A Little Taste of Poison (3 page)

“Don't tease her, Papa,” said Annagail. “She's nervous enough already.” Stooping to kiss Isaveth's cheek, she whispered, “I'll be praying for you.” Then she slipped back to the kitchen.

“Don't worry, sweetling.” The twinkle in her father's eye softened to tenderness. “You'll do fine. Especially with Mistress Anandri and the Sagelord's own son looking out for you.”

Isaveth couldn't deny it, not when she'd used those same words to convince Papa three weeks ago. But he had no idea that Governor Buldage was a murderer, let alone that Eryx Lording had put him up to it.

Yet how could she tell Papa the truth without confessing all the risks she'd taken to save him from the gallows? If he knew what powerful enemies she'd made, he wouldn't just refuse to let Isaveth go to the college, he probably wouldn't let her out of the house.

“Yes, Papa,” said Isaveth, hugging him. Then she scooped up her school bag and ran out to catch her tram.

*  *  *

When Isaveth arrived at Tarreton College, the snow was falling in fat flakes, soft and fluttery as goose down. She
stepped off the tram, gazing at her new school in silent awe.

The main gate loomed above her, its square pillars engraved with the college crest on one side and two lines of cryptic runes on the other. Before her lay a cobbled avenue lined with spell-powered lampposts, still glowing faintly in the gray morning light, and past them, at the end of the long drive, rose the steep-angled roofs and pointed archways of Founders' Hall.

The last time Isaveth had walked these grounds was in the heat of fairweather season, when the buildings had stood all but empty, awaiting the rush of harvest term. But she'd been so caught up in her mission back then, so desperate to investigate the scene of Governor Orien's murder and prove her father's innocence, that she'd barely noticed what the college looked like. Only now, with those dark days behind her, could she truly appreciate the school that was about to become her own—and it was beautiful. Even with icicles dripping off every roof edge and grimy salt trails sprinkling each snowy path and stair, the grandeur of the college buildings took Isaveth's breath away. Who could look up at those soaring gray-gold towers, those arched doors and jewel-glass windows, and not feel humbled by their magnificence? Even after a month of preparation, Isaveth couldn't quite
believe she was here and not at the dreary little school back in Gardentown.

“Chin up, Isaveth,” she murmured, gripping the strap of her school bag. She'd taken an early tram, wanting plenty of time to collect her schedule and other essentials before class started. But her fellow students were beginning to arrive now, climbing out of spell-carriages and taxis, or strolling up the sidewalk with their friends. Most of the girls wore the slim, tailored coats and fur-trimmed carriage boots that were the height of fashion, and Isaveth had to fight the urge to hide behind the gatepost as they approached her.

Mister Wregget had agreed to keep Isaveth's identity a secret, so no one but the masters of the college—and Esmond, of course—would know who she was or where she'd come from. With her new hairstyle, a smidge of lip tint, and her olive cheeks dusted rose for a healthy glow, she'd hoped to pass for the daughter of some lesser merchant family—her father wasn't the only Breck in the city, after all. But despite all Anna had done to help her look the part, Isaveth still felt like the word “commoner” was branded across her face.

Yet the girls swept by without a pause, too busy chatting to notice her. The boys also ignored Isaveth as they slouched past, hands deep in their pockets and collars
turned up against the snow. Relieved, Isaveth stood straighter and set off along the path to Founders' Hall.

*  *  *

“Morning, miss,” said the porter, and Isaveth stiffened. She'd spoken to this man when she was last here, disguised as a cleaning maid—what if he recognized her? But when she dared to meet his eye, he only smiled and nodded at her to go on.

The corridor ended by the main staircase, where a sign pointed left to the registrar's office. Isaveth was turning toward it when applause rippled out of a room nearby, followed by a voice so familiar it stopped her heart: “Thank you. Are there any questions?”

It couldn't be—her ears must be playing tricks on her. Yet there was only one way to find out. Isaveth followed the sound to a small auditorium, whose door bore a sign reading
CLUB MEETING IN PROGRESS
. Inside sat several rows of students, from stiff-collared boys her own age to a cluster of fourth-year girls as old as Anna. And at the front stood Eryx Lording, surveying them all.

