Wynter tore her eyes from the long line of sour faces visible over his shoulder, and managed to keep a straight face when she said, “I’ll have that partridge please, Christopher.”
Despite his injuries, he seemed to have no difficulty dismembering his chicken, and Wynter watched, fascinated, as he neatly separated the meat from the bones. It was only when he spoke to her again that Wynter realised she’d been staring. “It’s a very effective revenge, isn’t it?” he said evenly, dipping his fingers in the finger bowl and wiping his mutilated hands on his napkin, “designed to rob me of everything I am, but still leave me capable enough to work.” He ate without looking at her, his eyes scanning the room.
This isn’t the amusing story he told the other woman, Wynter thought. He’s telling me something here that not everyone knows. Why? She mulled over his words. Revenge, he had said. Not punishment. Revenge. Who did you offend that they would hurt you so? Some brother? Some husband, perhaps? But then she remembered Razi’s laughing reference to Christopher getting himself tarred, and thought it unlikely that he would have made such a joke had Christopher already suffered so horribly because of his licentiousness.
The royal door opened again, and both she and Christopher turned to see the small pageboy slipping down between their table and the wall, obviously on his way to the other end of the hall.
Christopher snapped out a hand and grabbed the child by his tunic, jerking him to a halt. Wynter gasped and looked about her in mortification. “Oh, Christopher,” she whispered, “that’s not done!”
Christopher pulled the child to him and hissed in his startled ear, “What’s going on in there, mouse?” His Hadrish accent was suddenly very thick.
The child looked around it in panic and struggled. “I can’t tell you, my Lord. You know that.
“I ain’t your Lord, mouse. I’m just sitting here. How is my Lord Razi? Does he fare well?”
“Christopher!” Wynter put her hand on his arm, but he ignored her and pulled the struggling child closer. People were staring, straining to hear. The big guards on either side of the hall were beginning to take note. “Christopher! You’ll end up in the keep!”
“I can’t sir!” the child’s voice had reached bat-like pitch in his panic. “I must take a message, sir! Let me go!”
“Who’s the message for?”
The child looked around him in fear, the guards were starting to advance but they must have seemed to be moving very slowly to his panic-stricken eyes. “Freeman Garron, sir. At the commoners’ board. It’s very important, sir. Please let me go.”
Christopher relaxed his grip, his eyes wide, and the child tried to bolt, but Wynter snatched the back of his tunic, “This is Christopher Garron, child. Tell him your message.”
The child moaned in frustration and terror. “No, Lady! Freeman Garron, from the commoners’ table. Oh please, Lady, please, it’s so important. My Lord Razi said all speed.”
Christopher half-stood, his voice rising, and Wynter saw an awful anger, a real, fierce, terrible rage rising in his face. It frightened her, and the child cowered before this new, dark threat.
“I am Freeman Garron, mouse. Now give me your God-cursed message.”
The guards had almost reached them, but before they could react, the little page took a good long look at Christopher. The hair, the slanting grey eyes and finally, the hands. The hands, of course, sealed it, and the child gasped and fell to his knees. my Lord! Forgive me! I am too late!”
The guards looked confused, and then backed off as it became obvious that the little page had found who he was seeking. Christopher snatched him up from his knees and shook him by the shoulder. “I’m not your Lord, child! What’s the message? Is my Lord Razi well?”
“Lord Ga… Freeman Garron, sir. My Lord Razi sends me… tuh… sends me to…” the child had tears in his eyes and Wynter marvelled at how unmoved Christopher remained. He was glaring at the poor mite, his only focus on getting the message. “To tell you… do not… oh my Lord! He says do not accept any invitations to the lords’ table! He needs your eyes on both sides of the hall!”
Christopher flung the child away from him with a curse and glared up the aisle. Wynter thought for one awful moment that he was going to try and rush his way into the royal rooms. But then he spun back to the boy and grabbed him again and snarled in his ear. “Tell Lord Razi that it’s too late! Tell him he’s lost his eyes. Ask him what I am to do. Do you heed me, child? Ask him what he will have me do!” With that, he hurled the page up the corridor so that he skidded the first few feet and scampered the rest.
