A Little Taste of Poison (17 page)

“. . . some bad news.” That was Eryx's voice, echoing from the ballroom beyond. “My father the Sagelord has taken ill, and my mother and sister have gone to attend him.”

Esmond's heart lurched.
No,
he thought.
Not now.

“I'm sorry to end the party so soon, but I know I can count on all of you to understand. . . .”

Isaveth. He had to get her out of the house. Esmond sprinted across the lobby, plunged into the coatroom, and rummaged madly until he found a coat and overboots he recognized. He was less certain about the hat, but its slight dowdiness reassured him; no noble girl he knew would wear something that was more than two seasons old. . . .

“There you are!” Eulalie Fairpont popped up in the doorway. “I've been looking all over. Where's Isaveth?”

There was no time to hesitate. He thrust Isaveth's gear at Eulalie and dragged her out the door. A maidservant squeaked as they barged past, but Esmond kept moving, steering the sputtering Eulalie around the staircase to the kitchen passage.

“Door at the end,” he said. “Get her out of here, quick.”

To her credit, Eulalie didn't argue. She clutched the bundle to her chest and ran.

He'd left his jacket with Isaveth, but there was no help for that. Hurriedly Esmond rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, loosened his top button, and raked his fingers through his hair. Let everyone think he'd sneaked off for a puffer, or a stolen kiss in the coatroom, and had no idea what had happened in his absence.

“Oh, my dear boy,” gasped Lady Marcham as the first wave of guests surged into the lobby. “I am so very—”
She recoiled, blinking at his disheveled appearance. “Esmond, where
have
you been?”

Out the corner of his eye he saw Eulalie dart past, with a hatted and coat-muffled Isaveth behind her. He could only hope they'd made it out of the tunnel without being seen. “What?” asked Esmond, doing his best to look innocent. “What's going on?”

“Your father's taken ill. They've sent for a healer—”

That was all the excuse he needed. “Pardon me,” said Esmond, and bolted up the staircase.

Civilla was pacing the corridor outside their father's room, hands clasped tight together. The shoulder of her ice-blue gown was stained red on one side, and beneath the rouge her cheeks were ashen.

“I just heard,” Esmond said. “What happened?”

“Mother found him unconscious in the gaming room. He'd been sick—” She swallowed and shook her head.

It must have been bad, then. Civilla wasn't usually squeamish. Bracing himself, Esmond opened the door and went in.

Two footmen bustled about the Sagelord, wiping his sweat-beaded face and tucking the bedclothes around him. A cloying stench hung heavy in the air. Lady Nessa hovered by the far side of the bed, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief—but when she saw Esmond her face
crumpled, and she flung herself into his arms.

He held her a moment, then guided her to an armchair. She wilted into it as the door opened and Eryx strode in.

“All of you, out,” he commanded, and the servants hurried to obey. “You too, Esmond.”

His mother's trembling fingers touched his wrist, and Esmond stood straighter. “I'm staying.”

Eryx gave him a hard look, then bent over the bed and thumbed their father's lids open. “His eyes are yellow. Was he drinking?”

The Sagelady looked at her lap. She did not speak, but Esmond could guess the answer.

Silence fell over the bedroom, broken only by the rasp of Lord Arvis's breathing and the muffled noises of the guests departing below. Esmond took his mother's hand, feeling the frailness of her bones. He couldn't remember the last time she'd touched him.

“Where's that healer?” muttered Eryx, and stalked out again.

Esmond sat down heavily on the arm of the chair. Occasional bouts of liver trouble were one thing, but this sudden collapse was another: There could be little doubt that Lord Arvis was gravely ill. Yet he'd eaten a hearty supper, and not long ago he'd been well enough to stand
in front of two hundred guests and give a speech. . . .

A groan rose from the bed, and Esmond jumped up. “Father?”

“Boy.” He turned his head feebly toward Esmond, then grabbed the front of his waistcoat. “Don't let . . .”

The stench of alcohol on his breath made Esmond's gorge rise, but he swallowed it. “Don't let who? Do what?”

The cracked lips moved, shaping soundless syllables. “Need to . . . Eryx.”

“He's just left. Did you want to talk to him?”

