The Poison Master Read online

“You could try. Look. There's the causeway.”

  A narrow band of lamps bisected the twilight air, far ahead. The boat turned, snaking through the rushes. Far above Alivet's head, the bulbs of the rushes stirred in the boat's passage.

  “Ghairen?” Alivet whispered. “Do the Lords set snares in these marshes? What if we run into one?”

  “Of course. There are net traps and wires strung all through these reed beds. But they're known to the anubes. That's why we are taking this route.”

  The bulk of the Night Palace hung above them, petals of darkness that turned the surrounding sky into a deep, translucent indigo. An attern gave a desolate cry out across the marsh, making Alivet jump. The boat rocked.

  “It's only a bird,” Ghairen said, in warning.

  “It startled me.” Now that they had almost reached the palace, Alivet could no longer distance herself from her fears. What if Inki was already dead, thrown into the marsh like a kitten in a sack? As they glided up to the metal pilings that supported the vast structure of the palace, she found that she was holding her breath. She looked up at the platform, which towered hundreds of feet above the water. It reminded her of the architecture of Hathes: a frighteningly inhuman scale. Dim shapes rocked and bobbed in the water ahead and Alivet clutched at the side of the boat before she realized that they were the tethered craft of the Unpriests. The pilgrimage boat slid into a corner of shadow and stopped. It was so dark that Alivet could not see her hand in front of her face. Cold fingers touched her own, guiding her hand upward until she could feel metal.

  “It's a ladder,” Ghairen murmured into her ear.

  “Where does it go? Up into the palace?”

  “Yes, but it's a long climb.”

  “Then I'll need a knife.”

  “I'm planning to avoid the Unpriests. This is a reconnaissance, not a battle.”

  “It isn't for the Unpriests. It's for me.”

  After a bemused moment, Alivet felt something heavy being pressed into her hand. She touched the blade, assessing its length, then hacked off the hated skirt until the material swung around her knees.

  “Good thing it's dark,” Ghairen said, evidently realizing what she was doing.

  “I'm keeping the knife. Just in case.” Alivet tucked it into her belt and swung herself up onto the ladder. “I hope you have some idea of what to do once we reach the top.”

  “Yes. The ladder will bring us out into the food store. From there, we head for the kitchens.”

  “The kitchen? I suppose you have poisoning in mind?”

  “Yes, but not immediately. Start climbing.”

  Alivet did so, feeling her way from rung to rung. She looked down once, but could see nothing except the faintest glimmer of light on water. Perhaps this was just as well, though if Hathes had given her anything, it was a head for heights. The metal was slick and difficult to hold. She tried not to think of falling. From this height, the water would swallow her like a stone, but that was another thing not worth thinking about. Alivet continued to climb and her fingers grew chilled and numb. Hathes seemed a thousand years away. The world contracted to damp air and colder metal and the rustling of Ghairen's robes as he followed her. She heard a whisper from the darkness.

  “Mind your head. We're nearly at the top.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I know how many rungs there are. I've been counting.”

  Just where had Ghairen gained his inside information? His knowledge had surely come from Inkirietta and the anubes. If either of them was to be used as any kind of decoy duck… Alivet reached above her head and discovered a flat metal panel. She gave it an experimental push. It was loose.

  “Push it upward and to one side. But be careful.” Ghairen's voice was sharp with anxiety. Alivet thought of Unpriests waiting above the hatchway like dragonfly larvae, ready to strike and snatch. “Here,” Ghairen added. She reached down and felt something smooth being placed in her hand. “At the top of this device, there is a bulb. If anyone's there, press the bulb and turn your head away. Don't breathe in.”

  “And it will kill them?”

  “I'm hoping no one's there.”

  Alivet shifted the spray to a more convenient position and pressed on the panel. It slid up. There was no movement in the darkness beyond. Cautiously, Alivet hauled herself through into an arctic space. She stood, shivering, as Ghairen came to stand beside her.

  “Where are we?” She reached out. Her fingers met a block of something cold and smooth, like ice or glass, but the room smelled of nothing at all.

