The Poison Throne

by Celine Kiernan

  “What has happened?” she asked.

  “They’ve arrested Jerome’s cousin, and his wife and the two childern. They took them in t’middle ard’ night. Left the wee baby crying in its cradle till Jer’s mam found it at dawn.”

  “Jesu Christi!” Wynter covered her mouth with her hands and gaped at Pascal. “What…? On what charge?”

  “Sedition.”

  “Good God! And… the children?”

  Pascal was looking her up and down, his face wary, attentive. She realised, with a shiver of despair, that he was watching her for deceit. “They allus take the childern, lass. You knows it.”

  She nodded, yes, in the past they had always taken the children. Always. Whole families thrown into jail. But not since Jonathon, never under his reign. She shook her head. She looked around her for a moment. Jerome was sobbing steadily at the back of the library; she could hear Gary mumbling to him.

  “Why?” she repeated.

  “Donny’s wife… Jerome’s cousin’s wife. Her sister’s husband was murdered by the Arab, who said he had tried ter kill him.”

  Wynter snapped her eyes to him in disbelief. “Do you… do you mean Jusef Marcos?” she said.

  Pascal nodded. “Jusef were a loyal man. He were loyal ter the crown, lass. He were murdered fer it, and his good wife gone missing, and his old dad.”

  “He shot a guard through the head, Master Huette! He tried to kill the Lord Razi!” She almost said, I saw it myself! I saw him fling the bow from him as he raced away, but something made her stop.

  Pascal was looking at her very hard. “They beat a poor gardener ter death fer it too,” he said. “Did he also shoot a guard through t’head? Or were he jurst another outspoken man who irked the Arab’s eye?”

  Wynter remembered the gardener, trotting unsuspecting into the middle of things, flinging his scythe from him and fleeing at the sight of the enraged guards. Oh, that poor man! She put her hands to her head, and closed her eyes for a moment. “And people think that Razi killed those men, for…? Because…?”

  “The people don’t think narthin. They know. They know it’s acause them men spoke out fer the Royal Prince Alberon.”

  “God help us!” Wynter whispered. The utter conviction in Pascal’s voice had her digging her nails into her scalp. “And now they’re arresting Jusef’s associates? His family?” Oh God. It had become a purge. Jonathon was just making things worse and worse. What were they going to do? She looked up at Pascal again. He was hard eyed and watchful. “You are in danger, Master Huette.”

  “You don’t harve ter tell me that,” he whispered coldly. He put his hand on the knotted head of the little first year who was trying to peep at her, and pushed him back out of sight again. They were all in danger. If the arrests spread to Jerome’s immediate family, then his friends and their families and all their friends were in imminent danger of arrest, and of questioning and of execution.

  At the back of the library Jerome and Gary were arguing now.

  Gary was saying, “Yer need ter just calm down! Just hold yer horses ’til me dad tells us what ter do!”

  She could hear poor Jerome’s wavering voice, his words too garbled to make out from here. But Gary interrupted him with a yell, “Tat it! Tat! Yer wanner get yerseln kilt? Just tat it, Jer!”

  Jerome began crying again, loudly and without restraint. Then the sounds were muffled, as if Gary had suddenly drawn his friend into a hug. Wynter saw a little hand reach around from behind Pascal’s leg and discreetly take hold of the old man’s fingers. Without looking down, Pascal enclosed the first year’s hand in his and held on tight.

  “Let me talk to my father,” whispered Wynter, dragging her eyes up to Pascal’s face. “Please stay here,” she said, “Please, please do not let Jerome leave the library.”

  Pascal did not even nod. He was still standing in the exact same position when she shut the library door behind her.

  Hopeless Causes

  Wynter closed the door softly and stood for a moment, leaning against the wood. She didn’t know what to do. It was a measure of her confusion that she had committed the unthinkable crime of leaving her tools in the library with another master’s crew. That was the equivalent of leaving the family jewels on a tree stump in a gypsy camp, but she couldn’t bring herself to return for them now, and anyway, those boys were hardly in the mood to pilfer.

