The cave had been chosen for its lack of leaks and the walls rendered with pitch to seal it. Even so, pots of deliquescent rock-salt stood at regular intervals sucking moisture from the air to prevent mould. The place had an aromatic smell to it, scores of herb scents mixing. A sharp edge to the mingled aromas served as a reminder that sampling what lay on display would likely kill you.
In cabinets around the cavern pots and jars lined further shelves, scores of them in tidy rows. Unlike the herb bunches, which Apple presumably thought impossible to misidentify, the containers were labelled, some with the ingredients written in the glaze, others with the identifier seared onto a leather tag tied around the neck. Cloves, green peppercorns, red peppercorns, illwort hearts, dried cow dung, elmbark scrapings . . . On and on, the ordering sufficiently abstract that Nona could see only a hint of it.
Nona’s salvation in all this confusion was that the finished preparations were kept on one great set of shelves with an alphabetical ordering within various subgroups such as “contact poisons,” “ingested poisons,” “antidotes,” and “miscellaneous.”
The drops that Sister Apple had prepared were stored in a distinctive ceramic flask, wide at the base, narrow at the neck, and about two inches high. Nona found the flask quite rapidly in the miscellaneous section, sporting the label “Optorical greyjak, recipe fourteen, unreliable.”
The tiny flask released its hold on its cork stopper with a small pop. Nona poured half the contents into a glass tube and sealed the end with wax. She pushed the stopper back and was about to return the drops to the shelf when a key rattled into the door’s lock.
A great number of thoughts attempted to pass through Nona’s mind at the same time. Everything from the excuse she would offer first to which weapon she should use. A rant about the unfairness of it all struggled to be heard among the babble. Nona refused all of them admission. Instead her hand fell to the lantern. Sister Apple’s training was so ingrained that Nona had unconsciously been assessing the room for hiding places ever since she entered. The most obvious was in the gap behind the mixtures’ shelf. The curvature of the rock walls meant that none of the shelves could stand anywhere near flush with the stone. Instead Nona moved with hunska swiftness towards a sack bulging with fresh pickings from the woods and fields, still unsorted. Beside it lay two empty sacks and an over-habit soiled from some recent work.
The key turned, the lock clicked, the door began to open. Nona threw herself down, arraying the over-habit and sacks across the length of her, pressing her body into the angle between wall and floor. She hid her feet behind the full sack, wishing that she were as small and flexible as Ghena, who might have concealed herself entirely in such a bag. As the gap at the door grew still wider Nona blew out her lantern and pushed it down between her legs beneath the over-habit, wincing at its heat. At the last moment she pulled her hood up to hide her face. Only then did she allow despair in. Perhaps Apple and Kettle wouldn’t report her to Wheel, but the loss of trust, and the disappointment in their eyes, would hurt worse than a whipping.
As concealment went it was a pretty poor job, but people see what they expect to see and a shapeless heap of sacking and soiled clothes rarely merits close inspection. In any event neither Sister Apple nor Kettle would miss her wherever she hid. Even if they didn’t notice the groove in the stone that meant unlocking the door had been unnecessary, and neither of them would miss that, then the smell of her lantern would be enough to set them searching. If it were Apple rather than Kettle, then at least Nona’s current position held the possibility of a mad scramble for the door while her back was turned.
Nona lay as she had been taught, not rigid but boneless despite every instinct to tense. A lantern’s glow pressed through the material of her hood. Why would either nun have a lantern with her? Nobody at the convent worked shadows as well as Kettle or Apple.
The person entered. A single person, their footsteps uncertain. Nona called on her clarity, letting her mind sink into the web of its senses. She could still hear distant echoes of passion, Kettle by the sound of it. Who else would have a key? And how had they got into the caves? A second key to the gate above?
The intruder moved hurriedly around the room, picking up something here, something there, a rustle, a sniff, moving on. It reminded Nona of her first raid on the stores, collecting ingredients. Clearly she hadn’t been alone in thinking to make use of the opportunity provided by Kettle’s return. Nona lay like a dead thing. Despite her boredom in the sanatorium she had to admit that Sister Rose might have had a point. The climb down to the Shade windows had exhausted her and all she really wanted to do was lie down, regardless of her racing heart.
