The Poison Throne (15 page)

Fishing for Flies

F
alse dawn was glimmering over the trees when the three of them came into the kitchen. They still had at least another quarter of the shadows before anyone but the fire-keeper would be wandering about. The old woman was actually just banking up the grate when they came slowly down the back stairs, and Razi snapped at her to leave them, his voice uncharacteristically harsh. She startled, bowed and scuttled off, shutting the door behind her.

Except for the little spit-boy, asleep in his crate of straw by the hearth, they were alone in the dancing light of the newly-stoked fire.

Razi got them beakers of water, horse-bread and butter, smoked fish, and they sat at the small table, not touching their food. Christopher was staring at Razi, his face hard, and Razi was pretending not to notice. Wynter was trying to keep her mind from dwelling on that chair, those instruments, and the memory of Razi stalking out of the smoke and firelight, bubbling screams rising up behind him.

“I’m SORRY!” shrieked Razi suddenly, rounding on Christopher and making Wynter jump. But he didn’t sound sorry. He sounded angry, he sounded furious, and his face was scarlet with rage. Christopher just looked at him, a stone wall, and Razi pounded the table with his fist. “I’m SORRY, Christopher! I’m SORRY, goddamn you, I’m bloody
sorry
!” And he
was
sorry then, his anger melting like ice on a skillet, leaving only regret. He put his face in his hands, and his voice was cracking when he said, “I can’t believe I let it go on so long.”

Christopher’s face softened for a moment and he moved his hand as though to reach out to his friend.

“Did you get anything from him?” Wynter asked. Christopher grunted in disgust and pushed back from the table with a screech of wood on stone. He went over to the fireplace and sat on the nook-bench beside the sleeping child. He turned his back on Razi and Wynter, his elbows on his knees, the fire outlining his taut profile in flickering light.

“Did you, Razi?” she asked again, her voice hard, purposely disregarding Christopher’s obvious abhorrence.

“Not much,” said Razi, tearing his eyes from the fireplace. “Just that Oliver sent him and…” he faltered, not looking her in the face.

“And? What?”

He looked at her then, the fire burning in his eyes, and she knew he was going to lie even before he wet his lips and opened his mouth. “That’s all,” he said, “Oliver sent him. That’s all we got.”

Wynter gazed at him. Oliver, her father’s old friend, the King’s beloved cousin. The man who had fought valiantly by the King’s side all through the insurrection, disgraced now, and fled the palace for reasons known only to the King. He had sent this man? But why? Why would he want Razi dead? It made no sense.

Razi slid a sideways look at her and she knew he was not telling her everything. Chuffing impatiently and pushing back from the table, Wynter glared at her friend. “What are you hiding, Razi Kingsson?” she said, “I’m not ten years old and in need of protecting now. Tell me!”

Christopher snorted in admiration and Razi ran his fingers through his hair, cornered. “There’s… he kept babbling about some kind of machine… what he called, ‘The Bloody Machine’. That, and Oliver… that’s all…”

There was more. She could tell. Something Razi couldn’t bring himself to say, and her intuition made her ask, “Did he mention Alberon?”

Razi glanced at Christopher, who turned to look briefly at them before facing back to the fire. Razi slid a glance at Wynter and shook his head, his gaze dropping to the table. She didn’t believe him. He might as well have had
LIAR
written in burning letters on his forehead. But that was all right, she’d get it out of him later. Perhaps it was something he didn’t want to say in front of Christopher.

“Why did the ghosts interfere, Razi?” Christopher said, speaking quietly. “What difference does any of this make to ghosts? They don’t care about anything. And why should the cats get involved?”

Wynter answered thoughtfully, working it out as she spoke. “I think the cats thought that the prisoner knew something… that he had information that would harm the King. And they wanted him to survive long enough to give you that information. Jonathon betrayed them, Razi, he
poisoned
them. They want their revenge. The ghosts must want to protect the King. They must…” Wynter hesitated, confused at the very thought of it. “The ghosts must have taken sides!”

Razi gave her a doubt-filled look. Even Christopher glanced at her sceptically. “Ghosts don’t take sides,” he said.

“A machine,” Razi mused, “The Bloody Machine… that’s what he called it. The Bloody Machine.”

“For Godssake!” growled Christopher suddenly. “He was talking about the chair! That’s all! That damned…
contraption
you had him in! That’s all!”