“All . . . against me. Even my own . . .” His hand thumped Esmond's chest. “Poisoned . . .
ahh! 
” He clutched his stomach, convulsing.

A chill raced through Esmond. “Father,” he said quietly. “What do you mean, poisoned?”

But Lord Arvis was lost in delirium now, his head thrashing on the pillow. “Guilty . . . have to . . . no!” He jerked upright, voice rising to a howl. “Not you, not . . .
Get out! 
”

Esmond whirled. Civilla was standing in the doorway, looking more ashen than ever. “The healer's arrived,” she said as the Sagelord sagged again, unconscious.

Lady Nessa moaned, and Civilla rushed to her side. “I'm here, Mama, don't—” She stopped as though something had surprised her. “What's this in your hand?”

“It's nothing,”
sobbed the Sagelady, “just some rubbish I found in the chair. No, please, I have to stay. . . .”

Civilla slipped a hand under her elbow. “It's all right, Mother,” she said, shaky but resolute. “We'll go somewhere quiet and talk about it, and everything will be all right.”

They'd barely left the room when Eryx returned with Doctor Achawa, a lean, bronze-skinned man who strode to the bedside and dropped his healer's bag onto the carpet with a thump. He stooped over Lord Arvis and began listening to his chest as Eryx moved discreetly to watch.

Esmond backed toward the door, watching his brother. There was no hint of triumph on the Lording's face; he looked concerned, even anxious, as a good son ought to be.

Or as a poisoner would pretend to be, if he didn't want anyone to suspect him.

“U
GH! THIS STINKS!
Vettie, what have you got in here?”

It was the morning after the ball, and already the events of last night seemed like a dream to Isaveth. She looked up as Lilet marched into the kitchen, holding her school bag at arm's length.

“Only my schoolbooks,” Isaveth replied, puzzled—and then the stench hit her, acrid and sickly-sweet at once. Gagging, she pinched her nose, then grabbed the bag from Lilet and dumped it out onto the table.

At a glance, nothing seemed unusual. Workbooks, textbooks, the crumpled first draft of a history assignment, the box that held her lead-point and the bottle pen Papa had given her. . . . Isaveth turned the bag upside down, looking for stains on the bottom.

Lilet backed away, fanning herself in revulsion. “It
smells like something
died
,” she said as Isaveth unbuckled a side pocket and the limp body of a woodrat fell out.

It hit the floor with a sickening soft thump, and Isaveth stared at it in horror. Then she lunged for the dustpan, scooped up the dead rodent, and hurled it out the back door into the garden.

Still the odor lingered, clinging to her books and especially the satchel itself. She'd have to scrub the bag inside and out before she went back to school on Mendday.

“How did it crawl in there?” asked Lilet, opening a jar of pine oil and waving it in all directions. “Was it trying to get at your lunch?”

“It must have been sick already,” said Isaveth, struggling for calm. “It was probably looking for a quiet place to die.”

Lilet wrinkled her nose skeptically and set the jar down. “Well, I hope you know a spell to get rid of rat stink. Because I don't think soap's going to be enough.”

Isaveth cast a despairing look at her belongings, then shoved them back in the bag and set it out on the step. It was time to leave for temple, and she could only hope the smell in the kitchen would clear before Papa got up.

Outside the sun shone brightly over Gardentown, but its beaming face was deceptive. It offered no warmth, only a dazzling brilliance that glinted off the snow and made Isaveth's
head ache. It was a long walk to Wisdom Hall, and by the time the Breck sisters climbed the steps of the Moshite temple Isaveth's feet felt like two chunks of ice inside her boots.

Inside, however, it was warm—so cozy, in fact, that Isaveth and her sisters glanced at each other in surprise. Usually they had to keep their coats on during fallowtime, since Wisdom Hall was one of the poorer Moshite congregations and its building was too old and drafty to heat well. Yet when she and Annagail put on their prayer scarves and walked into the sanctum, Lilet and Mimmi trailing in their wake, they found a brazier full of fire-tablets on either side of the room.

“What does it mean?” Isaveth whispered to Anna. If it was a special occasion, there was nothing in the temple calendar to say so. But her sister only shook her head, equally baffled.

