Poison Study (23 page)

  When she picked up her bows to leave, Ari placed a large hand on her shoulder. “Her name’s Yelena. If you don’t want to call her by her name, then don’t come back tomorrow.”

  I could see my astonished expression mirrored on Maren’s face, but she recovered quicker than I did. Nodding curtly, she shook off Ari’s hand and walked away. I wondered if she would join us again.

  She returned the next day, and showed up without fail for the next two months as we trained together throughout the cooling season. The air held a fresh crisp scent, and true to the season’s name, each day grew cooler than the last. The bright flowers of the hot season wilted while the trees turned orange, russet and finally brown. The leaves dropped to the ground and were blown away by the frequent rainstorms.

  My research on the pods had stalled, but Valek appeared unconcerned by my lack of progress. On occasion he observed us training, and he would comment and make suggestions.

  Nix continued to plague me during my morning run. He threw rocks, he spat on me and tripped me. I had to change my routine to avoid him by running laps around the outer wall of the castle complex. My defensive abilities were still in the beginning stages, and not sufficient for a confrontation with Nix. At least, not yet. There were advantages to running outside the complex. The smooth grass was softer on my feet than the dirt path inside the complex, and by jogging before dawn, I encountered no one, which added to the deception that I had quit training.

  At the end of the cooling season, the hours of daylight shortened, and our training sessions ended with the setting sun. In the semidarkness of twilight I headed to the baths, moving with care to accommodate my bruised ribs. Janco, that annoying jackrabbit, had gotten through my defenses with his speedy little jabs.

  As I approached the entrance to the baths, a large shadow detached from the stone wall. Alarmed, I stepped back into a fighting stance. Fear, excitement and doubt raced through my body. Would I need to defend myself? Could I do it? Should I run?

  Margg’s ample shape coalesced out of the shadows, and I relaxed a bit.

  “What do you want?” I asked. “Are you running another errand for your master like a good doggie?”

  “Better than being a rat caught in a trap.”

  I brushed past her. Exchanging insults, while enjoyable, was a waste of my time.

  “Would the rat like some cheese?” she asked.

  I turned. “What?”

  “Cheese. Money. Gold. I bet you’re the kind of rat that would do anything for a piece of cheese.”

Chapter Nineteen

  “W hat would I have to do to get a piece of cheese?” I asked. I knew it! Margg was the one leaking information about me, and now she wanted to use me. Finally, some evidence.

  “I have a source that pays well for information. It’s the perfect setup for a little rat,” Margg said.

  “What kind of information?”

  “Anything you might overhear while you’re scurrying around the Commander’s office or Valek’s apartment. My contact pays on a sliding scale; the juicier the news, the bigger the chunk of cheese.”

  “How does it work?” My mind raced. Right now it was her word against mine. I needed proof I could show Valek. To be able to finger both Margg and her source would be a sweet treat.

  “You give me the information,” she said, “and I pass it along. I collect the money, and give it to you, minus a fifteen percent fee.”

  “And I’m supposed to believe that you’d stick to fifteen percent cut of a total I’d be unaware of?”

  She shrugged. “It’s either that or nothing. I’d think that a half-starved rat like you would pounce on any morsel, no matter how small.” Margg began to walk away.

  “What if we went to your source together?” I suggested. “Then you’d still receive your fee.”

  She stopped. Uncertainty creased her fleshy face. “I’ll have to check.” She disappeared down the hallway.

  I lingered outside the baths for a while, considering the possibility of following Margg around for a couple of days, but dismissed the idea. If her contact didn’t like my suggestion, I’d scamper to Margg with my tail between my legs, begging for another chance. She’d enjoy that! Then I’d follow her. Revealing her as a traitor to Valek would be a pleasure.

  My conversation with Margg had used up my bath time, so I headed to the Commander’s office. When I arrived, Sammy, Rand’s kitchen boy, hovered outside the closed door holding a tray of food. I could hear a muffled angry voice inside.

  “What’s going on?” I asked Sammy.

  “They’re arguing,” he said.