What a fool she'd been, to mistake his voice for Esmond's! Isaveth ducked out of the doorway, hoping he hadn't spotted her. But Eryx spoke: “We have a latecomer. I'm afraid we're almost finished, miss, but don't be shy.”

Fifty heads swiveled toward her, and Isaveth's heart sank. She crept in and sat down in the first empty seat she could find.

“I have a question, milord,” said a girl in the second row. “You said you'd been urging city council to increase relief payments to needy families. Does that mean raising taxes for the rest of us?”

“An excellent question.” Eryx gave her a dazzling smile, and the girl blushed red as her hair. “Happily, the answer is no. My plan is to ensure that only citizens who are deserving—honest, loyal folk left unemployed through no fault of their own—receive financial help from the city, while those who use poverty as an excuse for crime and rebellion”—his gaze flicked to Isaveth—“do not. There will be plenty of relief for people who need it, if we weed out the lawbreakers first.”

Uneasiness squirmed inside Isaveth. The Lord Justice had declared Papa innocent, so he had no criminal record. But Urias Breck had long been a member of the Workers' Club, a political group known for its fiery protests against the Sagelord's rule. Was Eryx hinting that if Papa applied for relief in a month or two, he'd be rejected? If so, how would Isaveth and her family survive?

A brown hand shot up among the students, and a stocky boy in spectacles rose to speak. “Does the Sagelord
intend to continue his ban against political meetings and demonstrations in the city?”

“Well, clearly
meetings
are not the problem,” said Eryx, “or we'd all be under arrest right now.” He waited for the laughter to subside, then went on. “Personally, I believe that free and open discourse is vital to a healthy society. That's why I've been urging my father to lift the ban for any group that agrees to expel all members with criminal or antisocial tendencies”—his eyes flicked to Isaveth again—“and to hold only peaceful protests from now on.”

“Antisocial, my lord?” asked a girl in the row next to Isaveth. “What do you mean?”

Eryx gazed at the vaulted ceiling, fingers steepled in thought. “As I'm sure you're aware, there are people in our city with a history of lawless behavior, the kind of folk who stir up trouble wherever they go. They despise the sacred traditions that bind all good citizens together, and promote their own radical beliefs instead. . . .”

He spoke delicately, but Isaveth knew what he meant: words like “lawless” and “radical” had been used to condemn Moshites for centuries. She sat rigid, trembling with the urge to leap up and denounce him—but how could she? Nobody here knew her, or had any reason to care what she thought. Especially since she was one of the very people Eryx was slandering.

“Of course,”
Eryx continued, “any enlightened society must tolerate some disagreement, however—er—disagreeable. But I think we should draw the line at endorsing bad behavior, much less rewarding it. Thus my plan to reform our relief system, which I hope all of you will urge your local council members to support. Thank you.”

With another burst of applause the students rose, many pressing forward to greet the Lording and shake his hand. Isaveth hid her face in her handkerchief, pretending to wipe her nose while she calmed herself, then got up and hurried out the door.

*  *  *

“You'll need a robe,” said the registrar, a stoop-shouldered man with a voice as bland as the rest of him. Opening a drawer, he pulled out a square of gray cloth and handed it to Isaveth. “And your timetable . . .” He glanced under the counter. “Hmm. Wait here, please.”

He vanished into the adjoining office, while Isaveth shook out the robe and examined it. Unlike the masters' robes it was sleeveless, so she could wear it over her coat as easily as under—and since her first class might be anywhere on the grounds, that seemed like a sensible idea. She draped it around her shoulders and smoothed it, waiting for the registrar to return.

She couldn't think too much about what Eryx had said or she'd start to panic. He'd spoken of treating Isaveth's father and other politically-minded Moshites as undesirables, denying them financial support and encouraging their fellow workers to shun them—and the students in the club had applauded as though it were a splendid idea. As though her family deserved nothing better than starvation, which was what it would come to if Papa couldn't find a proper job soon.

