The Poison Master Page 32

  She waited, frowning, as a drift of smoke began to rise from the sauce. Casting it in a spiral around the little columns of ice, Inki's friend clapped her hands imperiously for the serving staff to take it into the dining hall, where the Lords of Night were waiting. The staff carried special platters, about which the cold lightning of containment fields snapped and played. The head chef looked up, once, as the procession passed by, and gave a single grudging nod of approval.

  Having dispensed with the appetizers, the responsibility for the meal passed on to the head chef for a time, while Alivet and Inki's friend busied themselves with the desserts. Alivet hoped to get the chance to take the phial from her pocket and slip it into the icebox, but the head chef had got some of the other apprentices out of his fevered way by sending them over to work in Alivet's corner. Frustrated, Alivet got on with her own tasks, still under the direction of Inki's friend. She prepared fondants of gloom, sorbets of shadows, and sherbets of dusk, each one gathered from the unseen corners of Latent Emanation. Finally Alivet wiped her weary hands on her apron and stepped back to admire her handiwork. Behind her, the booming voice of the head chef said, “Not bad. Perhaps there's some promise in you after all.”

  Alivet jumped like a tortured hare and gave a little cry.

  “Found your tongue?” The head chef thrust his cadaverous face close to that of Alivet. “Nervous, are we? Been doing something you shouldn't? Been gobbing in the fondants again?”

  Alivet bridled silently, but she wondered just what havoc Inki had previously managed to wreak in the kitchens. As much as possible, Alivet hoped.

  “Get over there, girl, when you've finished. I want some help in scrubbing the floors.”

  The head chef's head jerked in the direction of the apprentices and they scrambled after him as he ambled back toward the cold crimson glow of his own territory. Heart pounding, Alivet sidled into the corner, retrieved the phial from her pocket, and slid it underneath the floor of the icebox. The phial was still warm. It seemed to radiate its own heat, and Alivet was relieved when at last it was safely out of sight. Then she went to where the head chef was waiting and began to rinse the stone floor clean of blood, but she kept thinking about the poison lying in its casing of ice.

  Once the kitchens were quiet, and everyone had left for the night, Alivet planned to rescue the phial containing the blood tabernanthe. She would speak to the ally, ask it how best it might be concealed. And then she would begin to cook: a special dish for the banquet of the Lords of Night. Over the course of the next few minutes, however, she realized with despair that it might be too late to even think about executing her plan. The Unpriests had arrived.

  They slithered down the kitchen stairs, boot-heels clicking on the expensive tiles. Alivet risked a glance, and the nape of her neck grew cold. The people in this group were no ordinary Unpriests. Their long coats bore the Lords' own insignia, and there was a woman with them, dressed in black velvet breeches and a leather cuirass. A single dark pearl dangled from one ear, like a bead of jet. Her right eye was hidden behind a thick dark lens. Her head swiveled from side to side. The woman made Alivet feel hollow and numb, so she stared grimly down at the floor as the Unpriest passed. The language that she spoke was archaic, formal, and barely intelligible; she enunciated slowly, evidently for the benefit of the head chef who, as a mere servant, might not be expected to understand her.

  “The Unchurch has had word that an attempt is to be made on the lives of the Lords of Night, by nonpersons, by dream-sellers, by ghosts. The servants must submit to be searched.”

  Alivet cursed silently. It had to be Gulzhur Elaniel, if she was still alive, or Ust and her Sanguinant friends; they must have sent a warning to the Lords.

  “An attempt on—?” The head chef's thin face quivered in shock. “By whom?”

  “I told you. Nonpersons. Those who deny darkness, who seek That which is Not.”

  “By what means?”

  “Unknown,” the Unpriest said stiffly, then conceded, “by myself, at least. The Lords, of course, know all, but in their dark wisdom they have not divulged the answer to one as lowly as myself and were I to know that answer, I would be no more likely to divulge it to you. Now. Prepare to be searched.”

