The Poison Throne (44 page)

“Aye, sir,” replied the soldier softly.

The commander maintained his close intimidation of the man for a moment, then stepped away. “Never fret, lad,” he said in consolation. “The King will exact revenge on your behalf. He’ll never let us down.”

Wynter slowly closed her fingers into the cold leaves, her fear for Razi a solid lump in her throat.

“Do you think the Hadrish got out, sir?”

“Aye,” said the commander thoughtfully, “I do.” He turned and Wynter assumed he was looking in the direction of the hills. “No matter,” he murmured. “The lads in the forest will get him…”

“We should head out after him too, sir.”

“No. First you get Lionel to the doctor, then you find Norman. I must report to the King.” He began to walk back to the palace. The others remained where they were, and he called to them as he left, “Should you meet the Arab, restrain yourselves from murder… you hear?”

The two men muttered a low, insincere chorus of “aye sir.” The commander jogged away.

“’T’aint murder if he falls down the stairs,” murmured Graham.

“Oh aye, or drowns in a horse trough… man like that, anything could happen him.”

Muttering darkly and growling to each other in mutinous tones, the men gathered themselves together and began to move off in the direction of Doctor Mercury’s quarters. The wounded man’s feet dragged in the leaves, two rutted tracks from the toes of his boots marking the path they took away through the trees.

The soldiers passed quickly from sight and earshot, but Wynter found it difficult to crawl back out from hiding. It took a tremendous effort of will to get her arms and legs co-ordinated enough to move, and when she finally sat up out of the filthy leaves, she had difficulty standing because her legs were shaking so badly.

Rory was watching her from the path. She stood and faced him, leaves in her hair, her face and hands filthy, her shift smeared with moss and clay. “Where is Alberon, Rory?”

“He that knows… will not travel. He is twisted, and does not yet know he is dead…”

“Does not know he is dead? Is he a
spirit
, Rory?” She considered this. Some spirits had very limited spheres of influence. “Can
I
go to
him
?”

Rory looked uncertain. He began to drift without walking, like thistledown being shifted by the wind. He was as flimsy as mist, vague and unfocused. “The others…” he murmured distantly. “They object…”

“Where must I go, Rory? To meet this man?”

Rory raised his eyes, looking over the trees to somewhere Wynter couldn’t see. “The others…”

“Aye, Rory. The others object…” Wynter tried hard to keep the impatience from her voice. God knows, Rory looked to have paid the price for his defiance of “the others”, whoever they might be. “But I
must
talk to this man. I
must
find Alberon, Rory! Help me!”

He directed his gaze to her, and she tried not to flinch as he drifted towards her, his eyes roaming her face. He came very close. He was shifting, like reflected water, his features rippling in a way that could not bode well for him.

Can ghosts die? If they can, then this must be how it looks.

Rory brought his face close to hers. It was still his face, his gentle, intelligent, wistful face, the face of her childhood playmate. But standing this close and with Rory staring so intently, Wynter, for the first time in her life, felt the grave off him. She could hear it moving under his skin, invisible but tangible to the soul, the squirm and struggle of all that happened to the body after death. She felt that, if she just looked hard enough, she would
see
the corruption vibrating beneath the surface.

“Rory…” she whispered, horrified. “What has befallen you?”

“I will hold them off…” he sighed. “While you speak to the man… but I cannot distract them long, and when I yell for you to run, you must
run
! Fast and far. You understand, little Moorehawke?”

Wynter nodded mutely.

Rory’s attention drifted away from her, and he bobbed gently, like a leaf on a pond. “Tonight,” he murmured. “When the world is still… I will meet you there.” He began to fade away and she reached for him in panic.

“Rory! Where? Where will I meet you? Where?”

He focused again, looking at her in surprise. “Why, the keep, dear… he will not leave the Chair… he does not understand that he has been released.”

Wynter felt the cold wave of understanding wash over her. She took two unwitting steps back and turned her head away slightly, narrowing her eyes against the thought. “Rory,” she whispered. “Do you mean…? Rory, is it the boy? The assassin?”

