The Poison Song

by Jen Williams

  ‘He is a thief.’ Chenlo’s voice floated across from the other side of the cell. ‘I will give you three guesses.’

  ‘There is a little temple to Tomas there, in a clearing in the forest overlooking the beach. There, the monks make these exquisite statues of the prophet, made, they say, with wood that has been blessed by his spirit specifically.’ Harlo cleared his throat. ‘How that works, I couldn’t tell you, but the monks certainly believed it. Believed it enough to sell me a great crate of the things, all earnest and eager for the coins I gave them back. I shipped those blessed statues all the way to Jarlsbad and told people that Tomas’s blessing would protect them from the Jure’lia. Sold out in a week.’

  Vintage shook her head. ‘Desperate people in desperate times.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Harlo sounded pleased with himself. ‘If you know just the right place to pinch a desperate person, you can get a decent profit from it. I was clearly onto a good thing, so I had a new batch of statues made.’

  ‘From the monks of Zanth?’

  ‘Not as such, no. More like some sympathetic tradesmen of Jarlsbad. Ones who, I’m sure, felt the spirit of Tomas moving within them when I offered them a decent chunk of coin for their labours.’

  ‘A thief and a con man,’ added Chenlo. Vintage flapped a hand dismissively at her unseen associate.

  ‘So why has Tyranny locked you up in here? I’d not imagine her to be one to persecute blasphemy, or even thieves, for that matter.’

  ‘Ah, well, it seems she took exception to me telling everyone that these statues would protect them against the Jure’lia. Apparently, that’s her job. Hers and that giant freakish bat of hers.’

  Vintage winced. ‘Be careful what you say, Harlo. Bats have freakishly good hearing. Still, that is interesting.’ She looked away from the small warped window. ‘It sounds as though Tyranny is taking her role here seriously.’

  ‘Or,’ said Chenlo, ‘she is simply taking the opportunity to “throw her weight around”, as you might say. She has spent years having to do whatever the Winnowry said. Now she is having fun casting her shackles off.’

  ‘You could be right.’ Vintage turned back to the window. ‘Queen Tyranny was once one of the most feared gangsters in Mushenska. Did you know that, Harlo?’

  ‘No, I bloody didn’t.’ Harlo no longer sounded so pleased with himself. Now he sounded sick. ‘Royalty and organised crime. All a shower of bastards, if you ask me.’

  Vintage snorted, amused, and then was startled to see her cell door swing slowly open. She had not heard anyone approach, and had not heard the sound of a key in the lock.

  ‘Who is it?’ She jumped down from the dresser and approached the door cautiously. A figure stood in the shadows there, coming no further into the room. It wore a dark grey hooded cloak, with most of its face hidden in shadow, and fine, pig-skin black gloves. The rest of the outfit that Vintage could see was made up of soft dark leather, carefully mended and patched. Something about it rang a bell at the back of her mind.

  ‘What is it?’ called Agent Chenlo.

  ‘Be quiet.’ Vintage took another cautious step forward, but the figure did not move or lift its head. This was not a guard. ‘Who are you?’

  The hood shifted as the figure tilted his head to one side. ‘I cannot be here long, and I cannot move as fast as I once could. I . . . helped you find a masterpiece once, Lady Vintage.’

  ‘Okaar?’ She came towards him but he stepped back. All of his old fluid grace was gone. Now he moved with caution and pain. ‘You are alive, then.’

  ‘More or less.’ He nodded and she caught a glimpse of his face; no longer bearded and smooth, but deeply scarred. Helcate’s acid, Vintage remembered. It had left his face a purple, rigid ruin.

  ‘Are you here to kill me for her, Okaar?’

  He laughed, a quick, choked noise. ‘She does not even know I am in the palace, Lady Vintage. Over the course of her little adventure here, we fell out. I thought it best to make myself scarce before she . . . made me scarce herself.’ He leaned back cautiously and looked down the corridor. ‘The guards here are slack, and they have many breaks.’

  ‘You objected to her plans?’ Vintage put her hands down by her sides. She found she was filled with the urge to push back his hood and take his face in her hands, as if she could heal it herself.