Listening to the intruder’s to-ing and fro-ing, Nona tried to picture where they went in the room. At least the fact that the person carried a lantern themselves left them unable to detect the lingering smoke of her own. Even so, something spooked them. The hurried activity ceased. A long moment’s silence, then a high pop as if a small bottle were being unstoppered.
The eye-drops. Nona hadn’t had time to put them away.
“I can see you.” A female voice. Young. Familiar. “Come out.”
Nona took care not to tense. The fractional movements could give her away.
Silence. Then slow footsteps, coming closer, not a direct path but gradually drawing closer nonetheless.
“I won’t hurt you . . .”
Nona reached into the rock around her. It wasn’t hard to do; her face had been pressed to the cold stone floor long enough to go numb. She reached in with her mind and followed the surfaces, her perception tingling over the interior of the cave. Her marjal stone-work would never move mountains, but watching and sensing Zole at work had been enough of a lesson to help her focus what talent she had. Gritting her teeth, Nona pushed. On the opposite side of the cave a flake of stone broke free of the wall and fell. The faint sound brought the intruder round in a sharp turn. Something hit the far side of the chamber. A throwing star by the sound of it rolling for a moment before fetching up against some other surface.
“Pits!” The girl hurried over to where she’d thrown her missile.
Nona tilted her head a fraction. Enough to offer a slit of vision from beneath the folds of her habit’s hood. Her view was partial, a kneeling figure silhouetted against the lantern held high before her. Even so, with the glow setting the golden edges of her hair aflame it was enough. Joeli Namsis had favoured “pits” as a curse of late.
Nona returned her head to its original position, losing sight of her enemy. They said Joeli was the best poisoner among the novices. And not Ruli’s elusive “they” but everyone. Nona had, in moments of particular paranoia when Abbess Glass fell sick, wondered if Joeli was poisoning her. She’d discounted the idea on the basis that Joeli couldn’t possibly be so good at the craft that she fooled both Sister Rose and Sister Apple. Additionally, continuing to dose the ailing Glass despite Kettle watching over her with single-minded devotion would have been beyond the girl. Of course . . . Nona hadn’t considered that Joeli might have access to the stores cavern and the rows of preparations waiting there. Could she have been tainting the very cures that Apple applied? The thought sent a cold shiver up Nona’s spine, rage burning in its wake.
Could Joeli have done it, though? Sister Apple herself was always full of praise for the girl’s efforts. And that assessment stood in the face of the suspicion that her truth pill might have been circumvented in the matter of Joeli’s role in Darla’s death. Joeli could certainly brew with rare skill. As to the delivery Nona was less impressed. Joeli had never managed to poison her. In fact Nona wasn’t certain Joeli had ever tried, which spoke of a lack of confidence in her skills as she certainly wasn’t shy with her thread-work. But if all she had to do was to come to the stores chamber during a Shade class and add a drop to the abbess’s medicines . . .
Joeli poked around on the far side of the room while Nona seet
hed with the darkest of thoughts. After what felt like an age but was probably no more than a couple of minutes Joeli finished her stealing. Seemingly satisfied, she gathered up her takings. The sound of footsteps making for the door followed.
Nona lay motionless as Joeli rummaged for her key. Apart from Mistress Shade surely only the abbess would have a key to two convent sigil-locks. Possibilities raced through Nona’s mind. Would Wheel have just given Joeli the key? She had always liked the girl . . . but to risk Sister Apple’s wrath like this?
The door opened on oiled hinges and a particularly loud squeal reached through from down the tunnel. Nona pressed her lips against the smile that wanted to show there. A momentary pang of jealousy ran through her. She and Regol were never so loud. Were they doing it wrong? Perhaps it was just the nuns’ misplaced faith in the caves’ privacy. Certainly Alata and Leeni didn’t keep the whole dorm awake at night.
