A Little Taste of Poison (6 page)

Esmond bowed and retreated, shutting the door behind him. Then he walked to the landing, sat on the topmost stair, and thought.

It was good to know Lord Arvis wasn't in favor of Eryx's ideas, at least not at the moment. Yet Esmond knew better than to count on the Sagelord: His father was too unstable, and his brother too cunning, for that. There was only one way to stop Eryx bringing his plan to council, and that was to utterly discredit him.

Esmond stared at the carpet, mind whirring. Yes, the confession he'd recorded on the charm-band was gone forever. But as Isaveth had pointed out, murder wasn't the only crime Eryx Lording had committed. . . .

Of course! Why hadn't Esmond thought of it before? Four months ago, he'd sneaked Isaveth into this very house to help him search for the documents that would prove her papa's innocence. Eryx had a tidy little habit of demanding written confessions from any criminals he hired, in case they became squeamish or tempted to betray him; he had to keep those letters somewhere, and his private study had seemed the obvious place.

Unfortunately, they'd been wrong, and Eryx had caught them—which was how Isaveth had ended up making the desperate bargain that had saved Urias Breck's life. At the time it had felt more like defeat than victory to Esmond: They'd had to give up all the evidence they'd gathered against Eryx and Governor Buldage, and leave a dead workman to take the blame. But when Eryx went off to fetch the man's confession and returned only minutes later, he'd unwittingly given Esmond a clue. His brother's secret documents had to be in, or very near, the house.

If Esmond could find those letters and turn them over to the Lawkeepers, not even the dullest plodder in the
station would miss the implications. They'd know Eryx was guilty of blackmail to start with, and once they started arresting the people who'd written those confessions, the rest of his brother's crimes would soon come out. . . .

Esmond leaped to his feet, energy surging through him. It was the first Mendday of the month, so Eryx would soon be driving out to meet with the Tarreton Business Owners' Association, and Civilla planned to visit her friend Delicia Ghataj that evening. With Lady Nessa distracted trying to soothe her husband, the mansion would be practically empty.

He'd start hunting for the documents tonight.

T
HE SNOW FELL STEADILY
until morning, and by the time Isaveth mustered the strength to nudge Mimmi awake, squirm out of their shared cocoon of blankets, and scrape the frost off the bedroom window, the whole length of Cabbage Street was smothered in white powder. She wormed out of her nightgown and tugged on her school clothes as quickly as she could. It would be hard slogging through those drifts, and she'd have to move fast or she'd miss her tram.

Fortunately the snow proved less deep than it looked, and though Isaveth was puffing when she reached the tram stop, she'd made it with minutes to spare. Her elation faded, however, when she realized her ride wasn't coming. She was half-frozen and frantic by the time the next tram trundled toward her, crammed tight with standing passengers, and stopped to pick her up. Isaveth
clutched the hand bar, toes aching as they began to thaw, and prayed that she wouldn't be the only student to turn up late to Sagery that morning.

When the tram finally stopped in front of the college, the bell for first class was ringing. Isaveth jumped off, skidding on the icy sidewalk, and pelted through the gates. The cold air seared her lungs and her feet throbbed worse than ever, but she plunged on, past the main buildings and down the narrow steps that led toward the charmery. She dashed by the Sporting Center, nearly bumping into a pair of older students wearing their slate- and sky-blue robes over their coats, and finally caught up with another first-year girl running in the same direction.

“Are you late too?” Isaveth blurted out, and a startled brown face spun toward her—only to vanish as the girl slipped, windmilled, and tumbled into a snow bank. Isaveth rushed to help, but when the other student surfaced she was laughing.

“Whoop-la!” she crowed, shaking snow in all directions. “Well, if we weren't late before, we sure will be now. Better two than one, though.”

She climbed out and began brushing herself off, and Isaveth handed back her hat. “I'm awfully sorry,” she said.

The girl flapped a dismissive mitten. “Don't worry about it. You're new, right?”

Isaveth nodded.

“Good! We can use fresh blood in this stuffy old place. I'm Eulalie Fairpont. You?”

“Isaveth. Pleased to meet you.”

She'd left off her family name, but Eulalie didn't seem to notice. “Likewise,” she said cheerfully.

