me he loved her.”

  Celana pondered this. “I don't know.”

  “Isn't it possible that your poor mother just died of natural causes?” She had never thought that she would be sitting here arguing Ghairen's case, Alivet thought.

  “I suppose so. But Iraguila seemed so sure.”

  “How old were you then?”

  “I was ten.”

  “I see,” Alivet said, thoughtfully. Perhaps she had been taking Iraguila Ust's role as potential assassin too literally. For though the governess appeared to have left her enemy's daughter physically unharmed, she had poisoned her nevertheless: with words and ideas rather than chemical toxins. Surely and effectively, using Celana's motherless state as her instrument, she had turned Celana against her father. And now Celana was in the same position as herself: uncertain who to trust, the boundaries of her life shifting and changing. “Listen,” Alivet said, and then she told Celana about Inki.

  “I'm so sorry,” Celana said. Her mouth turned mournfully downward. “I see why you have to go home.”

  “I can't make you promises, Celana,” Alivet said. “But if I can come back, I will.”

  Ghairen took her down through the tower, retracing the steps that they had taken on that first day, which now seemed months ago to Alivet. Here was the elevator with its brass trimmings, the mechanism whirring silently within the depths of the tower. Here was the echoing hallway, and the dock upon which the canal quietly lapped. Alivet could hear her footsteps clattering through the hallway, but Ghairen's feet made no sound, moving as noiselessly as a ghost.

  “Where are we going?” Alivet asked, though she thought that she already knew the answer.

  “We are returning to the portal. From there, we will go back to Latent Emanation. I've sent a message to an anube clan; they are the only ones I can trust now.” Alivet saw Ghairen's fingers close tightly on the small case containing the poison.

  Earlier, they had worked out how to carry it: placing as much of the powder as they could in a lead-lined phial and packing it down.

  “What shall we call it?” Ghairen had asked. “I think it should have a name.”

  “We'll call it Blood Tabernanthe,” Alivet said. She had thought of naming the substance “Celanem,” but it seemed inappropriate to connect Ghairen's daughter with such a powerful new drug.

  Now the dappled light of the metal river sent shards and ripples across Ghairen's face. “So we begin our campaign against the Lords of Night. It will be short, Alivet, and either it will be entirely successful or an utter failure.”

  “How optimistic are you?” Alivet asked before she could stop herself.

  “I am a scientist,” Ghairen said. “I weigh evidence when I get it.”

  “And on this occasion?”

  “I've no idea.”

  The barge was gliding down the canal toward them. Alivet stepped over the side, and Ghairen cast off.

  It seemed an eternity before they reached the gate tower. Alivet stepped out onto the familiar red marble stairs. The walls of the parc-verticale hung nearby, eerily translucent in the early-morning air. Somewhere inside, Alivet thought, there is a shiffrey shaman living in a burrow, casting dark energies. She hoped never to set foot inside the place again. Though it did contain some interesting plants…

  She looked up to see the observation point of the gate tower spiraling above her head, a glass needle catching the light of the sun. She thought of injections and blood. Behind it, she could see the storm-cloud shadow of the drift-boat. A group of Hathanassi men stood nearby, looking askance at Ghairen.

  “Who are they?” Alivet asked.

  “Passengers, perhaps.”

  “To Latent Emanation?”

  “No, to other places. Nethes, perhaps—there is some trade with the Nethenassi—or Tisach. Most probably the latter. The Tisachen are friendly, and their shadow-art is much in demand in wealthier circles.”

  Alivet frowned. “Is the orbit of Latent a regular stopping place for this ship, then?”

  “No. I had to pay.” Ghairen's fingers flickered in dismissal. “A great deal, in fact. But it's government money. If we can open up Latent to trade, as the Soret hopes to do, then you will see greater traffic in Latent's orbit. But for now, we are the only ones going to Latent Emanation.”

  “Ghairen, when we get there, are we going to go back through the same portal?”

  “There are five portals on your world. Four are located in the Palaces of Night; the other one allows only entry, not departure. We'll be going back through that one. I don't want to end up in another Night Palace, not after last time.”

