I nodded seriously. “Take two good swallows, your grace. This is part of your cure.”
He made no move to take it. “I’ve never been able to stomach the stuff, and lately I even vomit up my tea. I won’t put myself through the hell of drinking it only to sick it back up.”
I nodded and restoppered the flask. “I’ll give you something to stop that.” There was a pot of water on the bedside table, and I began to mix him a cup of tea.
He craned weakly to see what I was doing. “What are you putting in that?”
“Something to keep you from being sick, and something to help you pass the poison out of your system. A bit of laudanum to ease your craving. And tea. Does your grace take sugar?”
“Normally, no. But I’m guessing it will taste like stumpwater without it.” I added a spoonful, stirred, and handed him the cup.
“You first,” Alveron said. Pale and grim, he watched me with his sharp grey eyes. He smiled a terrible smile.
I hesitated, but only for a moment. “To your grace’s health.” I said, and took a good swallow. I grimaced and added another spoonful of sugar. “Your grace predicted it quite well. Stumpwater it is.”
He took the cup with both hands and began to drink it in a number of quick, determined sips. “Dreadful,” he said simply. “But better than nothing. Do you know what a hell it is to be thirsty but not be able to drink for fear of throwing up? I wouldn’t wish it on a dog.”
“Wait a bit to finish it,” I cautioned. “That should settle your stomach in a few minutes.”
I went into the other room and added the new vial of medicine to the flit’s feeders. I was relieved to see they were still sipping at the medicated nectar. I had worried they might avoid it due to a change in flavor or some natural instinct for self-preservation.
I also worried that lead might not be poisonous to sipquicks. I worried they might take a span to show any ill effects, not mere days I worried at the Maer’s rising temper. I worried at his illness. I worried at the possibility I might be wrong about everything I’d guessed.
I returned to the Maer’s bedside and found him cradling the empty cup in his lap. I mixed a second cup similar to the first, and he drank it quickly. Then we sat in silence for the space of fifteen minutes or so.
“How do you feel, your grace?”
“Better,” he admitted grudgingly. I detected a slight dullness to his speech. “Much better.”
“That is probably the laudanum,” I commented. “But your stomach should be settled by now.” I picked up the flask of cod liver oil. “Two good swallows, your grace.”
“Is this really the only thing that will do?” he asked distastefully.
“If I had access to the apothecaries near the University, I could find something more palatable, but at the moment this is the only thing that can be done.”
“Get me another cup of tea to wash it down with.” He picked up the flask, took two sips, and handed it back, his mouth turned down in a ghastly expression.
I sighed internally. “If you are going to sip it, we will be here all evening. Two solid swallows, the kind sailors use to drink cheap whiskey.”
He scowled. “Don’t speak to me as if I were a child.”
“Then act the part of a man,” I said harshly, stunning him to silence. “Two swallows every four hours. That whole flask should be finished by tomorrow.”
His grey eyes narrowed dangerously. “I would remind you who you are speaking to.”
“I am speaking to a sick man who will not take his medicine,” I said levelly.
Anger smoldered behind his laudanum-dulled eyes. “A pint of fish oil is not medicine,” he hissed. “It is a malicious and unreasonable request. It can’t be done.”
I fixed him with my best withering stare and took the flask out of his hand. Without looking away, I drank the whole thing down. Swallow after swallow of the oil passed my gullet as I held the Maer’s eye. I watched his face shift from angry to disgusted, then finally settle into an expression of muted, sickened awe. I upended the flask, ran my finger around the inside of it and licked it clean.
I pulled out a second flask from a pocket of my cloak. “This was going to be your dose for tomorrow, but you will need to use it tonight. If you find it easier, one swallow every two hours should suffice.” I held it out to him, still holding his eyes with mine.
He took it mutely, drank two good swallows, and stoppered the flask with a grim determination. Pride is always a better lever against the nobility than reason.