  Dear God, she thought. What an evil mess.

  And what was to be done about it? In reality, when the wheel of state had begun its roll against you, there was very little that you could do, except tuck your head in your arms and hope it passed over you. Jerome’s family would live or die regardless of anything Lorcan could do or say. Even if Wynter were able to persuade Razi himself to intercede, it was unlikely that the King would halt a purge. Eventually these things took on a life of their own, living and dying as a beast might live and die, for as long as it had the strength and energy to continue on, eating everything its path.

  Wynter groaned. Why had she allowed herself to get to know these men? It would be so much easier had they remained faceless, nameless, voiceless shadows. It wouldn’t have made their inevitable destruction any less wrong, but it would have been easier on her, not knowing.

  God, they hadn’t a chance, and she had just committed her father to the hopeless task of aiding them. What’s more, these were guildsmen. Guildsmen! The King was taking on a lot by targeting them. The carpenters’ guild was a huge and powerful organisation, shamelessly outspoken and independent.

  Wynter opened her eyes. Now there was an idea. Perhaps, by some stroke of madness or delusion, Jonathon might be unaware of how unhappy his people were. If the King could be made to understand just how virulent public feeling was, he might reconsider this new, overwhelmingly dangerous policy of antagonising his subjects!

  But Wynter could not approach the King herself. And if she told Lorcan, he would leap from his bed without a thought for his health and go wading into the stormy waters of state, long before he was ready to cope. If she approached Razi, as things stood now, he might well turn silently away. She had two options: getting her feelings hurt or risking her father’s health. Wynter knew there was no competition. She turned left down the hall and out the door, taking the path down to the stable yards.

  She could hear Razi’s shouted instructions as she approached the exercise yard. He was calling out to the grooms. “Where did she hit, there?” “Was that her right fore?” and “Raise that another rung now, Michael!” Razi was practising at the jumps.

  As Wynter neared the ring, the thundering noise of the horse became a physical vibration in the air. She could feel it hammering through the earth beneath her feet. She had always loved that particular sound: the steady trot of the horse on the straight, quickening in the approach to the hurdle, the anticipatory thu-thud as the horse bunched its great hindquarters before the leap, and then the sudden and absolute suspension of noise, like a silent whoop! as the horse left the ground and sailed through the air.

  It was a sound heard nowhere but here. In all her travels she had never once seen, or even heard reference to this type of riding. It seemed absolutely unique to Jonathon’s kingdom, and she had missed its elegance. Its sense of beauty for beauty’s sake.

  She turned into the yard, and saw that Razi was astride a powerful chestnut mare, one of his long-legged, arch-necked Arabs. Wynter had never seen a horse as light on its feet. Razi was running her through a circuit of seven jumps, kicking up the yellow dust as they went. He guided the horse into the hurdles without a trace of fear or hesitation. Rising and falling smoothly in the stirrup on the straights, sitting down into the saddle and leaning forward into each jump. His hands were easy on the reins, his sinewy body shifting effortlessly in harmony with the animal. Razi was utterly concentrated on the task at hand, completely in control.

  He would call out after each landing, and the grooms would scurry about in response, raising or dropping the bars on the jumps. They shouted out re
plies to his questions, telling him if the horse was hitting the bar, what leg was dragging or knocking, and Razi would adjust the approach accordingly and try for a perfect round the next circuit.

  Gone was his previous tension, the almost frightening air of iron-willed containment that Razi now habitually wore. His face was flushed with the exercise and fresh air. His eyes were clear and bright, alert with the joy of his work. He was utterly focused, and Wynter realised that he had left the world behind him. At this moment, nothing existed for Razi but this; his own body and this huge animal and the way the two of them were working together to perfect their partnership. It was as disciplined as a dance, and as beautiful to watch, and Wynter could not bring herself to intrude on it.