  “Who?”

  “The Commander and Valek.”

  I took the tray of cooling food from Sammy. No reason we both had to be there. “Get going. I’m sure Rand needs you.”

  Sammy smiled his relief and sprinted through the throne room. I’d seen the kitchen during dinnertime. Servers and cooks swarmed like bees with Rand directing the chaos. Barking orders, he controlled his kitchen staff like the queen bee of the hive.

  Knowing the Commander disliked cold food, I stood close to his door, waiting for a break in the conversation. From my new position I could hear Valek clearly.

  “Whatever possessed you to change your successor?” Valek demanded.

  The Commander’s soft reply passed through the wooden door as an indecipherable murmur.

  “In the fifteen years I’ve known you, you’ve never reversed a decision.” Valek’s tone became more reasonable. “This isn’t a ploy to discover your successor. I just want to know why you changed your mind. Why now?”

  The response wasn’t to Valek’s liking. With a sarcastic jab in his voice, he said, “Always, Sir.”

  Valek jerked the door open. I stumbled into the office.

  He wore a glacial expression. Only his eyes showed his fury. They were pools of molten lava beneath an icy crust. “Yelena, where the hell have you been? The Commander’s waiting for his dinner.” Not expecting an answer, Valek strode briskly through the throne room. Advisers and soldiers melted from his path.

  Valek’s anger seemed extreme. Everyone in Ixia knew that one of the eight Generals had been chosen as the Commander’s successor. In the typical paranoid custom of the Commander’s ruling, the name of the selected General was kept secret. Each General held an envelope that contained a piece of a puzzle. When the Commander died, they would assemble the puzzle to reveal an encrypted message. A key would be required to decipher the note. A key only Valek held. The chosen General would then have the complete support of the military and the Commander’s staff.

  The theory behind the puzzle was that secrecy would prevent someone from staging a rebellion in support of the chosen heir, since the heir was unknown. The added risk that the inheritor might be even worse than the Commander was another deterrent. As far as I could see, a change in the chosen General probably wouldn’t affect day-to-day life in Ixia. We didn’t know who had been originally selected, so the switch would have no bearing until the Commander died.

  I approached Commander Ambrose’s desk. He read his reports, unaffected by Valek’s rage. I performed a quick taste of his dinner; he thanked me for the food then ignored me.

  On my way back to the baths, I wondered if the information I had just overheard would fetch a decent price from Margg’s contact. I quenched my curiosity; I had no desire to commit treason for money. I just wanted to get out of my present situation alive. And knowing Valek, I had no doubt that he would discover any clandestine meetings with Margg. For that reason alone, I had to prove that, no matter what Margg believed, I was not a spy. Just the mental vision of Valek’s burning eyes focused on me sent a hot bolt of fear through me.

  A long soak in the bath eased my sore ribs. As it was still early in the evening, I thought it prudent to avoid Valek for a while. I stopped in the kitchen for a late dinner. After helping myself to the leftover roast meat and a hunk of bread, I carried my plate to where Rand worked. He had an array of bowls, pots and ingredients messily spread out on his table. Dark smudges rimmed his bloodshot eyes, and his brown hair stuck straight out where he had run his wet hands through it.

  I found a stool and a clean corner on Rand’s table and ate my dinner.

  “Did the Commander send you?” Rand asked.

  “No. Why?”

  “I finally received the Criollo recipe from Ving two days ago. I thought the Commander might be wondering about it.”

  “He hasn’t said anything to me.”

  Two large shipments of Criollo, sans the recipe, had arrived for the Commander since Brazell had left the castle. Each time, the Commander had responded with a “thank you” and another request for the formula. As the quantity received had been plentiful, the Commander had given Rand some Criollo to play with. Rand hadn’t disappointed. He had melted it, mixed it into hot drinks, invented new desserts, chipped it and remolded it into flowers and other edible decorations for cakes and pies.

  I watched Rand stir a mahogany-colored batter with tight agitated movements. “How’s it going?” I asked.