Wynter sat, half-turned out of her seat, looking up at Christopher as he stood watching the pageboy gain access to the royal room. His face was hard; Wynter would even call it brutal. He was utterly concentrated on seeing the child through that door. There was nothing else in the room for him and Wynter realised something very suddenly. It was as though a beam of light abruptly focused on this young man and it changed him utterly in her eyes.
Christopher Garron was not here for what he could get. Christopher was not here for the luxury, for the food, or even for the women. And Wynter knew now why Razi had persuaded him to come. Christopher was Razi’s friend. He loved him, and Razi trusted him. Trusted him to watch his back. Trusted him to keep him safe. Trusted him to keep him alive.
Looking at Christopher’s face, Wynter recognised herself in his expression. It frightened her and comforted her in equal measure to realise that they would both willingly lay down their lives for Razi.
The Terrible Feast
The page never got a chance to give Lord Razi his message. Immediately after his frightened little figure disappeared into the royal rooms, the door swung open again and the first of the councilmen made their entrance from the royal rooms and into the hall. Wynter could see the page, his little face distraught at not being able to finish his task, forced back against the wall as the black-clad councilmen stalked past him.
Something was terribly wrong, any fool could see that. The six councilmen who came through the door were almost cowering, their faces an odd mixture of fear and rage. The guards behind them weren’t so much protecting them as herding them out into the banquet hall. Wynter noticed, with a sudden dryness of mouth, that the soldiers’ leather spear-covers were off, the metal speartips exposed.
Slowly, and without looking, she reached for Christopher’s arm and pulled steadily downwards. “Sit, Christopher,” she said very quietly, “sit down and do not make any sudden moves.”
He met her eyes for a moment, his fury colliding with her well-practised composure. She lifted her chin and held his gaze. Trust me, Christopher, this is not the time for action. Slowly, he sat and the two of them turned, powerless to do anything but watch as the events unfolded.
Next out the door was Wynter’s father, and now it was Christopher’s turn to lay a steadying hand on her arm. The young man said nothing and didn’t look at her, but he squeezed down so hard that Wynter winced. He held on until she subsided into watchfulness again, not quite able to hide the distress in her face.
Lorcan was literally pushed out of the royal rooms, the huge guard behind him shoving him between the shoulder blades with the handle of his spear and then crowding him through the door with his formidable weight. As soon as Lorcan was across the threshold, though, he tried to turn back, pushing resolutely against the advancing guard. As the silent struggle between the two men continued, all around the hall Wynter felt and saw people begin to rise to their feet.
The guards around the walls cast sideways glances at each other. The air was suddenly sparking with tension. Wynter could feel it running along her shoulders and up the back of her neck. It crackled off Christopher like summer lightning – hot and dangerous, just over the horizon.
The furious grappling between Lorcan and his opponent stilled abruptly when someone within the royal room spoke. Lorcan strained to see over the guard’s massive shoulder, and it was obvious he was listening. His whole postur
e screamed tell me what to do! The banquet hall seemed to hold its breath.
Suddenly Lorcan’s shoulders sagged. He made one more frustrated shove at the huge guard, snarling up into his impassive face, but it was just anger, a release of impotent anger, and Lorcan turned immediately and stalked to his seat on the bottom tier.
There was a long moment of inactivity, during which Wynter saw Christopher surreptitiously clean his dagger and slip it back into his boot. Her father sat, staring rigidly at his clenched fists; he didn’t lift his eyes to find his daughter.
