Steffan descended the stairs and claimed the lord’s seat at the head table. The general made his way to one of the long trestle tables. Steffan addressed the men. “We feast to celebrate a successful start to the holy war. Every opposition has been crushed and our baggage train swells with converts. Lanverness is ripe for the plucking. This feast is but a small measure of the largess that awaits you in Pellanor. Fight well and victory will be ours.” He raised his tankard. “To victory and the Flame God!”
“Victory and the Flame God!” The cry thundered through the hall.
“Let the feast begin!” Steffan took a seat while platter-laden servants rushed to the head table. The delicacies were legion, oxtail soup and pigeon pie, buttered leeks and cinnamon apples, succulent piglets and crispy chicken and a side of roast beef that looked like half a steer. Red wine and ale flowed like rivers. Tankards were kept full and the serving platters kept coming. The officers reveled in the abundance. Steffan made the rounds, spending time at each table. Listening more than he spoke, he studied the officers, watching how they ate. The feast was a test of sorts, a chance to winnow the couth from the crude. Steffan spent the evening searching for those who sipped their wine rather than swilling it, for those who wielded a table knife rather than gnawing their meat straight from the bone. He found eight with table manners that could pass for nobles, but one had too many scars and the other was too devout, so he settled for six. Tapping them on their shoulders, he whispered instructions in their ears.
The desert course arrived with a flourish, dried fruits, and blackberry pie, and delicate marchpane confections. The men were in their cups, talking loudly and fondling the serving girls, bawdy jokes hurled between the tables. Steffan slipped away, retreating up the staircase. Six men followed.
He met with them in the lord’s solar, a fire roaring in the hearth, a bottle of brandy breathing on the table. Taking a seat in front of the fire, he gestured for the others to sit. “I have a special task for you.” Pip slipped from the shadows to serve the brandy. “Our victory is inevitable, but I wish to hasten the process. If Pellanor surrenders, we will save time and many lives. Why fight a war when you can win with deception?”
Tarkin, a gray-haired major, leaned forward. “What would you have us do?”
“I want each of you to take a string of horses and ride with all speed for Pellanor. Once there, I want you to pose as displaced nobles. To the commoners, I want you to speak of atrocities, spreading fear through the populous. But among the nobles, I want you to be bitter and angry. You will pose as minor lordlings, men who fought for their queen and defended their holdings, men who lost all to the superior numbers of the Flame Army. Outnumbered and overrun, you fled for your very lives, losing everything. But in your cups, you will speak with bitterness about other lords, the ones who surrendered to the Flame and kept their lands and their holdings. You’ll condemn them for their turned cloaks and curse them for keeping their estates.”
Understanding bloomed in their eyes.
“I send you to sow the seeds of surrender. You will spread the word that those who are swift to bend the knee will gain the most favorable terms.”
The men grinned, enjoying the lie.
“Do your best to reach the ear of the queen’s councilors. And when you reach them, I want you to whisper a rumor that you’ve heard from other refugees, a rumor that if the Flame Army reaches the gates of Pellanor, there will be no mercy, no surrender.”
A chill settled over the chamber.
Tarkin asked the question. “Why us?”
“Nobles will be better believed than commoners.” Steffan stared at them. “Do this for me and I will see you raised to lords.”
Hunger sparked in their eyes. They looked at each other and nodded agreement.
“When do we leave?”
“On the morrow.” Pip approached, handing each man a fat purse. “Coin enough to set you up in Pellanor.” Steffan gestured to the lord’s chests. “Take whatever fits, so you have the trappings of nobles. You’ll have the pick of the horses, but leave every speck of red behind. Ride hard for Pellanor and spread your tales amongst the queen’s lords.”
Tarkin saluted and the others followed his lead. “It will be as you command.”
Steffan raised his glass. “To victory, by sword or by deception!”
“To victory!”
Steffan downed the brandy and then left the men to ransack the chests. Satisfied with the night’s work, he strode toward the lord’s bedchamber. Scrubbed clean and clad in silks, Salmay waited for him in his bed. This time she was eager. Steffan loved the spoils of war.