Her only hope was that she'd leaped to the wrong conclusion, and Eryx hadn't been talking about Papa at all. But the Lording hadn't seemed surprised to see Isaveth, and she couldn't forget how his cold eyes had lingered on her as he spoke. . . .

“Miss Breck?”

The greeting came from behind her, so unexpected it made her jump. Isaveth whirled and found herself staring into the lean, sallow face of Hexter Buldage, the new governor of the school.

“Oh,” she said, but it came out as a squeak, and she couldn't think of anything else to say.

Buldage smiled. His expression was kindly, his eyes mild as harvest fog; if she hadn't known otherwise, she'd never have guessed him for a murderer. “Welcome to Tarreton College. I hope you'll be happy here.”

Mute with fear, Isaveth could only nod. How much had Eryx Lording told him about her? Did Buldage realize she knew his most terrible secret?

“I hear great things about your talent for Common Magic,” the governor continued. “If you show a similar aptitude for Sagery, your classmates will have to work hard to keep up with you.”

There was no stiffness in his posture, no sinister undertone to his words. If her presence here troubled him, he was doing an excellent job of hiding it.

“It's . . . an honor to be here, sir,” said Isaveth, recovering at last. “Thank you for giving me—uh—this chance.”

“My pleasure. If there is anything I can do to assist you, let me know.” Still smiling, he stepped back, turned in a swirl of midnight robes, and walked out.

Isaveth stared after him, heart drumming in her chest. The governor's office was two floors up, on the far side of the building; there was no way Buldage could have passed this way by chance. What did it mean, that he'd come down especially to meet her?

And why would he welcome Isaveth to the college when Eryx, his master, didn't want her here at all?

I
SAVETH WALKED DOWN
the snow-covered steps, studying her new timetable. Her first and only magical course this term was Introduction to Common Magic—which shouldn't have surprised her, since all first-year students had to take that class. But it was frustrating to have to spend a whole term reviewing spells she already knew, instead of starting Sagery right away.

Still, Mistress Anandri liked her, so it should be an easy pass. As the bell in the great tower began to toll, Isaveth stuffed the schedule into her bag and set off toward the spell-kitchen.

Chayla Anandri stood inside the doorway marking attendance, a tall dark-skinned woman with a queenly bearing and a skullcap of pepper-gray hair. “Good morning, mistress,” said Isaveth, smiling at her. But the teacher merely ticked off Isaveth's name before striding through
the ring of students and calling them to attention.

“Undermaster Yarton will show each of you to a station.” She nodded to a gawky young man in an indigo robe, who straightened up importantly. “There you will find ingredients and all the instructions you need to bake light-tablets. At the end of class your results will be graded for purity, consistency, and effectiveness. Any questions?”

The students glanced at one another, and a pert-nosed girl with hair the color of milky tea stepped forward. “Why do we have to learn Common Magic before we can start Sagery? It's so . . .”

“Common?” asked Mistress Anandri crisply. “No doubt you are accustomed to having fire- and light-tablets baked by your servants, or bought for you ready-made. You consider the making of such spells beneath you, much as a fieldlord's daughter might consider it an insult to be asked to pick apples or milk the cows. Correct?”

She arched an eyebrow at the girl, who colored but kept her head high. “Yes, mistress.”

“Which is precisely why you need to learn more about it,” said the spellmistress. “Common Magic may have a lesser reputation than Sagery, but it is far more practical for everyday purposes, and our city's future may well depend on the manufacture and export of tablets like these.”

Her gaze swept over the students, and Isaveth tried once more to catch her eye, but the woman looked through her. “I have business elsewhere, so I must leave for a little while. Undermaster Yarton is in charge until I return.”

Grumbles rose from Isaveth's classmates, but when the undermaster gestured for them to spread out along the counter, they obeyed. Isaveth stepped eagerly to her own station, close to one of the two enormous ovens and well lit by the windows high above.

“This is ridiculous,” muttered the prim-looking girl, stomping up next to her. “We're supposed to be learning real magic, not
cookery
.” She grabbed the nearest canister and began scooping out flour, not even bothering to measure it before dumping it into her bowl.