A flurry of motion brought everyone’s attention snapping back to the royal door. The remaining councilmen were entering the hall. Unlike the first six men, these eight were certainly not cowed. They came out as a group, their faces determined and, instead of taking their seats, they gathered in a knot at the lower steps, effectively closing off access to the bottom tier of the royal platform. All eight councilmen kept their eyes on the royal door as they stood shoulder to shoulder, a seamless blackrobed barricade. With their gaunt pale faces and their tight black caps, Wynter thought that they exactly resembled the vultures that Christopher considered them to be.
Razi came through the door. He had taken off his doctor’s robes and wore the scarlet long-coat and black britches required of him for formal dining. The two guards behind him were much too close for comfort. They were crowding him forward, forcing him to take one stiff legged-step after another. His eyes roamed about without landing on anything in particular, refusing to look anyone in the eye, refusing to lift his gaze and take in the hall. He was in every sense trying just not to be there. Wynter had seen that expression on men before, usually as they approached the scaffold. She felt Christopher tense beside her.
“What’s going on?” he murmured. “He looks like a cornered animal.”
Yes. That too. That skittering movement of his eyes, the terrified blankness of expression. As though he were waiting for a chance to break cover and flee. She swallowed hard and kept her face and hands still.
Razi approached the immoveable barricade of councilmen. He pressed against them with his shoulder, not looking into their faces, trying desperately to make his way past and take his seat beside Lorcan, but the soldiers behind him continued their relentless forward pressure and the councilmen did not break ranks. Razi was pushed slowly up the line to the stairs that led to the top tier. He stumbled as his foot hit the first step and Wynter saw his eyes lift and meet those of the last councilman. Victuallor Heron.
The fear, the pain, the fury in Razi’s eyes had Wynter rising from her seat in rage, and she felt Christopher surge upwards at the same moment. But their impetuosity was masked by the simultaneous appearance of the King, and at once the crowd leapt to its feet in the traditional salute. King Jonathon, magnificent as ever, swept his way past soldiers, councilmen and bastard son and took the steps to the top tier, two at a time. The relief was palpable around the hall as the people raised their drinks and shouted “HO!”
The King strode to the big throne that dominated the top tier and raised his hand in recognition of his people’s love. Sit, sit, he gestured and so the crowd did. But they were obviously confused as to why he still stood, and why half his councilmen blocked access to the lower tier, while the other half-sat, still as stone in their appointed places. And why was the Lord Razi loitering about at the foot of the steps when he should have been seated and saluting the King like the rest of them?
Jonathon gestured to the soldiers behind Razi and they pushed forward resolutely. Wynter saw Razi lean back into them, his face a stony mask of resistance, but short of falling to the floor and allowing them to drag him, he had no choice but to yield to the pressure. Gradually he was forced up the steps and onto the royal tier.
Everyone, including Wynter and Christopher, had retaken their seats, and all eyes were now widening in horror at the sight of the King’s bastard being herded towards the throne. Even the minstrels had ceased to play, and in the deathly quiet Wynter could hear Razi breathing raggedly through his nose. She heard the scuff of his boots on the platform as he dug his heels in. The guards continued to push, sliding him a little distance until he took another step.
They forced him over to the third throne. Alberon’s seat. The seat of the rightful heir to Jonathon’s kingdom. Wynter heard Razi release a choking sob as the soldiers put their hands on his shoulders. It was very loud and clear in the stillness, and Jonathon made an abrupt gesture to the minstrel’s gallery. They cranked out some terrible off-key discordance, their fingers numbed with shock, no doubt, and Jonathon glared at them and yelled out something angry and inarticulate. A light, bouncing little round started up and Jonathon turned his glower at his son.
Razi was looking at him with such pleading, such hurt, such terrified desperation, that Wynter thought her heart might actually break for him. But Jonathon was merciless, and when he gestured down with his hand, the soldiers pressed, two big hands on each of Razi’s shoulders. And there he was, Razi the Bastard, sitting in Alberon’s place, the sudden and irrevocable pretender to the throne.
The servers came out with the second remove, huge platters of salmon, baked with garlic and dill and pickled mustard seeds. The smell was wonderful, but there were no murmurs of appreciation from the crowd. They sat, tense and round-eyed as lemurs, as the King took his first choice of the proffered food.