At last the rattle of the key being set in the lock broke Nona’s chain of thought. A pause. The door closing. Another pause. Nona’s heart began to pound. Had Joeli noticed the groove she’d made in the stone? Would she raise the alarm? Joeli knew the abbess would come down lightly on her, and like the Rock of Faith on Nona. Did she have the stomach to take a whipping in order to see Nona banished again . . . or worse?
Click. Finally Joeli turned the key and locked the door. Nona allowed herself a sigh of relief.
A moment later the door opened again without any unlocking. “I hope you like your mustard grey?”
Something hit the ceiling with a soft popping noise. The door shut quickly and rapid footsteps faded into the distance.
* * *
• • •
NONA DREW A deep breath, initiated by shock but prolonged by the knowledge that if Joeli really had thrown grey mustard spores at the ceiling they would not yet have had time to reach her.
She turned her face towards the rocky wall, thinking furiously. Her hands were already inside her sleeves and now she gathered the slack ends into her fists, sealing the ends. Joeli had trapped her in a dark cave that was rapidly filling with grey mustard spores. The door stood about four yards from Nona’s position, with two sets of freestanding shelves to be navigated around. There was no way she could make it out in time.
Grey mustard? Would Joeli do that? Even for her it was extreme. Nona’s corpse would be an ugly thing, skin blistered and burned, eyes clawed to ruin by her own hands. The agonizing death could take the best part of an hour, so Sister Apple would doubtless find her as she wrecked the stores chamber with her convulsions. There would be nothing that even the Poisoner could do, though, other than watch her die.
Nona couldn’t believe it. How would Joeli even get her hands on . . . Nona remembered where she was. Joeli could have stolen some there and then. What to do? The time to run had gone, and in truth there had never been time to run, not after that first soft impact of the package hitting the ceiling.
Keep calm. Sister Apple’s first piece of advice. Easily said, hard to do. Panic would burn up the air in Nona’s lungs more quickly. Grey mustard spores had to be kept completely dry. They lost their effectiveness rapidly in damp conditions. In a fog they wouldn’t spread and would lose potency within seconds. In the moist air of the undercaves they might stay dangerous for five or ten minutes. But Sister Apple had taken great care to keep the stores chamber arid. It might be an hour before it was completely safe to walk around.
The mustard spores wouldn’t penetrate cloth in a hurry and Nona was well covered, but if she got up and started to run they would swirl up under her habit and likely find a way into her hood and down her sleeves. Nona had seen the scars on Sister Rock’s leg where she was exposed to the margins of a mustard cloud. The wounds were angry, red, and ugly. Sister Apple said the pain could last a lifetime. Which went a long way towards explaining Rock’s temper.
Nona’s lungs began to tingle with the first hint of the burn that would grow and grow, demanding that she draw breath. Her rock-work offered no solutions; she had no flame even if she had the skills to do more than make shapes in the fire. Her marjal dominance over water and air was less dominance and more being able to ask the occasional small favour. Speed wouldn’t save her. Possibly she could walk the Path, but she felt too weak and the energies she would gain might wreck the room but they would be unlikely to destroy all the spores.
Frustration warred with raw terror. After all this time Joeli was going to win and Nona would die the worst of deaths alone in the dark.
Without hope she began to roll, keeping her legs tight together, depending on the sacks, the over-habit, and the skirts of her own habit wrapping tight around her ankles. She raised her arms to pin the hood around her face as best she could. The total darkness stopped her from knowing whether there were gaps through which the spores could reach her eyes. She would soon find out if there were.
Five or six rotations were sufficient to start Nona’s internal map of the cave spinning. She tried to roll slowly enough so that the sacks and her habit wouldn’t flap around her, but the air in her lungs couldn’t last forever. Already she wanted to take that breath.
Surprise at the sudden impact of her ankles against something unyielding almost made Nona inhale. A series of crashing sounds followed, Sister Apple’s precious ingredients taking the plunge. Nona buried any guilt under the certainty that an agonizing death waited in her immediate future. Already her ankles were burning. She pushed away images of a survival that left her scorched, her face a ruin, scalp pink and scarred, the shock and revulsion as her friends first saw her . . . Regol’s features stiffening, the smile falling from his lips.
