A Little Taste of Poison (5 page)

Esmond shook his head in admiration. “You never give up, do you? Auradia all over again.”

Coming from a boy who loved
Auradia Champion
as much as she did, that was quite the compliment. But it wasn't her love of justice that was driving Isaveth this time; it was desperation. If Papa couldn't get relief, there'd be no chance of her staying at Tarreton College; she and Annagail would have to quit school and take the
first jobs they could find, just to keep their family from being thrown out on the street.

Yet she couldn't say that to Esmond. If Quiz were here she'd have poured out her fears to him, but what did this young noble, with his shining hair and spotless clothing, know about being poor? He'd likely feel sorry for Isaveth, or worse, offer her charity. And that would be unbearable.

“Maybe we can't prove that Eryx murdered Master Orien,” Isaveth said, willing her voice steady. “But we could still catch him committing some other sort of crime. Bribery, or blackmail, or . . . I don't know, something. Anything.”

Esmond took out a handkerchief and began cleaning his half glass, which had to be sheer habit, because he couldn't see out of it either way. “Good point. I'll keep my ears open and see what I can find out. But we can't meet here every day—it's too risky. We need a new place to leave messages.”

Isaveth nodded. The loose stone by the fountain in Sage Allum's Park had served them well enough during harvest, but once the snow started falling, the walk there had become a lot less pleasant. “What about the school library?”

“Excellent idea. I recommend the agriculture section.
Find a book on crop pests or something of that sort, and nobody but us will ever look at it.” He hooked his glass back on, keeping his scar averted. “I'm sorry about this. I thought . . . well, hoped . . . we'd have Eryx by now.”

It's all right,
Isaveth wanted to tell him, but the words stuck in her throat. Much as she didn't blame Esmond for what had happened, nothing would be right until Eryx went to prison and her family was safe.

“So did I,” she said.

“V
ETTIE!” MIMMI FLUNG
her arms around Isaveth's waist—then jumped back, bristling like a wet kitten. “Ugh, you're freezing!”

“Sillyhead,” said Isaveth, ruffling her sister's hair. She hung up her coat and bent to unlace her boots. “How was school?”

“Oh, never mind that! I want to hear all about the college!” She hopped onto the landing and hollered up the staircase, “Lilet! Vettie's home!”

Annagail appeared in the kitchen doorway, apron stained and wooden spoon in hand. “Don't
yell
, Mimmi,” she pleaded as Lilet came tramping down from the bedroom, hugging her threadbare cardigan about her shoulders. They all looked at Isaveth expectantly.

“All right,” said Isaveth. “Let me warm up, and I'll tell you all about it.”

Papa was waiting at the kitchen table, big hands clasped around his mug of tea. He must have gotten home only a minute or two before she did: His cheeks were windburned, and ice pellets clung to his beard. It was hard work shoveling snow off wealthier folk's drives and walkways, and his takings were so meager they barely paid half the rent—but it wasn't her father's way to sit idle when he could be doing, any more than it was Isaveth's.

Which was why she couldn't tell him about Eryx's relief plan, no matter how much she longed to. For weeks now Papa's belief that the Lording had saved him from the gallows, and that he could count on Eryx to stand up for poor folk like himself, had kept him safely away from the illegal meetings of the Workers' Club and the other banned political groups in the city. But if Papa knew the truth, he'd be outraged. He'd try to warn his fellow dissenters, maybe even urge them to revolt . . . and that would play right into Eryx Lording's hands.

She couldn't tell her sisters, either. Annagail would only make herself sick with worrying, while Lilet would be just as furious and ready to fight as Papa. And Mimmi was far too young to hear such dark secrets, let alone keep them.

So Isaveth sat down, put on her brightest smile, and
told her family what a wonderful day she'd had at the college. “Governor Buldage came down to welcome me personally,” she said. “And I start learning Sagery tomorrow.”

“I want to try on your robe,” Mimmi said, grabbing Isaveth's book bag and pulling it out. She draped it over her shoulders and spun around, making it ripple and swirl about her.

Lilet rolled her eyes. “It's a school robe, Mim, not a fairy dress. If you want to wear an oat sack over your clothes, I'm sure Annagail can make you one too.”