9
The Priestess
Like seduction, the Priestess took poisoning to an art form. Any assassin could slip hemlock into a flagon of wine but it took an artist to design the perfect death. Part of the secret lay in understanding the possibilities of each poison. Symptoms could range from the dramatic to the subtle, from tortured convulsions and visions of gods to falling deep into a fatal sleep. And then there was the choice of dosage, strong enough for an instant kill, or parceled out to appear like a lingering malaise. But the real finesse came in the delivery, like slipping into a garden to paint baneberry on an apple just before it was plucked, one bite away from death. The Priestess smiled. She prided herself on creative kills, death by design, the artistry of murder.
In the sanctuary of her scrying chamber, she considered the challenge of killing a king. It would have to be a quick poison, but the symptoms would need to be subtle, perhaps masked beneath a drunken stupor to allow time for escape. And then there was the delivery scheme, her favorite part. Rumors said over a hundred assassins had died trying to topple the cobra crown, a testament to the king’s guards and his suspicious nature. She’d have to sneak the poison past a gauntlet of searches, fooling a royal court bred on intrigue. But the Priestess had advantages the other lacked. She’d studied the king in her silver scrying bowl, watching as he took slave girls and concubines to his bedchamber, releasing them after a night, a week, or however long they amused. But the women chosen for the king’s innermost chambers saw a darker side to the royal pleasure, the king’s secret shame. Soldiers discarded their bodies the next morning, strangled by the king’s own hands, a lifeless tumble of soiled bed sheets sprawled in the midden heap. Women’s lives were cheap to the desert-bred, their graves a repository for royal secrets. But the Dark Lord’s Eye revealed the king’s true weakness. The fetish the king killed for would be his undoing. The Priestess smiled, her solution held a delightful symmetry, her flair for the fatal satisfied.
Unlocking her rosewood chest, she surveyed the honeycomb of drawers, bottles, and boxes, her collection of deathly delights. Larkspur, wolfsbane, bloodroot, mandrake, she knew them all, by name and by nature, the harvest from her garden on the Oracle’s Isle. Sown in the very shadow of the Dark Lord’s influence, her plants had imbibed an evil potency far beyond the ordinary. A tincture of the least of them would fell a healthy giant. Smiling, she considered her lethal harvest. Of all the banes from her garden, purple nightshade was her favorite. Lethal in all its parts, she’d harvested the leaves, the blossoms, and the berries, but the root was by far the most potent. Opening a drawer, she selected a piece of root and shaved off wafer-thin slices. She took care with the knife, knowing the smallest cut of her skin would be fatal. Placing the shavings in a mortar, she added a dozen berries from the same plant. Known as devil’s cherries, the red berries would add a sweet, enticing taste while deepening the poison. A tenth part almond oil and a dash of whiskey for flavor completed the ingredients. She ground the mixture to a fine paste, adding berries till she got the right shade of red. Satisfied with the results, she carefully applied the paste, starting with a thin layer and letting it dry before adding another. The application took half a day, but her patience was rewarded. The poison was hidden in plain sight, the vanity of a woman and the downfall of a king.
Washing her hands three times over, she left the inner chamber
for her solar. Her two handmaidens sank to deep curtsies.
“Attend me.”
Her women did their work well, scenting her dark hair with sandalwood and braiding it into a long coil before tying a single ribbon at the end. A deep red rouge was applied to her lips, the fingernails of her hands, and her nipples, a tantalizing surprise for her prey, and then they dressed her in layers of silk, shades of sheer green sequined with gold, the royal colors. Gold bracelets adorned her ankles, a bangle of small bells chiming with every movement, and on her feet, a pair of golden slippers. Every aspect of her appearance was planned, especially the slippers. Handcrafted from a thin cloth of gold, they conformed to the curves of her feet. Enticing yet simple enough to avoid suspicion, the slippers were the perfect foil. Well aware of the ancient taboo that proscribed the feet as unclean, she’d turn the desert culture against the king.