  Alivet, immediately interested, said, “Where is this portal?”

  Ghairen grimaced. “In some swamp somewhere. The anubes patrol it regularly, in case of visitors. I am counting on it that they will be there.”

  Whatever might happen, Alivet thought, she was going home, away from this arid, dry world with its strange rivers and piercing air, its poisons and its schemes, and she was never coming back again.

  But then a face rose up before the eye of her mind: pale and scared against the dark velvet pillow. Alivet blinked. It was as though she once more stood before the statue in Ghairen's room, or the anube's ancient chamber beneath the Palace of Night. Two faces were staring back at her from memory: Celana and Inkirietta, like two sides of a coin. One living as a prisoner in toxic luxury, and the other a mutilated servant of the Lords of Night. If she could, Alivet thought, she would save them both.

  She and Ghairen walked between the crimson glass walls of the gate tower and up the stairway to the platform where the passage to the drift-boat lay.

  “Have you still got the phial?” she asked Ghairen, anxiously.

  He smiled at her. “Don't worry, Alivet. It's quite safe.”

  “What if Iraguila's around somewhere?” Alivet had been keeping an eye out for Ghairen's erstwhile governess ever since they had left the tower, but apart from the small congregation of passengers, the early-morning city seemed deserted.

  “She is not. I have been keeping track of Iraguila ever since her dismissal. She has gone to ground, it seems—quite literally, into a shiffrey burrow.”

  “And you're sure she's not here? I don't suddenly want a poisoned dart in my neck. And what about the others? The Sanguinants?”

  “She has not returned to Ukesh. The Sanguinant temple has been closed: the Soret ordered a raid last night, on my recommendation. That's partly why the city's so quiet this morning.”

  Despite these reassurances, Alivet continued to keep a watchful eye upon the passengers. They joined the queue for the portal, standing impatiently in line as the passengers for the drift-boat were processed.

  “Do you have papers for me?”

  “Everything is in order, Alivet. If we're going to encounter problems, they'll be at the other end.”

  Now that the prospect of returning to Latent Emanation was finally becoming real, Alivet found that she was more nervous than ever. The thought of buying a shack in the fens and spending the rest of her life fishing from the veranda was extraordinarily appealing. Inki and Celana and her aunt could live there, too…

  And Ghairen? She stole a glance at him. Entirely too urbane for life in a swamp. Alivet gave up her fantasy with a sigh. Besides, Inki was still Enbonded, Celana was traumatized, and Alivet's aunt was who knew where. Presumably the Unpriests had doubled their efforts to bring the fugitive Alivet to justice after the events in the Night Palace. The thought of her aunt's neat house ransacked and riven by Unpriests was a terrible one. Once we defeat the Lords of Night, Alivet told herself, the Unpriests are going to be the first to go.

  Her shoulder blades remained itchy until she stepped through the link to the drift-boat and had once again taken a seat in the waiting area. She watched the patterned leaves entwine about her waist with a mixture of impatience an
d relief. Ghairen was distracted and uncharacteristically silent until the boat had risen past the atmosphere of Hathes. Then he rose to his feet.

  “Time to go up to the solar deck. Bring the phial with you.”

  The solar deck was perched at the pinnacle of the ship; she could see the drift-boat's vast dark hull curving away below. Hathes hung against the star meadows, baleful as an eye. Into her ear Ghairen murmured, “You have no idea how much it's costing for us to stroll around up here. Usually it's reserved for the upper echelons alone.”

  “Won't people wonder what we're doing?”

  “Doubtless. But they're unlikely to come over and make inquiries. I am a Fifth Grade poisoner, after all. Can you talk to the drug?” Ghairen asked.

  “I'll try.” Alivet took the small burner from her pocket and placed a pinch of the tabernanthe upon it. “I'll need a light.”