  ‘I felt that stealing control of an entire kingdom was overly ambitious, even for Tyranny. And it is an insult.’

  ‘But you aren’t from Jarlsbad.’

  ‘A neighbour,’ he said, smiling faintly again. ‘But I have family in these kingdoms, family who are close to the royal family. If they fell, their lives would get harder. I wanted to rest, and to hide for a while. We had all been injured, in various ways, and needed to recover properly. With the Winnowry gone, I thought we finally had our chance to be free.’ He grimaced. ‘But once Tyranny has an idea in her head . . . And being a queen was such an appealing idea, you see.’

  ‘I’m sure it was,’ said Vintage dryly. ‘So what are you doing, without Tyranny to order you around? What does a masterless assassin do with his time?’

  He tipped his head to one side. ‘I sharpen my knives, I craft my poisons. In the city of Jarlsbad, I entertain those with the coin and the appetite for unusual pastimes. Those who like to gamble with their lives.’ He shrugged a little awkwardly, and Vintage frowned, sure she was missing some hidden meaning. ‘It is a very different life.’

  ‘And Jhef? We saw her, she delivered food –’

  ‘I do not have much time, Lady Vintage, and neither do you.’ He glanced once more back down the corridor, then came into the room properly for the first time. He took hold of Vintage’s hand, and squeezed it. ‘She has picked the way that you will die, so prepare yourself. The fell-witch who was taken with you – she is a friend?’

  Vintage resisted the urge to shrug. ‘She is an ally, at least.’

  ‘Take this.’ From within his cloak he produced something wrapped in cloth, no longer than the palm of his hand. He passed it to her. ‘Get your fell-witch friend to drink what is within, just before. It might help.’

  She blinked at this strange instruction, before shaking her head. ‘I can’t trust you,’ she said, half regretfully. ‘You must know that, my darling?’

  He grinned, and there was a flash of the handsome man she remembered. ‘Why should you? Who, by Sarn’s bloodied bones, trusts an assassin?’

  He turned to go, and suddenly Vintage found that the little cell was not so cosy. She followed him to the door.

  ‘If you want to help, why don’t you get us out of here? You can unlock the doors and we’ll make a break for it.’

  He shook his head and pulled at his hood, twitching it to cover more of his face. ‘Lady Vintage, it has taken everything I have just to get these to you, and give you these small words. I no longer have the skill or the strength to fight my way past the guards coming back this way. You must fight for yourself. Be ready.’

  He shut the door in her face, quite abruptly. Vintage scrabbled at it but the locks had already slid back in place, and when she peered through the food slot, she could see nothing at all – only a slightly darker patch of shadow at the far end of the corridor. And then that was gone too.

  ‘Who was that?’ demanded Chenlo through her small window. ‘An associate of Tyranny’s?’

  ‘It was Okaar, the assassin your Winnowry assigned to keep an eye on her. Another brilliant decision from them, it has to be said.’ Vintage took the package over to the bed, ready to shove it under a sheet should a real guard suddenly appear. ‘If they’ve really fallen out, it could explain Tyranny’s unchecked megalomania. I always got the impression that he was her voice of reason.’

  ‘And what was it he gave you?’

  Vintage peeled back the cloth and unwound the package. The material itself appeared to be a bar towel from The Shining Coin, which surprised a smile out of her; she knew it well – everyone who travelled through Jarlsbad knew it. The Shining Co
in was an enormous pleasure palace within the central kingdom, dedicated to alcohol, dancing, and above all else, gambling. The name of the establishment was printed across the material, with its sigil beneath; the Jarlsbad symbol for luck, which looked a little like a bee. Wrapped inside the bar towel were three long vials, each containing a smoky orange liquid with dark inky globules moving through it. They were stoppered at the top with wax and cork. There was also a long, slender key, much too delicate for the locks on their cell doors.

  ‘My darling, I’ve no fucking clue.’

  Later, just as Vintage was beginning to slip into an uneasy sleep on the low, flat bed, the door to her cell opened again, revealing Jhef. This time, however, she was accompanied by a pair of burly guards, and she held her head up straight with no hint of amusement on her finely wrought features.

  ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘She wants to see you.’

  Vintage got off the bed slowly, considering her options. The vials and key Okaar had given her had been concealed inside her shirt, and there was the chance she would be searched by the guards – yet if she left them in the bed, there was also the possibility she wouldn’t be returning, and then what use would they be? In the end she went to the door and left with Jhef and the guards, the little package from Okaar feeling heavy against her stomach.

  They led her through a series of sharply angled corridors until they came to a set of spiral steps that led up and up, lit with blazing oil lamps that cast buttery light against more of the brightly coloured windows. It was late, and Vintage could see nothing but darkness beyond them.

  ‘So, any clues as to what sort of mood she’s in? I don’t suppose she’s had a change of heart, decided that being a despot is actually too much like hard work and retired to the country?’ Vintage watched Jhef’s face for a response and was rewarded only with a brief quirk of the eyebrows that she couldn’t interpret. When they reached the wide doors at the top of the tower, Vintage felt a slight tremor of panic. No crossbow, no Agent Chenlo, no Helcate. She was completely out of weapons.

  ‘Listen, Jhef darling, whatever conflict there is between your brother and Tyranny, you must know that he still cares about you greatly. Taking her side, well . . .’ The guard stepped forward and opened the doors. ‘I have siblings too, I know how difficult they can be, but ultimately you will regret –’

  Jhef rolled her eyes at this. ‘I’d hurry up and get in there, if I were you.’

  The girl stayed at the door with the guards, and Vintage walked into a dark circular chamber. After the dazzle of the oil lamps, it was difficult to make out where she was, but as her eyes adjusted she realised she had been quite wrong about the nature of the meeting. There was a huge bowl filled with over-ripe fruit in one corner, and a massive brass basin of water next to it. The topmost edges of the walls were covered in odd implements, hooks and shelves and thick leather straps, and on the far side of the room, the chamber was partially open to the still night air. A huge pale shape shuffled towards her out of the shadows.

  ‘Not too dark for you?’ said Windfall. ‘I prefer dark. I can see my city better.’

  ‘Your Majesty,’ Vintage inclined her head. ‘You must have quite a view from up here.’

  The war-beast lifted her large, blocky head. ‘I can see anything coming. Any enemy. I see it. Tygrish is protected.’

  ‘From most enemies, yes,’ said Vintage carefully. ‘Your Majesty, there may be some aspects of this war you’re unaware of.’

  ‘You suggest I am lacking somehow?’

  ‘No, not at all . . .’

  ‘That Queen Tyranny has kept secrets from me?’

  Vintage held her hands up. In the gloom of the tower room, it was possible to see a chilly luminescence at the back of Windfall’s throat whenever she spoke.

  ‘You misunderstand me. When you and your siblings were born from the tree-god, it was without your root-memories, a kind of shared family memory that passes down with you throughout your forms. That instinct, if you like, would have given you knowledge of the old enemy, of the Jure’lia. It would have told you how to fight them, how to defeat them. You don’t have it, and apart from Vostok, none of your siblings do.’

  Windfall did not move. Despite the warm summer night, Vintage felt gooseflesh break out across her arms.

  ‘But they have learned to work together anyway, and have had some success. Ultimately, the bond they share carries them through. It is something . . . it is something you could be a part of.’

  ‘I do not want it,’ said Windfall sharply.

  ‘We would not separate you from Tyranny,’ Vintage said quickly. ‘You have clearly bonded, and that is important. But you are part of a team, Queen Windfall. A family. There is a home for you in Ebora, and a vital connection to those who share your blood.’

  ‘Ebora.’ The war-beast raised herself up on her wings. She wasn’t wearing her jewelled headband, Vintage noticed. ‘Tell me of it.’

  ‘Ah, well.’ Vintage cleared her throat, playing for time. ‘It’s an extraordinary place, a land of lush forests and fearsome mountains, and, of course, the city that sits at the heart of it. There is no other place like it in Sarn, and believe me, I have seen most of it. Only a place as extraordinary as Ebora could birth someone like yourself, and Ygseril, the tree-father, is a sight perhaps everyone should see once in their lives –’

  ‘Ebora is nothing. Nothing to me. It is laughable, to go back there. An insult, that you insist. Tygrish is ours, our home.’