  “In the food store. Darkness and evening, congealed into ice. The opposite of latent light. This is where the Enbonded can go—there is another room, beyond this point, behind a great metal door. In there, a different kind of food is kept: the dark energy on which the Lords must feast, every year or so, to maintain their structure. It's toxic to humans; it rots the bones.”

  “And one of those feasts will be tomorrow?”

  “That's why we're here.”

  “How are we going to make them ingest the poison? Won't it be obvious to them?” Inside its phial, the blood tabernanthe surely glowed and gleamed; Alivet could not see how it would be possible to hide it in a realm of darkness. Perhaps if she kept it cold…

  “You will need to consult its spirit. And we also need to find the kitchens.”

  Alivet heard the faint sound of a door opening, then felt Ghairen's hand around her wrist. They slipped through the door into a metal passageway, then up a flight of erratic steps that did not appear to have been designed for human feet. Another passageway, another door, and then Ghairen drew to a halt. He seemed in no hurry to let her go. Above the sudden pounding in her head, Alivet could hear a low susurrus of voices.

  “The kitchens?”

  “If my map is correct, yes.”

  He led her through into a nearby chamber, where there was a small opening high on a wall.

  “Alivet, if I lift you up…”

  Acutely conscious of her mutilated skirt, and Ghairen's hands around her waist, Alivet let herself be hoisted up until she could peer through the window. She was looking directly down into the kitchens, lit by a bank of great furnaces. En- bonded servants scurried to and fro, bearing platters of glass and ice. This must be the substance that she had seen in the stores, the raw material from which the delicacies of the Lords were made. Alivet remembered Madimi Garland, sipping a sorbet of night and sliding down into death, and a shiver ran through her. But from what the anube had said, the girl had not died after all…

  “Alivet? What can you see?”

  “There are a great many people down there. It's a busy kitchen.”

  “Can you see your sister?” Ghairen's tone was urgent, but Alivet had already been scanning the dim faces below.

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Ghairen, she's nowhere to be seen.”

  “I'm going to let you down,” Ghairen said, and brought her to the floor. She could see his face in the wan light that filtered through the window. He seemed even paler than usual.

  “Where do you think Inki is?” Alivet whispered.

  “If she isn't in her usual place in the kitchens, I'd imagine that she is in an Unpriest's cell.”

  Or dead. She could see it in his face. It was not an option she wanted to confront without hard evidence.

  “Do you know where the cells are?”

  “No. I know the part of the palace that Inki knows, and I also know the anube's tunnel and the portal location, but that's about it.”

  “Then our best chance of getting Inki out—of getting all of them out—is to defeat the Lords.” She thought for a moment. “And that means I'll have to take Inki's place in the kitchens in order to carry out the poisoning, won't I?”

  “Admirably succinct. It's likely to work. You'e twins, after all, and they won't have seen her for a while. You could say, in the guise of Inki, that the Unpriests let you go because they thought you might be needed for the
banquet. Besides, the kitchen is a dark place and there are a great many apprentices. As long as no one gets a good look at you—”

  “What about the eye? If I tie something around my head, perhaps?”

  “And you'll have to keep that tattoo hidden.”

  “But if I pretend my hand's been injured, they might not let me work. They must have hygiene regulations. We'll just have to chance it.”

  With the knife Alivet slashed her clothes into rags until no one could have told what their provenance might have been. She ran the knife along her arm, wincing as a fine edge of blood appeared, and sopped it up with a length of her skirt. Ghairen tied the bloodied rag about her head and Alivet stripped the apothecary's rings from her hair. That hurt more than the cut, as though her self had been taken from her, but then it occurred to her that she would willingly give up more than her self if it would save her sister.

  “Look after them,” she said to Ghairen.

  “I'll keep them safe.” For once, he did not smile. “Inki's hair is shorter than yours.”

  “Cut it, then.” She stood still while Ghairen hacked at the long plait with the knife. Then Alivet tangled her hair and said, “Well? Will I pass?”

  “It's the best we can do. Find out what the plans are for the banquet, and start work on the poison. You'll probably need to keep it informed, as well. Talk to it, tell it what's happening.”

  “You do realize that I'm not a trained chef?”

