Lorcan moved to put his hand on the other man's shoulder and immediately thought the better of it, gripping the chair again with brutal force. "I am to dine with the King tomorrow, Pascal." The importance of this showed in Pascal's face and he glanced apologetically at Wynter. Lorcan would be showing his support of the King on the Royal platform, in the exact way that had so enraged the apprentices when Wynter had taken his place. "I will do my best to mention how loyal, how steadfast, and how honest a group of men you are."
The old man's eyes brimmed and he nodded. "Thank you, my Lord. My boys..."
Lorcan interrupted sharply. "But understand," he said. "I cannot protect fools. You must rein them in, Pascal. You must marshal your boys and their acquaintances. Or we shall see innocent blood, the like of which hasn't been known since our grandfathers'time. And if that happens, I will wipe my hands of you and walk away with nary a backward glance." He held the man's trembling gaze. "Are we clear?"
"Aye, my Lord," mumbled Pascal. "We are clear."
"Go about your work now."
The old man made his way to the end of the library, and recommenced with the picture panel that Lorcan had left unfinished.
Lorcan sat still for a long moment, his head bowed, his hands gripping the arms of the chair. Wynter waited patiently. Eventually, without raising his head or moving at all, he murmured softly, so only Wynter could hear, "Are they occupied, my darling?"
"Aye," she breathed, glancing around at the industriously turned backs and the averted eyes. He pushed himself forward, and she slipped her hands in under his elbows as he painfully got to his feet.
Wynter's eyes darted from boy to boy, but none of them raised their eyes or turned their head from their work. Even when Lorcan staggered, and she had to catch him around the waist and give him a moment before starting forward, all eyes were kept discreetly turned. It was unnatural for such a group of boys, this tact. Wynter wondered if it was out of respect, or out of self-preservation? Perhaps they felt that what they couldn't see wouldn't harm them, and so kept their eyes down. Keeping themselves safe from the knowledge that all their hopes of salvation were pinned on Lorcan's slowly bowing shoulders.
New Quarters
The journey back was awful. Lorcan managed the brief public sections with trembling stoicism, his fingers gouging welts in her shoulder, more and more of his weight leaning on her. But once they reached the secret passages and the quiet stretches of cellar, he finally let himself acknowledge his growing helplessness, and the awful unceasing pain of his condition seemed to overtake him. He groaned quietly. Occasionally he gasped, "Oh God. God help me. I can't do this. I can't."
Wynter staggered along in the constant fear that he would sink to the ground and leave her unable to assist him. She determined that he would not die here, frightened and comfortless with no candle to succour him against the shadowy approach of death.
"Keep going!" she encouraged, "Keep going!" Somehow he kept on, until they reached the end of the final stretch of private corridor and came to a stop at the small door. They had to pass into public view just once more now, in order to access the hall that led to their rooms.
Lorcan leant his head against the door. "Wynter," he groaned, "Wynter..." and shook his head.
"We're almost there! Please! You can make it!"
He turned his head and looked at her in the dimness. I cannot, his face said. I have come as far as I can. I cannot go any further.
"When we get to our rooms," she promised, "you can take some hashish! You can lie on your bed! Dad! You can sleep for the rest of the day and the night. How wonderful does that sound?"
He took a deep breath and pushed her off him suddenly, propping himself against the wall, his legs shaking. He let her go, cautiously testing his balance. He tilted his head. "Get Christopher. Quick. Can't stay up much longer..."
The hall to their rooms was thronged with servants coming and going. They were removing things - Razi's things. Oh God! Oh God! her mind screamed in panic. What now? But she pushed ruthlessly past the scurrying pages and maids, their arms piled high with books and scientific equipment and clothes, and dodged her way to Razi's door where she knew Christopher must be.
He was leaning against the far wall of the receiving room, his arms crossed, watching bleakly as the suite was cleared of Razi's belongings. As Wynter slid to a halt on the threshold, Christopher jerked from his reverie, winced and pushed himself unsteadily from the wall.
Jesu, she thought, he looks no better than Dad. I'll end up carrying them both back.
"What is it?" he said. She didn't answer, but at her desperate pleading look, he started forward and fell into weaving step with her as she stalked back through the stream of domestic staff.
"Good Frith! You stubborn bollix!"
Lorcan managed a laugh at the young man's exclamation, and Christopher and Wynter were just in time to shove themselves in under his arms and catch him as he slid down the wall.
This we can do for you, Dad. Wynter thought, her arm brushing Christopher's as they both clutched her father around the waist and helped him along. This much we can do.