They trotted down the path and the charmery rose up before them, two stories of shuttered windows and fire-blackened stone. “Why is it so far from the rest of the college?” Isaveth asked. “You'd think they
wanted
people to be late.”

“Apparently it used to be closer,” said Eulalie, “back when the college was first built. But that one blew up, so . . .”

“Really? How?”

“Some sillyhead trying to build a mage-bomb, I think.” Her fur collar lifted as she shrugged, and Isaveth suppressed a flash of envy. It looked so soft and warm. “Anyway, charm-making's a lot safer these days, but— oh, maggots.”

A square-built woman in a master's robe had stepped out of the charmery, frowning disapproval. Eulalie clutched Isaveth's arm and broke into an exaggerated limp.

“It's my fault we're late, Mistress Corto,” she called. “I slipped on the path, and Isaveth stayed to help me.” Which was true, but her tragic expression made the accident seem far worse than it had been.

The spellmistress stepped back, holding the door wide for the girls to enter. “You wouldn't have slipped if you hadn't been running, Miss Fairpont. As a newcomer Miss Breck has some excuse for lateness, but you do not.”

“Yes, Mistress,” said Eulalie meekly, then caught Isaveth's eye and winked. Hiding a smile, Isaveth followed the other girl inside.

The Sagery classroom was a barnlike space with a cement floor, exposed beams, and walls of bare red brick. A boiler squatted in one corner, exhaling a low whistle of steam. Eulalie took off her overcoat and hung it up beside Isaveth's, then hobbled to a seat in the front row. But the seats next to Eulalie were occupied, and the only empty desk was at the back of the room. Self-conscious, Isaveth edged down the aisle and took it.

“In your first term with Mistress Anandri,” their teacher began, “you were introduced to the two fundamental principles that underlie all magic. Who can name them for me?”

“Affinity and Resonance,” replied a boy in a lofty, nasal voice. His skin was pale as Esmond's, his brown hair slicked back, and he had the smug air of someone accustomed
to being right. He was in both Isaveth's afternoon classes, but she'd never really noticed him until today.

“Mister Paskin is correct,” said the spellmistress. “Now, who can give me a definition of Affinity? Miss Kehegret?”

She continued for some time in this manner, and as the students glanced at one another it was clear they were growing impatient with the review. But Isaveth was delighted, and scribbled notes as fast as her lead-point could go. She'd never learned any magical theory before; she'd only studied the recipes in her mother's Book of Common Magic and done her best to follow them. Now she was finally starting to understand why those spells worked the way they did.

At last the class ended, and their teacher dismissed them with a warning to arrive in good time tomorrow, as she would be introducing them to the basic metals, crystals, and elixirs used in charm-making.

“Which we ought to have learned today,” grumbled Paskin as he got up, loud enough for everyone to hear. “If we hadn't wasted a whole class reviewing stuff most of us know already. Thanks to
her
.”

Isaveth was abruptly conscious of everyone's eyes upon her. Her neck prickled and her cheeks grew warm, but she continued packing up her book bag as though she hadn't heard.

“Still, I suppose
we ought to show
some
charity,” the boy drawled as his mates began to snigger. “As future leaders of Tarreton, it's our duty to be kind to the poor and uneducated.”

Isaveth's chest squeezed tight, and for a moment she couldn't breathe. No one had mocked her appearance yesterday, so she'd dared to hope her disguise was working. Yet in one glance Paskin had seen she was a commoner, and worse, he'd announced it to the rest of the class as well.

“The only leading you ever do is with your mouth, Tadeus Paskin,” said Eulalie loudly from behind him. “And considering you barely scraped a pass in Common Magic last term, I wouldn't be so quick to call other people uneducated.” Elbowing the boy aside, she marched down the aisle and hooked her arm through Isaveth's.

“Never mind him,” she confided, “he's a pompous little tomfool. Shall we walk up the hill together?”

*  *  *

Esmond Lilord was in a beast of a mood, and he didn't care who knew it.

He'd spent the better part of last night pretending to have lost his charm-case, poking about the mansion from attic to coal cellar until the servants grew impatient with him for getting in their way. He'd even sneaked into Eryx's
bedchamber, once his older brother went out—but the lack of any wards on the door warned that nothing secret would be found there, and a thorough search confirmed it.