  A brass tube began to spiral outward from her eye, glistening with oil. At the end of it was the round lens. The woman raised her head to the level of the head chef's face, and passed her gaze down his body from the crown of his head to his toes.

  “Are you afraid, chef?”

  To Alivet's surprise the chef said, “Yes. I am afraid. I have been afraid ever since I can remember.”

  A thin charcoal brow arched above the lens. The woman said, “Indeed? Of what?”

  Boldly, the chef answered, “Of not matching the expectations of the Lords of Night. Of not meeting the standards that I myself set to serve them.”

  “You talk like an artist,” the woman said, brows still raised.

  “I am an artist, madam,” the chef told her. Perhaps it was the bravery of sheer terror, Alivet thought, or perhaps the man had long since been touched by madness. “I am an artist of culinary color and its absence, a master of texture and shade, of monochrome uniformity. I drain the delicacies that I prepare of the touch of light and fire and brightness that is bestowed upon them by the flames on which they are conjured into being, so that the palates of the Lords of Night may not be seared for one moment by the tiniest spark of light.”

  The woman bowed her head in mocking acknowledgment. “Well, then, I am honored. But you must still be scrutinized.”

  She raised her head once more and the lens rotated along its appointed track. The woman put her head on one side, studied the chef.

  “You absorb light, you say? You purify the foods of darkness?”

  “I do.”

  “I had not thought that the life of a pastry chef would be so fraught with hazard. Take care that you visit the Unpriests more regularly, to purge your soul of traces of light as effectively as you purify the foods that you prepare.”

  Fascinated, Alivet nonetheless stared straight ahead, afraid of attracting undue attention, but she glimpsed from the corner of her eye the chef's cadaverous form, surrounded for a moment by black energy, an aura of unlight. One by one, the woman passed the device along the rows of apprentices: darkness crackled and snapped. At last she reached Alivet. She stared at her for a moment, and Alivet raised her reluctant gaze. She could see nothing in the Unpriest's face. One eye was entirely concealed behind the thick obsidian lens and the other looked dead.

  She said, caressingly, “Stand straight. You seem alarmed, girl. Are you afraid?”

  Alivet nodded. Something long and thin whipped from the tube that held the lens and lashed Alivet across the face. The impact spun her around and she sprawled backward, stunned. The Unpriest said, “I asked you a question.”

  “She cannot speak,” the head chef hastened to say. “Your illustrious colleagues did something to her tongue. They were quite right, I must say. The girl has the mouth of a viper.”

  “Yes,” the Unpriest said, consideringly. “Now that you mention it, I think I have seen her before in one of the cells. I did not realize she had been released, but there are so many of them… One loses track.”

  The Unpriest turned away. The rest of the kitchen was searched methodically, and Alivet's heart skipped and hopped as an investigation was made of her work area, including the little icebox. The Unpriest lingered as she examined the pastries and sorbets, and Alivet hid a bruised smile as she saw the stealthy fingers creep out and flick a piece of brittle icing into the Unpriest's mouth. But the phial of blood tabernanthe remained secure. The woman headed for the stairs with an angry flounce and Alivet inclined her head until the beetle-click of boot-heels betrayed her absence.

  No one said a word after the Unpriests' visit, except for the head chef, who turned to Alivet and snapped, “You. Have you finished?”

  Alivet shook her head, pointed to the floor, then to the
work surface. She tried to emit a sense of quivering misery, which wasn't too difficult.

  “Slow, aren't you?” The chef grinned. “Better finish what you have to do, then.”

  When he had gone, Inki's friend leaned over.

  “Inki? Do you want me to stay and help you?” As she spoke, she stole a fearful glance toward the chef and Alivet realized that there would be a punishment awaiting the girl if she remained too friendly with the troublemaker. That fear suited Alivet's own purposes, however. She shook her head and gestured to the door.