“The Twisted Man, girl. Aye. The Tortured Man.” Rory was exhausted, his voice barely audible. “Tonight,” he sighed, “when the world is still, I will meet you there… I will try… and distract… the others.” He turned his head tiredly and faded away. His words lingered after him, as ghost words often do.

“And I shall guide you there and back,” said the cat, looking her up and down, its tail twitching. Wynter jumped, startled to see it still there. The cat narrowed its eyes at her and sneered, shaking its head in disapproval. “Great Hunter, girl! Do try not to quail! It makes thee look like prey.”

Make Merry, And
Laugh While We May

“… and they have done a good job?”

Wynter sighed, “Aye, Dad. They did a good job.” She didn’t lift her eyes from the sheet of paper in her hands. She knew that Lorcan’s rasped question was just for the sake of saying something. Of course Pascal’s boys had done a good job. They had done an
excellent
job. There had never been any question of them doing otherwise. That was why Lorcan had chosen them in the first place. However, it didn’t escape Wynter’s notice that Lorcan didn’t ask for her opinion on how the library looked.

She sighed, folded the paper and dropped her hands to her lap.

The library looked awful. Particularly to Wynter’s professional eye. All those blank spaces glaring out from the beautifully carved wood. Everywhere one looked, bare, naked patches jarred and caught the eye. She closed her eyes and shook her head to remove the images from her mind.

When she had turned up at the library this morning she had been genuinely surprised to find only Pascal waiting on her. He had been gazing thoughtfully out a window when she came in, and for a moment she had thought something terrible had happened to his boys. But the man had just smiled sadly at her and swept his hand around the room, “So,” he had said. “And we are done.”

Wynter had gaped around her in shock. She had not noticed how quickly the work had been progressing. It occurred to her that she had spent most of the last few days sitting on a windowsill staring into space while Pascal’s crew had worked around her.

And now it was done, this shameless mutilation of her father’s work, finished.

Wynter snapped her eyes open with a grimace. She looked at the paper in her hands again and unfolded it once more, scanning the page, as if its contents could somehow erase the memory of that awful destruction.

Lorcan eyed her from his pillows. She was sitting cross-legged, in her work clothes, at the bottom of his bed. She had come straight into his room after the library, left her tools by his door and climbed onto the foot of his bed without a word. She’d crossed her legs, leaned her head back against the footboard, and closed her eyes. She had stayed that way, silent and withdrawn, until poor Marcello had made his gentle, unobtrusive exit. Then, once she was sure they were alone, she’d opened her eyes and looked at her father. Lorcan had sighed heavily and smiled at her, and nodded.

Wynter glanced up from the paper again as her father slowly eased himself lower in the bed and settled back against the pillows with a hiss. He had tried to spend as much time as possible out of bed today and it had taken its toll. He closed his eyes. He had not seemed at all surprised when she told him that the library was done.

Wynter dropped her eyes to the paper, re-reading the careful, squared-off notations, the painstakingly executed staves. It had never occurred to her before, how difficult it would be for Christopher to use a quill, but of course, it must have been a very laborious procedure.
Designed to rob me of everything I am
, he had said,
a very effective revenge
.

It was a carefully ruled score, three repeating stanzas. A duet for recorders, one a deep register, one high. The lower register was a slow, stately, pulsing melody, beautiful in its simplicity, weighty and grand. And over the top of it, a tripping harmony, chuckling almost. It was like a bright stream running through the depths of a mighty forest, majesty and joy combined. It was called “Lorcan” and Christopher had left it folded under her father’s tea-glass before he left that morning.

Wynter could not keep looking at it. If she did, she would begin to crack. She folded the paper for the last time and handed it to her father. He reached out without looking and slipped the sheet under his pillow, his eyes on the rapidly darkening sky outside his window.

They had tomorrow, that was all: tomorrow. The day after that, Wynter would have to leave him. There were so many things they should say to each other, but neither of them seemed to have the heart for words. Maybe tomorrow. Yes. Tomorrow she would be able to speak, and all the things she had to tell him would just flow from her.

“Perhaps tomorrow,” said Lorcan quietly, speaking to the sky, “I might manage a walk in the orange garden.” His words were a reflection of her own thoughts and Wynter nodded wordlessly, too filled up to reply.