Her handmaidens finished and the Priestess studied her reflection. A dark-eyed courtesan stared back, a woman bedecked for pleasure, enticing enough for a king. Satisfied, she rang a small hand bell.
The outer door opened and Otham entered. His gaze widened at the sight of her, his voice dropping to a deep husk. “Yes, mistress?”
His reaction pleased her. “Is everything in order?”
“Everything is just as you commanded.” His stare drank her in.
“And the guards?”
“Stationed outside the gates of the royal compound with fresh horses.”
“And the boy, the snake charmer from the market?”
“Waiting outside with the palanquin.”
She rewarded him with a smile. “Then it is time to hunt a king.”
The words blurted out of him. “Must you take the risk?”
She laughed. “In the risk lies the pleasure.”
His jaw clenched, his gaze spilling with anger. “There must be another way.”
She rested a hand on his chest, forestalling his argument. “Obey my commands and all will be well.”
He bowed his head. “As you wish, mistress.” He reached for a dark green cloak and wrapped it around her shoulders. For a moment, he held her close, his manhood pressed against her, but she did not yield. Sighing, he lifted her into his arms and carried her out the door and into the noon sun. A palanquin surrounded by guards in the sky blue of House Razzur waited in the street below. The guards snapped to attention, one of them rushing to hold back the curtains of the palanquin.
Otham settled her on silken pillows. He gave her searching look and then closed the curtains. She heard him give orders to the guards and the palanquin lurched into motion.
Reclining on a mountain of pillows, she watched through the curtain slit. The streets were busy with the noon crush but the crowds thinned as they approached the royal compound. Her escort passed through the gate without incident, the guards showing deference to the royal crest emblazoned on the palanquin. Prince Razzur was a man of power, second only to the king.
The bearers struggled up the hill, past the glut of palaces, a competition of golden doors and gilded statues. In the afternoon light, the palaces seemed even more garish than they did at night, a triumph of wealth over taste. The Priestess smiled at the overweening decadence, a sure sign of a decayed power.
The palanquin lurched to the crest of the hill and stopped before a palace that outshone all others in terms of raw conceit. Massive marble columns supported a domed onion-roof gilded in gold. Larger-than-life statues stood between each column, desert princes wielding golden scimitars, inflated images of bygone heroes. And recessed beneath the shaded portico were a pair of golden doors embossed with hooded cobras, the symbol of the royal house, a throne held by poison, intrigue and fratricide.
Otham opened the curtains, helping her out. The Priestess stood straight and tall, hugging the cloak tight to hide her finery.
Ten royal guards stepped from the portico shadows. Wearing tabards of green and gold with royal cobras emblazoned on their chests, the soldiers gripped their swords, their faces full of suspicion.
The Priestess kept silent, deferring to the men.
Otham greeted the guards, bowing to the captain. “Lady Cereus, a member of Prince Razzur’s karesh, has come to make a debt-payment to King Cyrus.” He offered the captain a scroll sealed with the prince’s emblem.
The captain inspected the scroll, throwing a speculative glance at the Priestess. “The lady is welcome but no guards from Razzur may enter.”
Otham gave an obsequious bow. “The prince told us it would be so. I will remain outside with the guards, but,” he gestured to the rear of the palanquin, “the lady has brought three servants that are included in tonight’s payment.”
The guards moved to inspect the others. The flute boy from the market stood with his head bowed. Scrubbed clean, he looked like a cherub, his auburn curls cascading around a heart-shaped face. Dressed in a short white tunic and gold sandals, he fidgeted from one foot to the other, nervously clutching his flute. Behind the boy, two muscle-bound bearers carried a large woven basket between them. Made of reeds, the basket was over four-foot tall, bowl-shaped to mimic the baskets used by snake charmers.
The captain scowled. “What’s in the basket?”
Otham answered, “Nothing yet.”