  One by one, the apprentices left the kitchen. Alivet hovered over her tasks, slicing and molding and freezing, until the head chef uttered a curt good night, along with instructions to lock up. Alivet listened carefully as the chef's footsteps pounded up the stairs and the door slammed behind him, then she ran to the icebox and took out the phial. She dropped it on the table and flicked open the lid, then stared for a moment at the sparkling crimson dust. The color of blood, Alivet thought. The color of life.

  She separated a pinch of the substance and dropped it into the dim fire of a nearby stove. The tabernanthe smoked upward.

  “Me again,” she said, when the face of the ally once more appeared wonderingly before her.

  “I hold light,” the ally said. “But I am cold.”

  “I know. I need to hide your substance in something, so that the light does not show. How may I accomplish this?”

  “Cut me with utmost fineness,” the ally said. The effects of the smoke were wearing off; the ally's face was growing thin and translucent in her mind's eye. “Cut me thin.” Then it was gone.

  Working quickly, Alivet took her sharp knife and began to chop, her hand moving faster and faster with an apothecary's practiced speed until the tabernanthe was segmented into tiny lines, too fine to emit the contained, betraying light. Then Alivet began her final great work, the last work which, if all went well, she would ever perform in the palace of the Lords of Night. She started to place the substance into the sorbets. At last she passed her hand over the surface of the chopping block and found only a minute sugar sliver, glowing red like a splinter of glass. Alivet looked at the splinter for a moment, then she put it back into the phial and put the phial in her pocket. Finally, she slipped everything into the darkest recesses of the icebox, to wait there till morning. As she turned to leave, she fancied that when she next opened the door of the icebox, the box itself would have begun to glow.

  Then she went back up the stairs, to the small chamber. At first, with a thud of her heart, she thought that Ghairen was gone or had been taken, but then she saw him standing like a ghost in the shadows.

  “It went well?” he whispered. “I've been watching you.”

  “Well enough, I think.”

  “I saw the Unpriests. Was there any trouble?”

  “No more than usual. They underestimate the Enbonded.” Alivet gave a bitter smile. “Never trust mim-mouthed girls who keep silent, Ghairen.”

  “I'll remember that. But now it's to our advantage. I'll take you to the dormitory.”

  “No, I want to try to find Inki.”

  “If you're caught,” Ghairen said forcefully, “as you might well be if the others notice you're gone, then we might as well throw everything we've worked for into that swamp. If she's dead, then nothing can help her. If she's alive, she can last another day.”

  “But—”

  “Alivet, I think I have come to know you a little. You do not seem to make a habit of acting before you think. Don't do so now.” His hand brushed her face.

  Alivet could see the sense in this, but she did not like it. Reluctantly, she went to the dormitory with Ghairen. But as she stepped through the door, she realized that there might be a way to go in search of Inki after all. One that would not entail leaving her bed.

  RESOLUTION

  Also Travellers in the Night, and such as watch their Flocks… are wont to be compassed about with many strange apparitions… yet sometimes they make so great and deep impression into the Earth, that the place they are used to, being onely burnt 'round with extreme heat, no grass will grow up there… The inhabitants call this Night-sport of these Monsters, the Dance of Fayries.

  OLAUS MAGNUS, De Gentibus Septentrionalibus, Historia, 1658 translation

  Chapter I

  YORKSHIRE 1595

  Together, faces hidden in their cloaks, Dee and his wife, Jane, left the safe house that the Family was using in York and headed for the moor. Dee had always regarded science as indoor work, but there were too many folk for even the greatest hall: a thousand and one men, women, and children, from the cities of London, Prague, and Amsterdam. Dee saw many faces for the first time; some, from their dress and manner, he recognized to be Jews. Two of the families were Spanish Moors: tall men, perhaps brothers, and children with dark, grave faces. Dee thought, This is indeed a marvelous work, that unites so many different creeds. The Church should learn from the Family, not shut us out.