I fished in one of the pockets of my rich burgundy cloak and brought out the Maer’s ring. “I forgot to return this to you before, your grace.” I held it out to him.
He began to reach out for it, then stopped. “Keep it for now,” he said. “You’ve earned that much, I imagine.”
“Thank you, your grace,” I said, careful to keep my expression composed. He wasn’t inviting me to wear the ring, but allowing me to keep it was a tangible step forward in our relationship. No matter how his courtship of the Lady Lackless went, I had made an impression on him today.
I poured him more tea and decided to finish his instructions while I had his attention. “You should drink the rest of this potful tonight, your grace. But remember, it’s all you’ll have until tomorrow. When you send for me, I’ll brew you some more. You should try to drink as many fluids as you can tonight. Milk would be best. Put some honey in it and it will go down easier.”
He agreed and seemed to be easing toward sleep. Knowing how difficult his night would be, I let him nod off. I gathered my things before letting myself out.
Stapes was waiting in the outer rooms. I mentioned to him that the Maer was sleeping, and told him not to toss out the tea in the pot, as his grace would be wanting it when he woke up.
As I left, the look Stapes gave me was not merely chilly, as it had been before. It was hateful, practically venomous. Only after he closed the door behind me did I realize what this must look like to him. He assumed I was taking advantage of the Maer in his time of weakness.
There are a great many such people in the world, traveling physicians with no qualms about preying on the fears of the desperately ill. The best example of this is Deadnettle, the potion seller in Three Pennies for Wishing. Easily one of the most despised characters in all drama, there’s no audience that doesn’t cheer when Deadnettle gets pilloried in the fourth act.
With that in mind, I began to dwell on how fragile and grey the Maer had looked. Living in Tarbean, I had seen healthy young men killed by ophalum withdrawal, and the Maer was neither young nor healthy.
If he did die, who would be blamed? Certainly not Caudicus, trusted advisor. Certainly not Stapes, beloved manservant. . . .
Me. They would blame me. His condition had worsened soon after I arrived. I didn’t doubt Stapes would quickly bring to light the fact that I’d been spending time alone with the Maer in his rooms. That I’d brewed him a pot of tea right before he had a very traumatic night.
At best I would look like a young Deadnettle. At worst, an assassin.
Such was the turning of my thoughts as I made my way through the Maer’s estate back to my rooms, pausing only to lean out one of the windows overlooking Severen-Low and vomit up a pint of cod liver oil.
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
Crisis
THE NEXT MORNING I made my way to Severen-Low before the sun was up. I ate a hot breakfast of eggs and potatoes while I waited for an apothecary to open. When I was finished, I bought two more pints of cod liver oil and a few other oddments I hadn’t thought of the day before.
Then I walked the entire length of Tinnery Street, hoping to stumble onto Denna despite the fact that it was far too early in the morning for her to be up and about. Wagons and farmers’ carts vied for space on the cobbled streets. Ambitious beggars were laying claim to the busiest corners while shopkeepers hung out their shingles and threw wide their shutters.
I counted twenty-three inns and boarding houses on Tinnery Stree
t. After making note of the ones Denna would probably find appealing, I forced myself back to the Maer’s estates. This time I took the freight lifts, partly to confuse anyone following me, but also because the purse the Maer had given me was nearly empty.
Since I needed to keep a normal face on things, I remained in my rooms, waiting for the Maer to send for me. I sent my card and ring to Bredon, and soon he was sitting across from me, thrashing me at tak and telling stories.
“. . . so the Maer had him hung in a gibbet. Right alongside the eastern gate. Hung here for days, howling and cursing. Saying he was innocent. Saying it wasn’t right and how he wanted a trial.”
I couldn’t quite bring myself to believe it. “A gibbet?”
Bredon nodded seriously. “An actual iron gibbet. Who knows where he managed to find one in this day and age. It was like something out of a play.”