  “Here.” Fire flickered across Ghairen's gloved hand. The tabernanthe began to smolder, smoke drifted upward. “You'd better sit down.” He guided Alivet to a nearby seat. A group of passengers, enjoying the view, eyed her nervously. Alivet ignored them. With Ghairen's steadying arm around her shoulders, she closed her eyes and inhaled. And after a moment, it was there. She could see the face of the ally: inquiry in its great dark eyes.

  “It is you,” the tabernanthe said.

  “Yes. Do you remember me?”

  “You were with me, moments ago.” A ripple passed over the ally's face, like water or heat. “Or was it years? I cannot remember.”

  “I need you to do something for me. Do you see this sun?”

  “Of course.”

  “I need you to absorb some of its light into yourself, to take it and hold it. Can you do that?”

  “Why must I?”

  “To help the bloodlines from which you spring,” Alivet said, holding her breath in case it was the wrong answer. She had never before worked with a drug that shared a common origin with humanity. The ally seemed to recede within her mind, as though glimpsed through the wrong end of a telescope. Then it was back.

  “I will do as you ask,” it said. Alivet opened the phial. The substance of the drug lay glistening within. She placed it in front of the viewing port. Gradually, as they watched, it grew brighter, until it shone with a light of its own. Alivet could hear muttering voices behind them.

  “That's enough,” Ghairen said, and closed the phial with a snap. Hathes receded, to become no greater than the head of a ruby pin. A veil slid across the viewing port. “Preparing for the journey,” Ghairen said. “Nothing to see in No-Space. We should go back down.”

  They returned to the depths of the ship. Eventually, Alivet grew tired of the ragged frustrations of waiting. Making sure that the phial was safely stowed in her pocket, she found a dormitory capsule, hoping that when she awoke, the drift-boat would have reached her own world. That was one thing that could be said for the road of the unconscious: it might be less comfortable, but it was certainly quicker. She dozed, plagued by shapeless, disturbing dreams. When she woke again, it was to find Ghairen's hand on her shoulder.

  “We've arrived,” he said.

  They made their way to the ship's portal. Again there was that brief, electrifying moment, then Alivet and Ghairen were stepping through into cool, dim air. A breath of salt breeze drifted through the room. Alivet ran toward open double doors and found that she was looking out across a great expanse of placid water. It was evening. A smear of sunlight remained on the far horizon and a marsh bird cried plaintively from the reeds. Water lapped at the edge of the doors. She could see steps leading down beneath the ripples. There was no other way out besides the portal and the doors.

  “I can't see anyone.”

  “The anubes will come, Alivet. I told you, they patrol regularly.” But for all the confidence in Ghairen's words, he did not sound entirely sure of himself. They waited, sitting with their backs to the wall. Alivet could not stop fidgeting; Ghairen was unnaturally still. Eventually Alivet rose and went to the water's edge to wash her face. She did so cautiously, but it was good to be worrying about liches and water-children again, rather than unknown terrors. She stood to find Ghairen behind her. He took her by the shoulder and pointed into the growing twilight.

  “Look. A boat is coming.”

  Alivet could see it now. It was a pilgrimage boat, like the one that had brought her to Shadow Town. It glided soundlessly through the reeds. There was a single anube standing in the prow with a pole.

  “Will he take us all the way to the Night Palace?”

  “He'll take us to the back gates. We'll have to get into the palace ourselves. We have a single day. The Lords hold their banquet tomorrow.”

  “How are we going to carry out the poisoning?”

  “That is something that your sister can help us with.”

  “If she's still alive.”

  “If, indeed, she is still alive,” Ghairen echoed after a pause. The pilgrimage boat knocked gently against the step and Alivet climbed in. The anube gave her a considering look and said, “We will go through the deep fens, the hinter- marshes. You know that they are still looking for you, for the attempted murder of the aristocrat?”

  “Attempted murder? The girl died,” Alivet said, taken aback.

  “It seems she has recovered.”

  “From death? You can't recover from that!”

  The anube gave a smooth, rippling shrug. “I do not know the details, only rumor. All Levanah has been searched. The Unpriests seek apothecaries, healers, empirics—anyone whom they find it amusing to persecute.”