“You're just jealous,” Mimmi told her primly, and went on twirling.

Annagail had been listening in silence, absorbed with the potatoes she was chopping. Now she put down her knife and spoke. “I'm glad it went so well. Did you see . . . anyone we know?”

By her cautious tone she meant Meggery, but Mimmi gaped like a baby bird. “Quiz! Was he there? Did you talk to him?”

“Only a little,” Isaveth said. “He's a year ahead of me, so we don't have any classes together.”

“Is he coming back to see us? Did you ask if I can have his pedalcycle?”

“Enough, Mirrim,” rumbled Papa, and Mimmi deflated. She folded up Isaveth's robe and put it away.

“I just miss him, that's all,”
she said in a small voice.

“You're too little for that cycle anyway,” Lilet told her. “If he's going to give it to anyone, it ought to be me.”

“Enough of that, too, Mistress Lilet,” said Papa. He tamped a wad of baccy into his pipe, lit it with a deft scrape of the flint-spark, and rolled his shoulders with a sigh that was half groan—his back must be aching again. “Vettie's told us all we need to know about Esmond Lilord, and I won't have you begging for charity. We owe the lad enough as it is.”

Lilet scowled, but she knew better than to argue. She shoved back her chair and went to peer into the pot Annagail was stirring, but the older girl waved her aside.

“Never mind what it is,” she said with unusual tartness, “you'll be eating it anyway. Vettie, would you fetch the blessing candles?”

*  *  *

“I was thinking frostberry branches,” said Civilla as the servants laid out the main course. “Painted white, and arranged in those big metal urns like we saw at Taia Yeng's wedding—do you remember those, Mama?”

The strained lines vanished from Lady Nessa's face. “Oh, yes, that would be lovely. Don't you think so, Eryx?”

Eryx gave his mother and sister a tolerant smile and went back to sipping his wine. He clearly cared as little about Civilla's
coming-of-age ball as Esmond did, especially as they'd been hearing about nothing else since the meal began. If Lord Arvis were there he'd have cut her off long ago, but he was having one of his bad spells and hadn't come down from his room.

“It's still not perfect, though.” Civilla pursed her lips as if it were the most vexing problem she'd faced all year, and Esmond had to look away. He'd been close to Civilla once, but when he'd needed her most, she'd failed him. And since then she'd grown so shallow and self-absorbed, so taken up with her gossip rags and her wardrobe and all the dinners, dances, and charity balls she'd crammed into her social calendar, that he wondered if he'd ever really known her at all.

He'd rather live with Civilla's vanity than Eryx's ruthlessness, though. Did he really think he could cut off relief to anyone who displeased him and still be seen as the champion of the poor? More importantly, was Lord Arvis going to let him do it? Esmond was wondering how to find out without making it obvious he'd talked to Isaveth, when Eryx spoke.

“I'm surprised Father couldn't join us. I'd thought he was looking quite well when we talked this morning.”

The Sagelady blinked as though waking from a dream. “Oh. Yes, I thought so too. But he barely ate at luncheon,
and when I went to call him for dinner, he said he wasn't hungry.”

“Did you ring the healer?” Civilla asked, eyes wide. Lord Arvis missing one meal was extraordinary, but missing two was unheard of.

“Doctor Achawa says it's only to be expected for someone in his condition. He recommended hot lemon and ginger, and said to call again tomorrow if there's no change.”

Civilla looked down at her plate. Then she said in a quavering voice, “Perhaps we should cancel the ball.”

“Oh, no, my dear!” The Sagelady clutched her arm. “Your father would never want that! Think how people would talk. I know you're worried—we all are—but I'm sure he'll be better by the time your birthday comes.”

“And even if he isn't,” said Eryx, “he'll want people to believe that he is. You know what Father's like, Cilla. He'd sooner die on his feet than look feeble even for a second.”

“Die!” Civilla's hand flew to her throat. “Eryx, you can't mean it. What a horrible thought.”

“I was speaking figuratively,” Eryx said with a touch of impatience. “Of course he's not dying, he's just got a bit of liver trouble. If he'd only quit sneaking drinks out of my liquor cabinet and cheating on his diet, he'd be
fine. My point is, you've made so much noise about this party of yours that half the city's waiting for an invitation. Father wouldn't let you cancel it now if you begged him.”