I searched for something relatively noncommittal to say. While it did sound grotesque, I also knew better than to openly criticize the Maer. “Well,” I said, “banditry is a terrible thing.”
Bredon began to place a stone on the board, then reconsidered. “Quite a few folks thought the whole thing was in rather . . .” He cleared his throat. “Bad taste. But nobody said so very loudly, if you catch my meaning. It was a grisly thing. But it got the point across.”
He finally chose the placement of his stone, and we played quietly for a time.
“It’s a strange thing,” I said. “I ran into someone the other day who didn’t know where Caudicus would rank in the overall scheme of things.”
“That’s not terribly surprising,” Bredon gestured to the board. “The giving and receiving of rings is a lot like tak. On the face of it, the rules are simple. In execution they become quite complicated.” He clicked down a stone, his dark eyes crinkling with amusement. “In fact, the other day I was explaining the intricacies of the custom to a foreigner not familiar with such things.”
“That was kind of you,” I said.
Bredon gave a gracious nod. “It seems simple at first glance,” he said. “A baron ranks above a baronet. But sometimes young money is worth more than old blood. Sometimes control of a river is more important than how many soldiers you can put to field. Sometimes a person is actually more than one person, technically speaking. The Earl of Svanis is, by strange inheritance, also the Viscount of Tevn. One man, but two different political entities.”
I smiled. “My mother once told me she knew a man who owed fealty to himself,” I said. “Owed himself a share of his own taxes every year, and if he were ever threatened, there were treaties in place demanding he provide himself with prompt and loyal military support.”
Bredon nodded. “It happens more often than folk realize,” he said. “Especially with the older families. Stapes, for example, exists in several separate capacities.”
“Stapes?” I asked. “But he’s just a manservant, isn’t he?”
“Well,” Bredon said slowly. “He is that. But he’s hardly just a manservant. His family is quite old, but he has no title of his own. Technically, he ranks no higher than a cook. But he owns substantial lands. He has money. And he is the Maer’s manservant. They’ve known each other since they were boys. Everyone knows he has Alveron’s ear.”
Bredon’s dark eyes peered at me. “Who would dare insult such a man with an iron ring? Go to his room and you will see the truth: there is nothing in his bowl but gold.”
Bredon excused himself shortly after our game, claiming a prior engagement. Luckily, I now had my lute to occupy my time. I set about retuning it, checking the frets, and fussing over the tuning peg that was constantly coming loose. We had been away from each other for a long while, and it takes time to get reacquainted.
Hours passed. I discovered myself absentmindedly playing “Deadnettle’s Lament” and forced myself to stop. Noon came and went. Lunch was delivered and cleared away. I retuned my lute and ran some scales. Before I knew it I found myself playing “Leave the Town, Tinker.” Only then did I realize what my hands were trying to tell me. If the Maer was still alive, he would have called for me by now.
I let the lute fall silent and began to think very quickly. I needed to leave. Now. Stapes had seen me bring medicine to the Maer. I could even be accused of tampering with the vial I had brought from Caudicus’ rooms.
Slow fear began to knot my gut as I realized the helplessness of my situation. I didn’t know the Maer’s estates well enough to attempt a clever escape. On my way to Severen-Low this morning, I’d gotten turned around and had to stop to ask directions.
The knock on the door was louder than usual, more forceful than that of the errand boy who normally came to deliver the Maer’s invitation. Guards. I froze in my seat. Would it be best to answer the door and tell the truth? Or duck out the window into the garden and somehow try to make a run for it?
The knock came again, louder. “Sir? Sir?”
The voice was muffled by the door, but it was not a guard’s voice. I opened the door and saw a young boy carrying a tray with the Maer’s iron ring and card.
I picked them up. The card had a single word written in a shaky hand: Immediately.
Stapes looked uncharacteristically ragged around the edges and greeted me with an icy stare. Yesterday he’d looked as if he wanted me dead and buried. Today his look implied that simply buried would be good enough.