  It was cold on the moors and Dee shivered in spite of his thick cloak. He saw members of the Family exchanging small, conspiratorial smiles with the others. Here, at least, all were brothers and sisters, and Dee knew that whatever befell them during the course of this night, there would be no going back. They would be dead, or Beyond in Meta Incognita. And when they reached that world, Dee told himself, they would have the chance to make the world anew, and they would not waste it in greedy squabbling and murder as those who had ventured to the Colonies had done. They would take the best of the old and the best of the new and weld them into a seamless whole.

  He thrust his doubts of the angels to the hidden chambers of his mind. Whatever befalls us, wherever we go, we must never forget where we are from and what we leave behind. We carry it within our hearts: our love of God, our need for a better world, and we must never forget.

  He kissed Jane, saying, “I have preparations to make. Do not worry. I will see you later.” God knows, she had made enough sacrifices for his sake. He pressed the crucifix that had been his mother's last gift to him into her hand and then he was striding up the hill toward Niclaes and Laski, who even now were lighting the great braziers, fashioned from gold and silver and bronze, that stood at the four quarters of the crowd. And as if they had been rehearsing for months, the gathering of the Family drew into the center of the circle.

  Though there was no moon, it was a bright night. The milky stars spilled out across the moor and seemed to sparkle in the grass. Dee heard Kelley begin the chant, calling the names of the worlds Beyond: “Yesod, Hod, Netzach, Tiphareth…” Strange names, Dee thought, though they would be familiar to the Jews amongst the crowd. “Geburah, Chesed, Binah, Chokmah, Kether…” We will not be going so far, the angel had told him. No human can look beyond Tiphareth and live.

  A wind was growing up across the moor, stirring Dee's cloak. The crowd murmured once in a single voice and then fell silent. Dee clutched at his cloak and the wool sparked and clung to his skin. He knelt beside the light of a brazier and began to write, inscribing the sigils of the language of the universe upon a parchment. He had indeed improved the calculations. As he wrote, the sigils and formulae spun away from the page and spiraled up into the air, to hang glowing above the grass.

  Something was coming over the moor, blotting out the stars. People cried out, a man close to Dee lost his nerve and tried to bolt, but there was a line of light around the crowd, holding them in. The crowd surged toward the center. Dee looked briefly up, saw another Presence in the southern quarter, gliding up over the moor, then something was descending. Dee looked up, mouth agape. It was a great water- worn stone, or perhaps a bowl, its smooth sides gleaming in the starlight and striking bronze reflections from the lamps. It was the ship. A fourth angelic form appeared at the last quarter in the north and Dee felt his mind being wrenched out of all proportion. He looked down into stark madness.

  Slowly, like the hand of God, the thing slid down from the sky.

  Chapter II

  PALA
CE OF NIGHT, LATENT EMANATION

  The apprentices slept on pallets in a cold, damp room above the kitchens. Most were asleep when Alivet entered—which, she reflected, was just as well. She found a spare pallet along the wall and curled up, telling herself that this was no more than another Search. This time, she would not burn the drug into smoke. She had another method in mind. Taking the phial from her pocket, she removed the splinter of sugared blood tabernanthe and put it in her mouth. It exploded like sherbet, an unnatural candy fizzing on the tongue. Alivet waited, feeling her mouth grow numb. At first there was no response from the universe around her. And then, very faintly, something answered.

  “Who calls?” it said. Alivet had the impression of a great, swelling voice and she was seized with a sudden terror that someone might hear it.

  “Hush,” she whispered inside her mind. “Speak softly.” The voice hummed in her veins, causing her heart to pound.

  “Who calls?”

  “I am Alivet. You know me.”

  She had the immediate impression of something vital and alive, a quick, glittering figure. Taken orally, the figure of the ally seemed to take a different form, but then it turned and she was looking into its dark gaze. Now, however, she found herself looking at the mental image of a tall figure, red as a ruby, the skin flayed away so that she could see the tracery of muscle and sinew. Gleaming hair poured down its back.