  She settled herself against the corner of the alley wall and glanced around, taking note of where the guards were situated. Her eye fell on a bright patch of colour on the far side of the ring, and she straightened and stared. It was the orange cat. The same fellow who had approached her the night of the first attempt on Razi’s life.

  It was perched on a fence-post, regarding Razi with calculating eyes. Wynter saw one of the grooms notice. Frowning, he picked up a stone and flung it, missing the cat by only an inch. The stone hit the post just under the cat’s neatly folded paws, but the animal did not jump or startle. Instead it turned its disdainful gaze at the groom, stood up, shook itself and dropped from the fence-post as of its own accord. The groom glared at it until it had slunk from sight.

  Wynter turned her attention back to the ring, just in time to see the big mare toss her head and rip the rein from Razi’s weakened right hand? At the sudden, lopsided break in communications, the horse shied and side-stepped and hopped, causing the grooms to spread their arms and scuttle about like crabs.

  Razi was too good a rider to be unseated. He gathered the reins in his left hand, sat firmly into the saddle and clamped down hard with his thighs. He drew the horse in a tight left-handed circle, and crooned at her until she came to a roll-eyed halt under him.

  He sat erect and masterful in the saddle until the horse was calm. But then he alarmed Wynter by leaning forward, his face creased with pain, and she noticed his right arm remained hanging by his side, the hand limp and white against the dusty fabric of his leggings.

  She went to step forward but a voice behind her said, “Don’t you have work to be doing, Protector Lady? Wood to shave? Carpenters to berate?”

  She turned and looked up into the smooth good looks of Simon De Rochelle. He curled an unfriendly smile at her, and held her eyes for a moment before stepping past her into the ring.

  In the short time it took for the groom to cross the ring and take the mare’s rein, Razi had straightened, his momentary display of weakness gone. Wynter was sad to see that his remote, courtly mask was back in place. He slipped free of the stirrups and swung his leg across the mare’s neck. Sliding unaided to the ground, he landed sure-footed and light, nodding as De Rochelle advanced towards him. Wynter saw him flexing and bunching the too-white fingers of his right hand.

  All of Razi’s attention was fixed on the councilman and he didn’t see her waiting uncertainly by the corner. She bit her lip and hung back, not wanting to discuss anything in front of De Rochelle.

  “What news?” Wynter heard Razi say.

  “He’s arrested all of them. Men, women and children.”

  Razi tightened his jaw and looked away.

  “My Lord…” De Rochelle went on, but Razi warningly glanced at the guards.

  “Simon!” he snapped.

  De Rochelle’s back straightened, and Wynter heard him take a sharp irritated breath. “Your Highness,” he corrected himself.

  Razi nodded. He turned, and began leading the councilman away from Wynter, whom he still hadn’t noticed lurking by the alley.

  “Good man, Simon,” he said. “You must remember. I would not like to lose you over a slip of your oily tongue.”

  De Rochelle chuckled and ducked his head as they headed towards the indoor arena.

  Wynter opened her mouth to call Razi, but his next words to De Rochelle stilled her. “If the King begins a purge,” he said, tapping his crop against his thigh. “It will go badly for him with the people.”

  So, Razi knew then. Would he act?

  “Badly for the King means disastrous for you, your Highness.”

  Razi’s voice trailed out of earshot as they headed into the big barn, but not before Wynter heard him say. “But disastrous for me is wonderful for my brother, Simon.”

  God help us, Razi, she thought with a start. What games are you playing? Have you no concern for your own life?

  She hesitated for a moment, then turned to leave, but spun back as Razi suddenly dashed from the barn. Gone was all his courtly composure, and his face was creased with worry. He looked around the arena until he found her, then he gave her a most searching look. De Rochelle must have said something about her presence. Razi met her eye, his expression alarmed.

  “Protector Lady?” he called across the sun-baked exercise yard. “Is all well?”

  She flicked a glance at the guards. Don’t forget yourself Razi! she thought, and bowed formally. She realised that Razi thought her father or Christopher were in need of him, and in his concern, all his carefully constructed aloofness had fallen away. She kept her voice cool as she said, “All is most well, your Highness. I was merely taking the air.”