  “Why is the profession of apothecary held to be most suitable for women?”

  “Because it's just like cooking,” Alivet answered. This time, it was her turn to smile. “Ghairen, what will you be doing when I'm down there?”

  “Watching you.”

  “If you went to look for Inki—”

  “I'll see how the land lies,” Ghairen told her. He handed her the phial of blood tabernanthe. “Alivet. Be careful.” He leaned across and kissed her hard and quickly on the mouth. When Alivet found her voice, she heard herself say, “You, too.” She kissed him in return. Then she went through the door.

  IGNITION

  Stand still you ever-moving spheres of heaven, That time may cease and midnight ever come.

  CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE, The Tragicall History of Dr. Faustus

  Chapter I

  LONDON 1595

  It grows colder,” Niclaes said, and shivered. “Do you speak of the season, or the time?” Dee answered.

  “Of both.” Niclaes wrapped his arms about himself and drew closer to the fire. “There have been agents abroad, seeking word of the Family. The Queen grows older; she becomes like Saturn at the year's end.”

  “Seeking to devour her young?”

  “There are plots everywhere she turns. Why should she not be afraid? And these young men she has around her—the sons of old men who knew her when she herself was a girl—they are like jackals around a great dying beast, awaiting the moment when they can sidle in and seize their pound of flesh.”

  “An unhappy metaphor. I doubt the Queen would be flattered by it.”

  “You and I foresaw these days, Dee. You foresaw it when you returned from Meta Incognita, and spoke to me of your grave doubts. I remember that we prayed.”

  “I remember that we prayed, too. And went on planning.”

  Niclaes sighed. “Yes, because the devil we know might be worse than the devil we do not. We are being squeezed from England like a pip from a Seville orange.”

  “There are other choices,” Dee said, quietly. “There have been other choices all this time.”

  “I know. But what are they? Back to the Low Countries, who have treated us worse than the English? Onward to the New World, which is being carved from pole to pole by dissenters and schemers? We might purchase a hundred years or so, but the New World will turn into the old soon enough. No, Dee, better that we take our chances in this Meta Incognita of ours.”

  “And what of your soul?”

  “We have spoken of this already. I trust in the Inner Light, Dee. Even consorting with devils cannot blow it out. It is not a candle, small in the universal winds. It turns always toward God. I have come to see that, and to trust it.” He glanced at Dee and though Niclaes was no longer a young man, his eyes shone in the light of the fire. “Are we ready? Is it time?”

  “Almost. I have been consulting with the—angels.” If Niclaes noticed the pause, he did not comment upon it. Dee continued, “I seek to sow necessary rumors. Edward Kelley's death will be announced in a month or so. I have spread the word that I shall be going north, to take up a post there. I have friends here who will let it slip that my wife and children are dead of the plague. In truth, they shall go into hiding, and I shall not be long after them. In the meantime, others will take on my name: just as the Merlin of ancient days was said not to be one man, but many. Dr. Dee will be seen in all manner of places in the years to come, except in the one place that matters. We will take the mirror with us. Meta Incognita will be lost to the Earth. No persecution will follow us; we will close the door and deal with whatever lies on the other side.”

  “I have,” Niclaes said, “made similar arrangements.”

  “Then we are ready.”

  Chapter II

  PALACE OF NIGHT, LATENT EMANATION

  There were lamps set along the walls of the corridor that led to the kitchen, but the illumination that came from them was splintered and dim. Alivet hurried through thistledown light with the phial of tabernanthe clutched close to her heart, hoping not to turn a corner and come face-to-face with an Unpriest. The cover of the phial was cool against her skin. As she reached the door of the kitchen she hesitated. She could hear the roar of the furnaces, smell a thousand complex odors of blood and juices and darkness. Then she stepped through the door.

  At first, no one seemed to see her. Alivet sidled along the wall toward the darkest corner of the kitchen, until she was brought short by a bellow of rage.

  “You! Apprentice! Sneaking toward the candies, are we?”

  A cadaverous bulk loomed above her. Alivet saw a tall man, his black apron covered with clots of something thick and sticky. She opened her mouth to mumble something and was immediately struck by an idea. She pointed to her tongue, made gagging sounds.