  “Has anyone been killed?” Alivet asked, dreading the answer.

  “Many have been taken, from their homes in daytime or midnight. It is not known what has happened to them.”

  “Have you heard of a woman named Elitta? Do you know what has befallen her?”

  “I do not.”

  The anube spun the pole, sending the boat out into the stream. The place of the portal fell behind. Alivet looked back to see it shimmering on the edges of the marsh: two pale pillars rising like bones out of the water. Ghairen sat hunched in the stern, saying nothing. Alivet slid along the boat to sit beside him.

  “Ghairen, just tell me one thing. Was it you who poisoned Madimi Garland?”

  “No. Why would I have done?”

  “To force me into a vulnerable position?”

  “You were already in a vulnerable enough position, because of Inki. I told you, Alivet. I don't go around poisoning everyone.” She saw the glint of a smile in the twilight. “Waste of resources. Do you believe me?”

  She wanted to. Perhaps it was time to change the subject.

  “How long will it take before we get to the Night Palace?” Alivet asked the anube.

  “It will be a while yet.”

  Alivet settled back against the side of the boat and closed her eyes, reassured by the familiar salt-weed odor of marsh and water, the rustling of rushes, the sudden hiss of dragonflies. If we were free of the Lords and the Unpriests, think what we could do with such a world. She was not used to such hopes; it was strange, to consider a future further than the next scrambling goal of survival.

  As the boat glided on, Alivet began, for the first time, to consider what a world free of the Lords might be like. When Ghairen had initially raised the possibility, she had not thought very far beyond Inki's release, and the vague promise of a world where people could do what they pleased without fear of reprisal. Now she realized that they needed much more than that. The Unpriests and the Lords were not the sole source of woe in the world: think of fat Hilliet Kightly, snatching at her with greasy hands. If the Unpriests were deposed, there would be plenty of monsters-in-the-making to take their place. And was Ghairen himself one such monster? Hathes was no paradise, after all, and when he spoke so promisingly of opening up her world to the trade-routes, was he not hoping only for more people to poison, more clients for assassination?

  We have been stagnating, Alivet thought, mired in our fens. Ev
en the Search, that great quest for meaning, now seemed only to look backward, and Alivet now wondered whether this was not why the Unpriests had turned a literally blind eye toward it; that it kept the citizens of Levanah preoccupied and distracted from the future. It seemed now that the Origin was a world like any other, and from what she had seen of Hathes and Nethes, it appeared that Latent Emanation was to be preferred, even if it did allegedly lie farther down the ladder of human evolution. Given Gulzhur Elaniel, that would seem to be no bad thing. It isn't where we come from that matters. It's where we're going.

  But where was that? If we had our own drift-boat, Alivet mused, we, too, could go exploring. We could trade drugs and books and metals and ideas. Transformation is the true goal of alchemy, after all. Why should we not transform ourselves? If the Lords could be disposed of, the people of Latent Emanation could have their own boat, assuming that Ghairen did not stand in her way. The shiffrey may have lied about some things, but perhaps not about all. She might have to deal with Ghairen when the time came, and she had no idea how to go about it. Her thoughts turned back to the drift-boat.

  Dreams of an eight-year-old, escaping into flight…And she realized, too, that the appeal that the Search held for her was not so much the quest for a lost origin, it was the notion of traveling. Drugs or dreams or drift-boats; the means did not matter. A boat would need a captain, someone versed in the realms beyond the world. Well, Alivet had been beyond that world on two occasions now, which she was fairly sure was twice more than any of her fellow citizens. And a citizen of Hathes had offered her gainful employment.

  “Ghairen?” she said aloud. “What qualifications do you need to fly a drift-boat?”

  “It takes about three years, so I'm told. There's a tower on Hathes dedicated to the art, but not many job opportunities, given that there are only about nine of the things that anyone knows of. Why do you ask?”

  “If the Lords were gone, we could take their boat.”

  “Thinking of traveling, Alivet?”

  “I was thinking of trade. Can you hire people to crew these things?”