  “Horrible. I have repeatedly followed this recipe, and all I’ve gotten is this awful-tasting mud.” Rand banged the spoon on the bowl’s edge to knock off the pasty residue. “It won’t even solidify.” He handed me a sheet of once-white paper smeared with brown stains and flour. “Maybe you can see what I’m doing wrong.”

  I studied the list of ingredients. It looked like a normal recipe, but I wasn’t a cooking expert. Tasting, on the other hand, was becoming my forte. I took a scoop of his batter and slid it onto my tongue. A sickeningly sweet flavor invaded my mouth. The texture was smooth and the batter coated my tongue like Criollo, but it lacked the nutty, slightly bitter taste that balanced the sweetness.

  “Maybe the recipe’s wrong,” I said, handing the sheet back to Rand. “Put yourself in Ving’s position. Commander Ambrose loves Criollo, and you hold the only copy of the recipe. Would you give it away? Or would you use it to manipulate a transfer?”

  Rand plopped wearily onto a stool. “What do I do? If I can’t make Criollo, the Commander will probably reassign me. It’ll be too much for my ego to stand.” He attempted a weak smile.

  “Tell the Commander that the recipe’s a fake. Blame Ving for your inability to duplicate the Criollo.”

  Sighing, Rand rubbed his face in his hands. “I can’t handle this type of political pressure.” He massaged his eyelids with the tips of his long fingers. “Right now, I’d kill for a cup of coffee, but I guess wine will have to do.” He rummaged around in the cabinet and produced a bottle and two glasses.

  “Coffee?”

  “You’re too young to remember, but before the takeover, we imported this absolutely wonderful drink from Sitia. When the Commander closed the border, we lost an endless list of luxury items. Of all those, I miss coffee the most.”

  “What about the black market?” I asked.

  Rand laughed. “It’s probably available. But there’s nowhere in this castle that I could make it without being discovered.”

  “I’ll most likely regret asking you this, but why not?”

  “The smell. The coffee’s rich and distinct aroma would give me away. The scent of brewing coffee can weave its way throughout the entire castle. I woke up to it every morning before the takeover.” Rand sighed again. “My mother’s job was to grind the coffee beans and fill the pots with water. It’s very similar to brewing tea, but the taste is far superior.”

  I sat up straighter on my stool when I heard the word beans. “What color are coffee beans?”

  “Brown. Why?”

  “Just curious,” I said in a calm tone, but excitement boiled within me. My mystery beans were brown, and Brazell was old enough to know about coffee. Maybe he missed the drink, and planned to manufacture it.

  My efforts to ferment the pod’s pulp had resulted in a thin chestnut-colored liquid that tasted rotten. The purple seeds inside the pulp had been sopping wet, and covered with flies. I had closed the window and dried the seeds on the windowsill. As they dried, the seeds turned to brown and looked and tasted like the beans from the caravan. Thrilled to link the pods with the beans, my excitement had faded when I hadn’t been able to learn anything further.

  “Does coffee taste sweet?” I asked.

  “No. It’s bitter. My mother used to add sugar and milk to half of her finished pots, but I liked it plain.”

  My beans were bitter. I couldn’t sit still any longer; I had to find out if Valek remembered coffee. I felt uncomfortable asking Rand, unsure if Valek wanted him to know about the southern pods.

  After bidding farewell to Rand, who stared morosely into the failed batter as he drank his wine, I rushed back to Valek’s suite. The sound of slamming books greeted my entrance. Valek stormed around the living room, kicking piles of books over. Gray rock debris littered the floor and clung to impact craters on the walls. He clenched a stone in each fist.

  I had wanted to discuss my coffee hypothesis with him, but decided to wait. Unfortunately, Valek spotted me staring. “What do you want?” he snarled.

  “Nothing,” I mumbled and fled to my room.

  For three days, I endured Valek’s temper. He vented his ill humor on me at every opportunity. Thrusting the antidote at me, speaking curtly, if at all, and glaring whenever I entered a room. Weary of avoiding him and hiding in my room, I decided to approach him. He sat at his desk, his back to me.