The servers stood on the bottom tier, just behind Wynter’s father, the platter held high as Jonathon leaned forward and took the pink flesh onto his plate. When the King had filled his plate, tradition dictated that the servers should move on to the next highest in rank. Since Alberon wasn’t here and the Queen was dead, that meant they should move down to the bottom tier and offer Lorcan and Razi their choice. The councilmen should come next, then on down the lords’ tables, with the commoners’ table coming last. For Razi to be offered his food while sitting in Alberon’s chair had a terrible significance that no one wished to acknowledge or compound.
The King gestured them to move on, but the two men stood there uncertainly as Razi’s hands tightened into knots on the table in front of him. The King glared and gestured for them to serve Razi next. The two men just blinked, completely overwhelmed by this appalling gesture of disloyalty to the real heir to the throne. Abruptly Jonathon roared at them, half-rising from his seat and lifting his knife hand in a genuine threat of violence. The two men staggered back, almost lost their balance when they bumped into Lorcan, and shuffled sideways until the platter was held up before the miserable Razi. He closed his eyes and turned his head away.
The King muttered something to Razi, not looking at him, already beginning to eat his meal. Whatever Razi murmured back darkened the King’s glowering face even more, and he leaned across the space between them and growled something into his son’s ear. Razi whipped his head around, his expression a murderous equal to that of his father’s, and bared his teeth in a short reply.
Father and son glared at each other for a moment, and then the King reached across and took a dripping handful of fish from the serving platter. He dropped it onto his son’s plate and turned away, as if that ended the matter. With a sour jerk of his head to send the servers on their way, Jonathon rinsed his hands in the finger bowl and began once again to devour his food.
And that is how it went on, that terrible feast. At each remove, Jonathon would reach out a hand and slop more food down onto his son’s overflowing plate, until the table in front of Razi was stained and splattered with numerous sauces and creams and oils. Razi ended up pressed back into his chair, his head averted in disgust. The King ate all put before him, sourly scanning the anxious crowd. If his eye fell on any person not eating or who appeared in any way miserable, he would call out to them to explain their ill humour. Soon everyone was chewing and swallowing and smiling with grim determination.
Only Lorcan, Wynter, Christopher and three of the councilmen joined Razi in his refusal to eat, and somehow the King contrived not to notice them.
Christopher and Wynter hadn’t exchanged a single word since the second remove. Both of them had waved away any further offers of food, but had drained several beakers of strawberry cordial. Wynter had kept her focus on the royal platform, her eyes jumping anxiously between Razi and her father who had not moved since sitting down. Christopher had spent the whole feast scanning the crowd, judging reactions, noting movements, taking in as much conversation as he could hear.
It’s almost over now, Wynter thought, surely after all this Jonathon would never be so cruel as to inflict dancing on the assembly.
But her heart fell when the King stood and clapped his hands for the tables to be pushed back and the musicians to strike up a Gar-a-ronde. There was a ripple of thoroughly falsified applause and the assembly took their places for the dance.
Christopher and Wynter got up from their seats and drifted towards the throne as the long tables were pushed back against the wall. They stayed together, hoping that at least one of them might slip through the less than subtle barricade of guards and councilmen surrounding their friend. Razi and the King had remained seated, the King lounging in his throne, drinking and scanning the crowd. Razi kept pretty much the same position he’d maintained all evening.
As Wynter and Christopher wandered about in front of the cordon of guards, Razi lifted his eyes for the briefest of moments and found them. Wynter’s heart leapt as she realised that he’d just been biding his time, waiting for them to come into his range. She felt Christopher come to attention beside her as Razi’s eyes jumped to him. Razi nodded and mouthed, “Stay.” Christopher turned without a change of expression and kept drifting, as if casually observing the crowd. But Wynter knew he would not leave their friend alone.
The Poison Throne Page 8