The sky was like a bruise outside the window, Lorcan watched the clouds darken, the bright edges of them growing dim as the sun set. He closed his eyes in a small frown, pain perhaps, or an unhappy thought. He turned his head towards her, opened his green eyes and hesitated. He began to say something. Then they both froze, listened intently and grinned at another slight scratching on the secret panel. Razi! They blossomed in delight rousing to action.

Lorcan heaved himself into a sitting position. Nodding to Wynter that she should get the door, he happily smoothed down the covers and raked his fingers through his hair in grinning anticipation. Wynter leapt from the bed and ran to slide back the secret panel.

Razi stood uncertainly in the passageway, as if unsure of his welcome. He had a portfolio under his arm and was stooped to see under the doorframe. He smiled hesitantly, peering at her from the shadows.

“Hello, Wyn,” he said. “May… may I come in?”

Her smile faltered at sight of the fresh bruises on his face, and then she stepped into the passageway and wrapped her arms around him in a gentle hug.

“Hello, Razi,” she said softly. “We were worried for you.” She tried not to squeeze too hard, but still he gasped and stiffened, and gently pried her arms from around his waist.

He kept hold of her hand and kissed her fingers with a gallant little bow. “No need to worry. I’m indispensable, remember?”

Lorcan sobered at the sight of Razi’s face and the stiff hunched-over way in which the young man entered his room. But Razi only grinned at him, and no one made any comment when he winced and faltered before sitting down into the chair by Lorcan’s bed.

Razi placed the portfolio onto Lorcan’s covers, a little smile on his face. “I brought this for you, friend. I knew you would love it.” He nudged the folder with his fingers, his eyes bright with expectancy, nodding for Lorcan to open it. “I had it copied while in the Moroccos. Though I say it myself, it’s a very, very fine translation. I got one for Father’s library, but this one…” he glanced shyly into Lorcan’s face, “this one is yours.”

Lorcan ran his hand over the plain leather folder, and he glanced at Wynter in obvious pleasure. She grinned at him and sat on the foot of the bed, intrigued. The big man bit his lip in pleased anticipation and undid the ties, opening the folio to reveal a beautifully bound book. His eyes widened in awe, and he sighed with amazement as he drew the book onto his knee and slowly turned the pages. It was entitled
The Book of Ingenious Mechanical Devices,
and as Lorcan became absorbed in the intricate drawings, Razi spoke quietly and pointed to this bit and that bit of text or illustration.

“The original is about three hundred years old, written by a fascinating man, Badi’ al-Zaman al-Jazari. An engineer and an inventor…” Razi looked up at Lorcan, “Just like you.” The two men smiled at each other, and Lorcan turned his attention back to the book.

“Incredible,” he murmured, “Three hundred years?”

“Aye.”

The three of them bent their heads to the pages and Wynter pointed to a lovely illustration of some Persian waterwheels. “This reminds me of the system you designed for Shirken, Dad. Remember?”

“Aye,” breathed Lorcan absently, turning another page.

“Dad designed a wonderful system of plumbing for Shirken’s palace, Razi. It brought water to every room in the complex, using something Dad called a pump.”

Razi’s eyes widened in fascination. He was about to ask a question, when Lorcan commented dryly, without looking up from the book. “I never saw it completed. Jon called me home before I had a chance to oversee construction. Look at this!” He tilted a page to Razi, pointing to some intricate system or another.

But Razi did not look at the page, instead he gazed at Lorcan. He seemed to consider something and then he said, “An interesting thing about al-Jazari, Lorcan: it is said that he suppressed many of his own inventions.” Lorcan froze and glanced sharply at Razi. “It would appear he considered much of what he created too… destructive… for public consumption.”

Lorcan straightened and closed the book. His face shuttered, his eyes suddenly cold. Razi held up his hand, his mouth curving into a smile. “Lorcan. I am not probing. I am just telling you. Al-Jazari was an interesting and intelligent man. A decent human being. Everything he has left for posterity was to the benefit of mankind. Men like him, men like
you
, they are few and far between in this world. That is all I wanted to say.” He spread his hand, and tilted his head. “That is all.”