Razi flung his hand up and twisted his head away. “All right! all right!” he cried. “Just stop talking about it!”

They subsided into a bruised silence, over which the fire roared and crackled, the smell of smoke reminding them of the smoke-filled room with its odour of burning flesh and hair. Razi’s hands tightened to knots on the table, his eyes tormented.

Christopher suddenly gasped in surprise, and Wynter and Razi turned to see the cause. The spit-boy had lifted his hand and was sleepily running his fingers over Christopher’s loosely hanging fist. They watched as the little fellow, still comfortably curled in his sleep-shape, ran his fingers along Christopher’s mangled knuckles.

“How do, mouse,” whispered Christopher. “Thought you were asleep?”

“My Lord Razi woke me,” murmured the child, his cheek resting on his fist, his eyes silver slits under his eyelashes. He was barely awake. “What befell your fingers, mister?”

Christopher put the child’s exploring hand back under the blanket and pushed the greasy hair back off his little face. He ran his thumb across the sooty forehead. “Go to sleep,” he said quietly, “your day will start soon enough.”

The child’s eyes began to drift shut as Christopher continued to run his thumb across his brow.

“Tell me,” the boy insisted sleepily, his eyes still closed. Christopher chuffed a little laugh. Wynter was glad to see that even Razi, so downcast moments before, brightened noticeably, amusement gradually replacing the horror in his eyes.

“Tell me,” implored the child, with all the drowsy persistence of the very young.

“They were eaten by a bear,” whispered Christopher, with such easy conviction that for a moment Wynter believed him, though the story was patently ridiculous.

The child’s eyes showed silver under his lashes again and he peered at Christopher across a huge chasm of sleep, not sure if he believed him. Christopher breathed another soft laugh. “I was fishing for flies…” he said confidentially.

“For flies?”

“Aye.” Christopher’s thumb kept up its easy stroking of the little forehead. “Ain’t you never fished for flies?” The child shook his head, his eyes closing despite his best efforts. “Huh,” said Christopher, “how do you feed your frogs then?”

The child’s eyes stayed shut and Christopher slowly took his hand away, listening to the gentle rise and fall of the boy’s breath. Wynter found herself yearning for the rest of the story. After all that had happened tonight, she wanted to hear more about frogs, and fishing for flies.

Christopher straightened and then chuckled as the sleepy little voice said, “Don’t got me no frogs.”

Christopher bent forward again, murmuring low so that Razi and Wynter had to strain to hear. The fire shot blue and lilac highlights through his curtain of black hair and outlined his chin in gold as he said, “Oh, you must get some frogs, lad. They are excellent good companions.”

Razi stretched his hand across the table, palm up, and Wynter took it lightly in hers, as if they were children again, listening to Salvador Minare spinning his tales at the fire in Jonathon’s chambers.

“How you fish for flies?” the boy mumbled.

“Well…” Christopher’s scarred hand lay on the side of the small head. “You just dip your fingers in honey and wait. “’Course, I fell asleep, didn’t I? And when I woke up, that bloody bear was making off with my fingers. I chased him, of course, and he dropped all but the two that are missing. And your good Lord Razi, he sewed the others back on for me, because he is a great doctor, and a most excellent man.”

Razi put his hand over his eyes at that.

“You know what the worst part was, mouse?”

“Mmmmhmmm?”

“Those two fingers had all my best rings on them. Now, whenever I see a bear I follow him home to see if he’s shat out my jewels.”

The child squeaked out a little laugh of delighted revulsion. “Ew! You roots in bear poop!”

“Silly boy,” tutted Christopher, “I use a stick.”

The child was asleep, dropping off the precipice of consciousness as only the very innocent can. Christopher, his face still hidden, continued to stroke his cheek with his thumb, until Razi came over and put a hand on his shoulder.

“Come on,” he said roughly. “Bed.”

“I’ll stay a while,” Christopher said, his voice distant, not looking up.

“It’s not safe,” Wynter cautioned, more harshly than she intended. It was as though she and Razi felt duty bound to balance Christopher’s tenderness with iron and rough stone.

“Razi will be all right,” murmured Christopher, his eyes still on the sleeping child.

“For you, Chris,” said Razi, squeezing his friend’s shoulder, “It’s not safe for you.”