Isaveth was still puzzling over it when the first chant began, the women's lilting voices alternating with the sonorous tones of the men as they sang praise to the All-One and gave thanks for the wisdom of Moshiel. Hastily she joined in—but as the service went on her thoughts began to wander, first to the dead rat in her school bag and then to the shocking discoveries she had made the night before.

Did the Sagelord support Eryx's new plan to cut relief to Moshites? Would the protests against Isaveth's scholarship hurt Glow-Mor as badly as that couple at the ball seemed to think? Now that she'd found Eryx's secret documents, how were she and Esmond going to get to them? And why had the party been breaking up when Eulalie whisked her out of the mansion last night?

Anna nudged her, and Isaveth realized she was still sitting while everyone else had risen. Embarrassed, she rose and lifted her hands to join her fellow Moshites in prayer.

At last the meeting ended, and Isaveth was folding up her scarf when Mister Yeltavan, one of the older men, came by. “Your father's doing good work, I hear,” he said, with a meaningful look at Annagail. “Now we just need to get him back to temple, eh?”

Anna gave him a half smile and a little nod in return. She didn't seem surprised by the comment, but Isaveth was: No one at temple had said anything when Papa was doing good work as a stonemason, so why praise him now that he was shoveling snow?

“And congratulations to you, Miss Isaveth. In fact . . .” He stepped into the aisle, coughing loudly and waving a hand for attention. The murmur of conversation subsided, and all the members looked around as Mister Yeltavan raised his voice to speak.

“As I'm
sure you have noticed, we are enjoying a generous donation of fire-tablets today, thanks to the Moshite Women's Charitable Council. They were purchased from the Glow-Mor company in support of our first member to attend Tarreton College, Miss Isaveth Breck!”

Applause broke out, and Isaveth's cheeks turned hot as Mister Yeltavan went on.

“Our overseers have met with the Long Street and Willowdell congregations, and agreed to buy as many Glow-Mor light- and fire-tablets in the coming weeks as we are able. We must not give our enemies the victory by failing to support our friends! So please, remember to give your business to Glow-Mor, and pray for the All-One's protection for Mister Wregget and his company. And, of course, for our own dear Isaveth.”

The hush in the sanctum turned to an excited babble as everyone lined up to congratulate her. Some offered words of comfort and reassurance, while others encouraged Isaveth to stand up and show the world what a Moshite girl could do. One woman even apologized for not being more kind to Isaveth and her sisters when their father was in prison, and vowed to urge all her friends to buy Glow-Mor tablets to make up for it.

There were twenty thousand Moshites in Tarreton: a
small minority compared to the hundreds of thousands that made up the Arcan and Unifying churches, and most of them poor. But there were also wealthy folk with Moshite connections, openly or in secret. If they worked together to support Glow-Mor until the public outcry had passed over, then perhaps Isaveth wouldn't lose her scholarship after all.

“Be brave, little one,” whispered old Missus Dzato, brushing a dry, papery kiss against Isaveth's cheek. “Your mother would be proud of you. We all are.”

Isaveth's eyes welled. “Thank you,” she said hoarsely. “I'll try not to let you down.”

*  *  *

“All right,” said Eulalie on the way to Sagery the next morning, tucking her arm possessively into Isaveth's. “What's going on with you and Esmond?”

Isaveth stiffened, but resisted the impulse to pull away. “What do you mean?”

“What the two of you were up to.” Eulalie lowered her voice as a pair of fourth-year boys strode by. “I'm not silly, you know. I
notice
things. What were you doing in that tunnel? And don't tell me you were smooching, because I won't believe you.”

Isaveth spluttered. “Eulalie!”

“Of course you weren't. You're far too proper.” Eulalie
elbowed her teasingly. “Out with it. Was it something to do with the Lording?”

“Why would you think . . .”

“You were avoiding him the whole night, and Esmond went after you practically the minute Eryx came back from chasing that alarm. Oh, don't worry,” she added as Isaveth gazed at her in dismay, “I don't think anyone else heard it. I only did because I was in the washroom.”

Which was off the same corridor that led to the tunnel. Isaveth's heart sank. “I really shouldn't say,” she began, but Eulalie cut in.