The Maer’s bedroom was generously decorated with selas flowers. Their delicate smell was almost enough to cover the odors they’d been brought in to conceal. Combined with Stapes’ appearance, I knew my predictions of the night’s unpleasantness had been close to the truth.
Alveron was propped into a sitting position in his bed. He looked as well as could be expected, which is to say exhausted, but no longer sweating and racked with pain. As a matter of fact, he looked almost angelic. A rectangle of sunlight washed over him, lending his skin a frail translucency and making his disarrayed hair shine like a silver crown around his head.
As I stepped closer he opened his eyes, breaking the beatific illusion. No angel ever had eyes as clever as Alveron’s.
“I trust I find your grace well?” I asked politely.
“Passing fair,” he responded. But it was mere social noise, telling me nothing.
“How do you feel?” I asked in a more serious tone.
He gave me a long look that let me know he did not approve of my addressing him so casually, then said. “Old. I feel old and weak.” He took a deep breath. “But for all that, I feel better than I have in several days. A little pain, and I am mightily tired. But I feel . . . clean. I think I’ve passed the crisis.”
I did not ask about last night. “Would you like me to mix you another pot of tea?”
“Please.” His tone was measured and polite. Unable to guess his mood, I hurried through the preparations and handed him his cup.
He looked up at me after sampling it. “This tastes different.”
“There is less laudanum in it,” I explained. “Too much would be harmful to your grace. Your body would begin to depend on it as surely as it craved the ophalum.”
He nodded. “You’ll note my birds are doing well,” he said in an overly casual tone.
I looked through the doorway and saw the sipquicks darting about in their gilded cage, lively as ever. I felt a chill at the implication of his comment. He still didn’t believe Caudicus was poisoning him.
I was too stunned to make a quick reply, but after a breath or two I managed to say, “Their health does not concern me nearly so much as your own. You do feel better, don’t you, your grace?”
“That is the nature of my illness. It comes and goes.” The Maer set down his cup of tea, still three-quarters full. “Eventually it fades entirely, and Caudicus is free to go off gallivanting for months at a time, gathering ingredients for his charms and potives. Speaking of,” he said, folding his hands in his lap. “Would you do me the favor of fetching my medicine from Caudicus?”
“Certainly, your
grace.” I stretched a smile over my face, trying to ignore the unease settling in my chest. I cleaned up the clutter I had created while fixing his tea, tucking packages and bundles of herbs back into the pockets of my burgundy cloak.
The Maer nodded graciously, then closed his eyes and seemed to lapse back into his tranquil, sunlit nap.
“Our fledgling historian!” Caudicus said as he gestured me inside and offered me a seat. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment, I’ll be right back.”
I sank into the padded chair and only then noticed the array of rings on the nearby table. Caudicus had gone so far as to have a rack built for them. Each was displayed with the name facing outward. There were a great many of them, silver, iron, and gold.
Both my gold ring and Alveron’s iron one sat on a small tray on the table. I reclaimed them, taking note of this rather graceful way of wordlessly offering the return of a ring.
I looked around the large tower room with muted curiosity. What possible motive could he have for poisoning the Maer? Barring access to the University itself, this place was every arcanist’s dream.
Curious, I got to my feet and wandered to his bookshelves. Caudicus had a respectable library, with nearly a hundred books crowding for space. I recognized many of the titles. Some were chemical references. Some were alchemical. Others dealt with the natural sciences, herbology, physiology, bestiology. The vast majority seemed to be historical in nature.
A thought occurred to me. Perhaps I could get the native Vintish superstition to work to my advantage. If Caudicus was a serious scholar and even half as superstitious as a native Vint, he might know something about the Chandrian. Best of all, since I was playing the dimwitted lordling, I didn’t need to worry about damaging my reputation.
Caudicus came around the corner and seemed somewhat taken aback when he saw me standing by the bookshelves. But he rallied quickly and gave me a polite smile. “See anything you’re interested in?”
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