  “Inkirietta?” The chef rocked back on his heels.

  Dumbly, Alivet nodded. Everyone in the immediate vicinity turned around and stared at her. She had rarely felt so exposed.

  “What happened? Did they let you out? I thought they promised you thirty days. They must have grown tired of your constant sniping and complaining.”

  Alivet touched her tongue once more.

  “Can't speak?” The chef gave a roar of laughter. “Well, that'll make a change. At least we'll be spared the sound of your voice from now on. Let's hope it's permanent, eh?”

  Inkirietta, Alivet thought, clearly, you have aggravated this man beyond reason. I'm proud of you.

  “Still, at least you're another pair of hands for the banquet. Take off those filthy rags and get started. There's a spare set of clothes in the storeroom.”

  Glad to get out of sight and earshot, Alivet found the store. She fastened the black dress, which seemed much too large, around herself and tucked what remained of her hair beneath the smoke-colored hat. In the mirror, her pinched, pale face, half covered by the bloodied bandage, seemed a picture of furtiveness. She went back into the kitchen and was impatiently motioned toward a corner.

  “Over there. Start chopping. You know what to do.”

  Stepping around the corner of the table, Alivet picked up a knife and started to work. She glanced up once, to the little window high above the kitchen, but if Ghairen was still concealed there, she could not see him. It appeared that the ingredients for the banquet's desserts and pastries had been assembled the day before. Surreptitiously, Alivet watched her fellow apprentices to see what they did; it was a good thing that Inki had apparently been relegated to the basic tasks. There were many covert glances cast in Alivet's direction, which
she ignored. She tried to look miserable and oppressed. It seemed to be working.

  Over the course of the next few hours, Alivet began to get a feel for how the kitchen operated. The head chef jealously guarded the ration of candles; everyone else had to work in the red glow of the ovens or simply by touch. No one spoke. A boy dropped a tray and was smacked across the cheek. Threats to call the Unpriests to deal with the offender came to nothing, but Alivet caught a glimpse of the child's face when the chef had finished with him and it was white and stark, too frightened to cry. Alivet swallowed her anger and deduced that it was not unknown for the Unpriests to be so summoned.

  Opening the icebox, Alivet's neighbor took out a container and placed it on the table. She opened it carefully and handed it to Alivet.

  “Here. It's the night essence. It's to go in the sorbets.” In an undertone, the girl added, “Inki? Are you all right?” Her voice was full of pity and concern and Alivet could have hugged her. It seemed that Inki had at least one friend in the kitchens, and this gave her hope. She gave a dull nod. If the girl thought that her mind had been affected, she might take care to give Alivet more precise instructions about the preparation of the food.

  The container, which was painful to the touch and numbed her fingers, was full of glassy dark ice, possibly from the seas near Latent Emanation's southern pole, a place that Alivet knew only from legend. Perhaps the anubes brought it in their pilgrimage boats. If that was so, she wondered how they kept it cold. The ice seemed to hold its own glow; it was almost green. With a sharp scalpel, Alivet touched the edge of the sheet of ice, so that it split and cracked into a nest of slivers. Following the directions of the girl beside her, Alivet arranged the shards of ice in the center of each of the sorbet dishes, then reached back inside the icebox for the ingredients of the sauce. The girl beside her touched the controls of the portable generator that stood at the end of the table, and a containment field crackled up around the workplace.

  It seemed, from what Alivet's neighbor then told her, that a complex, subtle accompaniment was planned for the simple ice: a touch of fragrant Cepherian River darkness, gathered close to midnight, redolent of spiced smoke. Placing the darkness in a bowl, and careful to keep within the containment field, Alivet added a pinch of flavors as directed: twilight from Shadow Town, warm and clouded, with a hint of star anise. Then a touch of evening from the deep fens, water-clear and cool. Alivet stirred all of these elements nine times with an ebony spoon, then poured the swirl of darkness into a silver pan and lit the chilly flame beneath it. The darkness was half- solid, swirling around the end of the tongs, and Alivet marveled at it. But strange as it was, it was not so different from drug-making, after all.