“Oh,” said Civilla. “I suppose we'd better go on with it, then.” But she sounded more relieved than otherwise, and Esmond suddenly felt sick of the whole lot of them. He dropped his fork onto his plate and stood up.

“Where are you going?” demanded Eryx.

“Anywhere but here,” Esmond retorted, and walked out.

The grand staircase divided into two on the landing, a shorter flight winging off to a corridor on either side. Esmond turned right and climbed to Lord Arvis's bedchamber, then leaned against the door and knocked, listening.

No answer. Was he sleeping? Esmond eased down the latch and let himself in.

His father lay sprawled in the great bed, covers twisted around him. The spell-lamp by the bedside was dimmed, and two empty glasses stood on the table beside it: one crusted white with the dregs of his stomach medicine, and the other with a pool of golden liquor in the bottom.

“Father!” said Esmond, louder than he'd intended. “Are you all right?”

The Sagelord inhaled with a snort and raised his head blearily. “Wuh,” he grunted. “Wuh d'you wan'?”

No wonder he hadn't come down to dinner. He'd boozed himself senseless, leaving Lady Nessa to make his excuses. But by his vacant look he'd passed the belligerent stage, so Esmond crossed the carpet and pulled up a chair by his side. “I came to see how you were feeling.”

“Pah.” Lord Arvis puffed out his lips in contempt. “That's a lie. You want something. Ever'body wants something.” He slapped the bedclothes. “Out with it.”

“Fine.” Esmond didn't have the patience to bandy words, and in this state, his father probably wouldn't remember the conversation anyway. “Eryx wants to reform the city relief program and give workers back the right to demonstrate. Has he talked to you about it?”

“ 'Course. Been nagging me for days now. Wants me to bring it to council.” Lord Arvis stirred restlessly. “Told him it was a stupid idea.”

“You did?” Esmond was surprised. “Why?”

“Can't imagine what the boy's thinking,” mumbled Lord Arvis. “Worthless rabble hate me enough as it is—practically started a riot, last planting. Had to pass the anti-dissenter law to stop 'em plotting against me, and now he thinks tossing out a few Moshite rabble-rousers'll be enough to make all the rest behave? Crazy notion.”

“What about his relief plan, though?”

“Bah! Even stupider.
Half those wretches have broken one law or another—am I supposed to pay a whole army of clerks to go poking about in people's houses, deciding who gets relief and who doesn't? And even the ‘deserving' ones aren't going to be happy when they see their friends and relations going without.” He shook his head. “Not good. 'Specially if they find out it was Eryx who came up with it.”

That made sense. The past three years had seen a series of financial disasters and factory closures in Tarreton, leaving thousands of men and women jobless and bitterly angry against their Sagelord. Without Eryx's quick intervention, his repeated promises to speak up on the workers' behalf, the city would have erupted into violence months ago. How would the common folk react if they knew that their so-called champion, their shining hope, planned to cut off relief to half of them in order to increase payments to the other half?

“Upstart,” his father slurred. For a moment he'd seemed almost sober; now his eyes lost focus again. “Told me he'd pass it off as my idea, and nobody the wiser. Well, I've had enough of that. Sick of being blamed for everything that goes wrong in this city, letting Eryx take the glory when anything goes right . . .” He plucked fretfully at the sheets. “Bloody gorehawks, all of 'em.”

“Who?”
asked Esmond, taken aback. He'd never heard his father ramble like this before.

“Hovering around me, pretending to care—hah! All they want is for me to die so
he
can take over!” Lord Arvis struggled to sit up, big shoulders pushing against the pillows. “But I'm not . . . dead . . . yet—”

Esmond reached to help, but his father swatted his hand away. “And I'm not some doddering invalid, either! You're no better than the rest of 'em.”

The rebuff stung, but Esmond held his ground. “So you won't support Eryx's plan in council?” he asked. “You've decided against it?”

“It's no business of yours what I decide,” growled the Sagelord. His face looked puffy in the lamplight, the whites of his eyes tinged yellow. “Quit your yapping and get out.”