An adjustment and another set of rolls brought a second collision. Another series of crashes followed. Panic wrapped itself around Nona’s lungs, squeezing tight. She didn’t know where she was; she couldn’t roll to the door. She would have to stand, exposing herself to the spores. And even as she began to rise she knew with cold certainty that before she found the door in the darkness, flailing around as the skin bubbled from her hands, she would have to draw breath, and then her lungs would start to perish. Nona had seen men die from grey mustard; she’d watched it through Kettle’s eyes deep within the Tetragode. She couldn’t end like that. Fear only consumed her air more swiftly but serenity had escaped her.
Gathering her courage, Nona rose and launched herself in the direction she hoped the door lay. With arms folded over her face she crashed into something that was not a door. A whole rack of shelves toppled to the ground with Nona tangled in the structure. Pots and packages rained down and each shelf seemed to break free of the frame as the thing fell.
Nona hit the ground hard and lay face down amid the sharp edges of the clutter. She had to draw breath. The whole of her body clamoured for it. Traitor muscles lifted her chest demanding air. She clamped her jaw, hammering the ground with her fists, refusing defeat. Spots of red light flashed in her vision, the beat of her heart became a drum, a thunder in her ears, the pressure built, beyond pain, beyond resistance. With a sob of despair she released the stale breath she had clung to so long, and hauled in a new one.
The burn hit immediately. Within moments Nona was rolling helplessly, coughing, choking, her eyes beginning to sting. Spluttering, the drool running from her chin, Nona gained all fours and crawled, direction abandoned to panic now. She banged her head against stone and sobbing she followed the wall around with blind hands. At last she found the wood of the door. It gave beneath her push and she tumbled out into the corridor.
Nona sat, wiping snot and slobber from her face. ATISHOO! An almighty sneeze shook her, ringing down the tunnel.
It took another moment to realise that it hadn’t been grey mustard. “Pepper!” ATISHOO!
Apart from the echoes of Nona’s sneeze there was no noise.
“Shit!”
Somewhere along the tunnel a door opened.
Nona leapt up. A whisper of l
ight from the Shade classroom windows gave her direction and the edges of the corridor. She slapped a hand to the wall where she had carved a channel for the lock catch. A pulse of marjal enchantment and rock started to rain from the area in fragments. She hadn’t time to repair her work so she hoped to hide it instead. The damage could look like the work of hammer and chisel now.
She was running before Kettle’s shout rang out. She tore along the tunnel, bashed through the door into Shade class and dived the length of the window tunnel, escape now her only thought.
As her body flew towards daylight Nona clung to the moment, so fiercely that she seemed to inch through the air. She couldn’t climb. Kettle was too fast. She would reach the window and look up. But down was so much farther . . .
Nona touched her hands to the wall to slow her at the exit . . . and dropped.
The cliff below the windows was near vertical. The fall was more than two hundred yards to wooded slopes that rose in the shadow of the Rock of Faith. Nona twisted as she fell. When the rock-face threatened to scrape against her she nudged herself out by fractions with hunska-speed kicks. She dropped a hundred yards, now travelling so fast that it seemed rapid even in the midst of her own swiftness.
Nona couldn’t use her flaw-blades, not in sight of the window. Her descent would be too slow and the marks left behind would make it obvious who had been there. Another fifty yards of wall sped by. The treetops approached at frightening velocity.
At the last moment Nona drove her flaw-blades into the rock with one hand, at first just the tips, letting her arm take the strain of deceleration. She used the other arm to angle her blades against the stone and keep her body clear. Without that precaution she would have left half her flesh in a thirty-yard smear reaching to the ground. The force on her arm grew and grew with each passing yard, threatening to pull her shoulder from its socket. She slowed from a hurtle to a rush. The thump with which she hit the mossy boulders piled around the tree trunks at the Rock’s base was the kind you hobbled away from cursing, rather than the kind that was both wet and crunchy.
Holy Sister Page 11