“Good Frith!” Christopher leapt angrily to his feet and ducked past them, pushing his way out of the fire-nook.

The cocks were just starting to crow as the three of them headed back to the secret passages and the uneasy comfort of their beds.

Mortuus in Vita

W
ynter rose from the deepest of sleeps to the sound of someone hammering on the receiving room door, and the sight of a raven on her windowsill. The raven cawed loudly and eyed her with malevolent disinterest. It had a long strip of bloody meat dangling from its beak, and there were bloody tracks on the pale wood of the sill.

Cages
, she thought, still gripped by sleep,
gibbets, blood and pain
.

The bird spread its huge wings, blotting out the light. Cawing again, it launched itself from the window and disappeared up to the roof, its cries like a rusty saw on knotted wood.

Wynter pushed herself onto her elbows. The shadows were short, the sun high and hot in her window. God, it must be midday or later, which would mean that she had slept like the dead for over eight hours! The hammering on the receiving room door grew louder. She struggled out from under the sheets and the netting, cursing Razi for the bitter draught he’d forced on her before bed. She could still feel its hold on her arms and legs, feel the sleep that kept sucking at her mind like a black river.

“I’m…” She cleared her throat and longed for water. “I’m coming!” she managed hoarsely, unbolting her bedroom door.

She heard Lorcan’s bolt fly back as she passed through the retiring room, and she was amazed to see him come stumbling to his door, frowsy and tousled, in bare feet and long johns, last night’s shirt hanging open to his belly. He had slept in, too! The lord and master of early rising!

“Whu…?” he said. He looked like a puzzled bear.

She opened the hall door and an irate courtier spread his hands at the sight of her in her shift and night cap. “It is the sixth quartering of the shadows!” he said in extreme agitation. Behind him a little page stood, patiently holding a large tray. He peeped at Wynter from around the taller man’s legs.

Lorcan cursed violently behind her and addressed the courtier in alarm. “Has he been waiting all this time?”

The courtier looked him up and down, his lip curling in barely suppressed disdain, just the right side of dangerous insolence. “The King has more urgent things at hand than to wait for you, Protector Lord Moorehawke. He bids you make haste, and he shall meet with you when he’s next free.”

They were treated to one more glacial look, and the man turned smartly on his heel and left.

Lorcan flung his hands up. He grabbed his tangled hair and squeezed his head, looked around him in flustered despair. “God
damn.
God
damn
… where are my poxy boots?”

The little page cleared his throat and offered his tray to Wynter. “Compliments of my Lord Razi, some breakfast. It’s all cold now, though.”

Wynter took it. “Thank you,” she said. The laundry-staff had deposited a neatly folded pile of their clothes by the door, the bill carefully pinned to the top layer. “Will you bring those in for me, little man?”

The page did as he was bid. He seemed young enough and innocent enough, but when Wynter asked him how fared the Lord Razi, the boy just looked at her with solemn, court-wary eyes and didn’t reply. She pursed a sad little smile and nodded to dismiss him. He left with last night’s untouched supper things, and she put the new tray on the table, lifting the cover with the sudden realisation that she was starving.

Lorcan came storming from his room, a boot in one hand. “What are you doing?” he exclaimed. “Get dressed!”

“Sit down and eat, Dad. Razi said…”

“Wynter! Get your work clothes on, Jonathon is
waiting,
he’s been waiting for
hours
!”

His colour was very high. Wynter felt like grabbing him and telling him to
calm down
before he collapsed again. Instead she sat down and began to butter a scone, as though they had all the time in the world. The scone was rich and fluffy, ripe with sultanas. Lorcan suddenly couldn’t take his eyes from it.

“Dad,” she said, “the King is
not
waiting. You know that. He’s gone off somewhere. It doesn’t matter what business you have with him, he’s going to ignore you for hours now, just to show you who’s boss. Have some breakfast. Razi says you have to eat.”

Lorcan’s eyes drifted to the tray. He swallowed at the sight of the coffee, which he hadn’t so much as smelled in five long years. Wynter had added cream and sugar and was pouring two big bowls of it. She pointedly put one of the bowls on his side of the table and took a long swallow from the other. Lorcan looked at the bowl, then at the flaky crescent breads, the herby lamb sausages, the boiled eggs and salt, the slices of fresh fruit. He swallowed again and Wynter heard the spit in his mouth.