  Razi gave her an uncertain look, nodded and turned back to the barn. Simon De Rochelle watched her from the shadows until she left.

  As Wynter retreated up the alley, a flash of movement at the end caught her eye and she broke into a run. She cleared the corner of the feed-store just in time to see Gary Huette racing back to the library as fast as his legs could carry him.

  Damn! Oh goddamn it! Damn it to hell!

  He was going to report back to the others that the Protector Lady had not, as she had promised, gone to speak to her father. But had run instead to her lord and master, the murderer, the poisoner, the usurping pagan bastard, Razi the Pretender.

  Damn it! She kicked the wall in frustration and yelped and hopped and cursed under her breath. Oh, good Frith! as Christopher would say.

  She walked back to the palace completely at a loss. Should she go to the library and try to explain? Would they listen? What if they tried to leave, believing that she was plotting behind their backs? Jesu. If that happened they’d have to explain why to the guards. They’d bring a whole lot of trouble down on themselves.

  There was nothing for it. She’d have to go talk to her father.

  She let herself into the suite and came up short at the sight of Christopher He had dragged one of the round chairs into the retiring room, no mean task in his current condition, and positioned it outside her father’s open bedroom door.

  Christopher was sitting upright and wary, staring at something within Lorcan’s room. One hand had a death’s grip on the arm of his chair. In his other hand Wynter was alarmed to see his black dagger, steadied against his knee, the blade forward and at the ready. The tip of the knife shook slightly. Christopher was afraid.

  Wynter locked the door and waited for Christopher to acknowledge her presence.

  “Girly?” he hissed, without looking around.

  “Yes,” she whispered, reaching for her own dagger.

  “There’s a ghost in your father’s room.”

  Jesu. There were no resident ghosts in these apartments! That meant it was a visitation. A spirit wilfully breaking its sphere of influence, acting on impulse and of its own accord. Never a good thing.

  Wynter swallowed and slid her dagger back into place. “Christopher,” she said softly, advancing on the tense young man. “You don’t need your knife.”

  She could hear Christopher’s ragged breathing as she got closer and realised that he was terrified beyond belief.

  “It’s been here for an age,” he whispered, his bruised eyes glued to the apparition, which remained out of Wynter’s sight in he
r father’s room. “I came in to visit with your father, but he were asleep, so I came out to fetch a pillow, and when I got back… it were here. Standing over him. Just looking.”

  Is it… is it a woman?” she asked uncertainly, thinking of Heather Quinn and of all that a visit from her would mean.

  She sighed with relief when Christopher said, “No, lass. It’s a man. A soldier. I’m mortal feared it’s going to do to your father like those others, and I have no idea how to stop it…” Christopher gestured with his knife and said uncertainly, “should it… commence to glowing…”

  Wynter understood that Christopher feared that there would be another surge, like the one that had killed the inquisitors and their prey.

  “It’s all right, Christopher,” she said, moving to his side and putting her hand on his arm. “Ghosts don’t tend to harm.” Despite her words, she was still reluctant to look into Lorcan’s room.

  “Oh aye?” said Christopher dryly. “Tell that to the raw meat we left in the dungeon a few nights ago.” He pulled his knife hand free, and continued his anxious surveillance of the ghost. Wynter took a deep breath and leaned across him, resting her cheek on the top of his head as she peered around the doorframe into Lorcan’s room. She cried out softly at the sight of the apparition, and Christopher jumped. He exclaimed in alarm as she tried to push past him.

  “No!” he hissed, and grabbed her wrist, pulling her away from the door. His gap-fingered grip felt odd on her arm, but he was quite amazingly strong for such a slim person.

  “It’s all right, Christopher,” she said again.

  She crouched down level with him so that he didn’t have to bend his neck. She put her hand on his and tried to gently pull his crushing fingers from her wrist. “I know him! He won’t harm me.”

  Christopher’s eyes slid back to Lorcan’s room.