  ‘Tygrish has belonged to generations of humans before you came along, throwing your weight around.’ The bat’s mouth fell open a little wider, revealing rows of jagged teeth. Vintage hurriedly continued. ‘If you want nothing to do with Ebora, Your Majesty, then why did you wish to speak to me?’

  For a long time there was silence. Eventually, Windfall scuffled over to the bowl of fruit, and spent some time with her head bent, noisily chomping her way through the food. Vintage stood and waited, wondering what it all meant, when abruptly Windfall called out to the door.

  ‘Take her back now.’

  Jhef had gone, but the two burly guards came back from the doors. As they took Vintage’s arm, Windfall’s cold voice washed over her.

  ‘I want nothing of Ebora. It is dead.’ The munching sounds resumed. ‘I do not eat from carrion.’

  Tor stood in the midst of the battle, watching with polite interest as clouds of dust and a mist of blood rose around him. The Eboran men and women surrounding him were dressed as warriors at their peak, their enamelled armour glinting in the sunshine, their swords and axes and spears all wickedly sharp and running with ichor, but Tor wore a long sleeping gown, belted at his waist, and he carried only a wine goblet. He sipped at it passively as the chaos boiled around him. There was no real wine here, not in this dreamscape, but he found it pleasing to have it with him nonetheless; it turned out he was quite good at imagining the taste.

  War-beasts reared and thundered on all sides, crashing their way through the Jure’lia. A dragon with sapphire scales swept overhead, sending down a beam of yellow fire that seared through the worm people with deadly precision. A great bear stood on its hind legs, jaws open impossibly wide in a bellow of rage that was lost in the general hubbub. Tor waved at him.

  A chorus of horns blared into life from behind him, a sound that made all the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, and the great force of Eboran warriors surged forward as one. There were men and women on horseback here too, their faces and clothes not quite as well defined – Micanal, an aristocrat to the last, hadn’t quite been able to bring himself to lavish the same attention to detail on the general rank and file of the Eboran army. Ahead of them, the various dreadful creatures of the worm people fell back, and in a little while it was all over. Spider-mothers and burrowers retreated back to the fat grubs that were the Behemoths, and they began to move slowly across the sky – seven of the things, huge and bulbous, all inching in the same direction. As they got further away, they seemed to move fas
ter, until they were little more than dots in the sky.

  Tor stood and watched them, as he had watched so many similar scenes before. Always at the end of the battles, the Jure’lia would retreat. All at once they would gather themselves and scarper, like a human woman gathering her skirts and running from a room after a particularly stinging insult. The Eboran army was rejoicing in its victory, with much cheering and singing of songs, but for once Tor found his attention caught by the distant marks in the sky. How often had he watched them do that? Always, always they left that way, retreating to the sky that birthed them . . .

  Without really thinking about what he was doing, Tor pulled his consciousness out of the netherdark and awoke, finding himself sitting back in Vintage’s study. He blinked rapidly and stood up, brushing himself down absently. He appeared to be covered in a fine layer of dust, and his head thumped in a dry angry way that was either a hangover or another symptom of the crimson flux.

  The maps and papers were still flung haphazardly over the desk. Tor pulled a map of Sarn towards him, and with a stick of charcoal taken from a ceramic pot of them, he began to mark little crosses, all across the map. After some minutes of this, he picked up a book from off a nearby table, and consulted that for a while, before adding more crosses.

  Eventually, he stopped and looked at what he had made, picking absently at the long length of bandage that covered his left arm from elbow to wrist.

  ‘Always. Always they were heading in the same direction.’

  Frowning slightly, he rescued a long thin wooden rule from underneath a pile of papers and spent some time drawing lines across the map.

  Again he stopped and looked at it, feeling more and more sober.

  Kirune? Kirune, where are you?

  There was a moment’s stony silence, but Tor could feel the big cat in his bones. Eventually, the rumble of his voice came bouncing back down the strange connection they shared.

  You remember I live, then.

  Tor rolled his eyes. Where are you? I need to talk to you.

  In the winter gardens.