In short, his investigation had been fruitless. Which was hardly unexpected: After all, he'd done much the same thing hunting for the charm-band, and if he'd found no hidden panels or loose floorboards then, it was unlikely he'd discover any now. But Eryx's documents had to be nearby, so Esmond must have overlooked something obvious—and the frustration of knowing it had kept him brooding all night.

And now it was early on a dull, snowy morning, and the Sporting Center stank of wood polish and sweat, and no matter which way he turned, that idiot Hannier kept coming up on his blind side. Esmond was angry at Eryx, and even angrier at himself, because he was going to have to tell Isaveth that he'd failed
again
—

He was darting past Hannier when the other boy's elbow flew up, clipping his temple. The half glass arced away from him, charmed lens clattering against the floor. Esmond snatched up the wire frame and fumbled it back into place—then took two strides after Hannier, wrestled him around, and punched the wind out of him.

The boy wheezed and dropped to the floor. Then
came the tinny clatter of a warning bell, and a shout of “Esmond Lilord—penalty!”

The rest of his team groaned, but Esmond ignored them. Tearing off his blue team jersey, he stalked to the door, shoved it open, and plunged out into the cold.

*  *  *

“So tell me,” Eulalie said as she and Isaveth left the charmery, “is there any reason we oughtn't to be friends? Because I could quite use one myself, and you seem a good deal nicer than any of the simpering suck-ups and puff-headed bullies I've met since I came to Tarreton.”

“You mean you weren't born here?”

“Great Sages, no. We moved only a few months ago, from Listerbroke. . . . Oh no,” she groaned as Isaveth's face lit up. “Don't tell me you're obsessed with that ridiculous talkie-play too.”

She meant
Auradia Champion, Lady Justice of Listerbroke
, of course. Thanks to the crystal set Esmond had sent for her birthday, Isaveth hadn't missed an episode in weeks—but she'd never dare admit that now.

“It's all right,” she said, trying to sound casual. “Why, what show do you like?”

“Ugh, none of them,” said Eulalie. “They're all silly. I'd rather listen to Janny Mastrocelli and the Tin City Orchestra!” She spun on one foot, surprisingly nimble in
her winter boots, and sashayed up the walk in the arms of an imaginary dance partner. Behind them Paskin and his friends sniggered, but Eulalie took no notice.

“Daddy says he'll take me to a concert, if they ever come this way,” she continued, leaving off her three-step and dropping back beside Isaveth. “Though he only says so because he knows it'll never happen. No really good bands ever come to Tarreton.” She heaved a sigh.

Isaveth did her best to look sympathetic, though she had little idea what Eulalie was talking about. Lilet was the musical one of the Breck sisters, and she had old-fashioned tastes; she'd listen to a string quartet forever, but whenever a popular song came over the crystal set she usually switched it off.

“So what brought your family—” Isaveth began, but then the door of the Sporting Center slammed open and Esmond burst out, shirt-sleeves rucked up and hair plastered to his brow with sweat. He nabbed a portly, owlish boy who'd been sneaking a smoke around the corner, plucked the puffer from his fingers, and shoved him inside.

“Tossed out for fighting, probably,” one of Paskin's friends muttered, though he sounded more admiring than otherwise. “I hear that happens a lot with him.”

Isaveth had seen Esmond fight, but only against bullies
and thugs. She would never have guessed he'd thump one of his schoolmates over a mere game. But here he lounged with studied insolence, contemplating the puffer in his hand as though debating whether to smoke it himself, and Isaveth's stomach gave a queasy lurch. Was this how Esmond behaved when she wasn't there?

“What is it?” asked Eulalie, noticing her sudden halt. “Did you leave something back at the charmery?”

“Probably her mop,” sneered Paskin—and at the same moment, Esmond flicked away the puffer and looked up.

For a heartbeat he and Isaveth stood unmoving, staring at each other. Then with a thrust of his shoulders Esmond pushed upright and strode down the snowy path to meet her.

“Miss Breck!” he exclaimed, seizing her hand and pumping it. “Nice to see you again. How is your family? All well, I hope?”