The captain snorted, giving the Priestess an appreciative glance. “They’ll have to be searched.” His voice deepened to a growl. “If anything is found amiss, you’ll all pay the price.”
Otham nodded, extending his hand to the captain, a small purse of golds hidden in his palm. “To compensate for your extra work.”
The Priestess watched as the purse disappeared into the captain’s belt. The bribe would not influence the guards’ thoroughness but it would ensure the basket was not destroyed by an overzealous search.
The captain gave her a leering grin, “This way, m’lady.” He strode towards a small side door made of beaten silver.
The Priestess swayed seductively with each step, following the captain into the marbled hallways. The palace interior mirrored the outside, a preening display of wealth. Green marble walls soared to beveled ceilings creating a faint echo of footsteps. Arched niches held rare vases and gem-encrusted figurines, each one worth a duke’s ransom. Even the air smelled costly, gilded braziers releasing the rich scents of cinnamon and frankincense. And everywhere guards stood statue-still with hands on sword hilts, watching the movement in the hallways…the perfect blend of opulence and paranoia.
The Priestess kept her head bowed, hiding behind her veil, staying two paces behind the captain. Bells on her ankles marked each step, a soft chime as she memorized the twists and turns of the passageways. Servants bedecked in silk scurried past, but none glanced her way.
The captain showed her to a small but well-appointed chamber. Two cushioned divans flanked a round table laden with a flask of wine and a platter of dried fruits. Rich carpets covered the marble floor while a pair of braziers warmed the room. An ornate screen in the corner presumably hid a chamber pot. The only thing missing was a window.
“You are to wait here until the king calls for you.”
She kept her voice demure. “And my attendants?”
The captain gave her a sly smile. “You will be re-united if you are deemed worthy to serve the king.”
Bowing her head in acquiescence, she entered the room and took a seat on the divan, watching as the captain stood guard outside the open door. Tall and broad-shouldered, he stood with his hand on his sword hilt, his stare boring into her, distrust leavened with lust. Deciding to ignore him, she focused on the room instead. The divan was comfortable and the room beautifully appointed but it was nothing more than a gilded cage, a place to hold those who might be a threat to the crown. Suspicion was a way of life in the royal palace.
She kept her eyes downcast, studying the intricate pattern of the rug, playing the role of a mere woman, giving the captain no cause for alarm. Boredom threatened, but fortunately she did not have long to wait. A gray-haired matron and a moon-fa
ced eunuch bustled into the room. Bowing, they gave her a speculative look, a pair of rogues gauging the mark before the fleece.
The Priestess waited, her head bowed in compliance.
The matron approached, beaming a gap-toothed smile that screamed of falsehood. “Well, deary, so you’ve come to entertain the king?”
The Priestess nodded.
“They say you’re from Razzur’s karesh?”
The question was heavily laden with gossip, a gossip she hoped infected the king. Hiding her smile behind her veil, the Priestess gave the smallest nod. “Yes.”
“Well then, an experienced woman like your ladyship surely knows that certain measures must be taken to safeguard our royal master.” The old woman winked. “We can’t let a lady like you into the king’s bedchamber without first checking a few things, now can we?” She rolled up her sleeves, revealing a pair of beefy arms. “So which will you have, m’lady, myself or Sal here?” Winking, she waved a meaty hand toward the whey-faced eunuch. “You know of course, that Sal is a palace eunuch so there’ll be nothing untoward happening, no disgrace either way.”
The Priestess made her voice meek, knowing the trial had to be endured. “Then perhaps Master Sal would be best.”
The old matron threw her a shrewd look. “Well then, the choice is made. I’ll be doing your clothes while Sal here does the honors.” Her voice gained a serious edge. “Stand up, deary, and give us that lovely wool cloak.”
The Priestess stood, letting the matron whisk the green cloak from her shoulders. While the old woman fondled her cloak, she darted a glance at the captain and found him leering in the open doorway. Feigning embarrassment she said, “Can you not close the door?”
S&SS [04] The Poison Priestess Page 10