They finally got to Lorcan's room, and Christopher helped him into bed. He slipped discreetly out while Wynter eased off her father's boots, his tunic and britches. Then Lorcan pushed her away and crawled under the covers in his long johns and shirt. He curled on his side, as he often did when the pain was bad. She fetched him one of the fragrant little hashish biscuits, and watched as he wearily propped himself on his elbow long enough to eat it, and drink some water. Then he lay down without a word and covered his face with his hand, waiting for her to leave.
"Rest well," she murmured, but Lorcan didn't reply.
When she went into the receiving room she found Christopher leaning against the frame of the opened hall door, his arms folded. He was openly gazing at the bustling activity in the corridor and, for once, Wynter didn't feel like berating him for his lack of tact. Instead she crossed and stood beside him, watching as Razi's things were taken away.
They were silent for a while, then Christopher murmured softly, "This cannot be good for him."
They all understood the reasons for Razi's sudden and distressing remoteness, but this was a step too far. It served no purpose that Wynter could fathom. Whatever Razi's behaviour must be in public, and no matter how aloof he remained in private, wouldn't he want to sleep at night protected, and surrounded by the people who loved him?
It seemed to her that Razi was needlessly casting himself adrift in the cold, black waters of state. Leaving Christopher, Lorcan and herself warm and cosy in the little nest that he had engineered for them, while he spun further and further away into the dark. Surely that kind of isolation would be agony for a man of Razi's innate warmth?
"I'm sure he must have his reasons," she said doubtfully.
"He's a stubborn bollix," Christopher said. "Just like your dad."
Wynter laughed. Impulsively, she slipped her hand into the crook of Christopher's arm and briefly pressed her forehead to his shoulder in a gesture of amused solidarity. "What will we do with them?" she asked, and smiled into his face. Then she too, turned to resume her undisguised monitoring of activity in the hall and, without thinking, leant comfortably against him.
To her surprise, Christopher tensed and straightened, almost pulling away. He put his hand on hers as if to lift it from his arm. Wynter kept her eyes fixed on the hall. It was a gesture that she hadn't even thought about, this taking of his arm, this leaning in. Now she regretted it, and not because it was so dangerously open and unguarded, but because it had been so obviously unwelcome. She found herself embarrassed and also horribly disappointed.
"Wynter," Christopher said unhappily. "You know. I won't be..." he hesitated, scrabbling for words, and tried again. "Razi, he... he wants..." He looked awkwardly down at her and paused. She flicked a glance at him, began to pull away, then saw the warring emotions in his marred face and felt the tension in his body as he tried to work s
omething out in his head. Christopher seemed to come to a decision then, and squeezed Wynter's hand tighter into the crook of his elbow. "To hell with that," he said bitterly, and turned his eyes back to the hall, gripping her hand tightly where it lay on his arm.
Christopher began to unconsciously stroke his thumb across her knuckles as his eyes roamed the crowded hall. "Curse me," he muttered. "But that man has a powerful mountain of possessions."
The man in question chose that moment to round the corner, his face like thunder. He saw the two of them at once, and Wynter felt Christopher tense as Razi's hooded brown eyes dropped to their linked arms. But Razi swept into his suite with barely a pause, and they heard him immediately start shouting at the staff.
"Hurry the hell up, you laggards! This was meant to have been completed an hour ago!" There was muttering and apologies, then Razi's angry voice again, railing in an utterly uncharacteristic way against his underlings. "At least get my God-cursed dressing-trunk and washstand to the new rooms so that I can change for court! NO! Don't maul my medical bag, you drooling idiot! I left specific instructions that it wasn't to be touched!"
Wynter winced at Razi's tone, and Christopher straightened and gently took her hand from his arm. "That ain't our lad," he murmured. "That ain't our lad at all."
Razi stormed from his room, a small portfolio in one hand, his medical bag in the other. Without a glance in their direction, he turned and began dodging away through the now frantically hastened staff.
"Your Highness!" called Wynter, but Razi either didn't hear, or chose to ignore her.
"The Protector Lord has need of you, your Highness!" Christopher's raised voice stilled Razi at the corner.
Razi glanced back at him, his face still black with anger. For a moment, Wynter thought he would leave, but he took one look at her face and turned back immediately, striding through the crowd and passing her without a word, to enter the suite. Christopher shrugged wearily at her, and followed their friend inside. Wynter followed suit and shut the door behind her.
Razi hesitated at the threshold to Lorcan's bedroom, frowning at the manner in which the big man was curled in his bed. He looked at Lorcan's boots and the heap of his clothes discarded untidily on the floor, and Wynter cursed herself for having forgotten them. Razi looked darkly at herself and Christopher, and they came to a shuffling halt beside him, their eyes averted.
He went to shut the door on them, but Christopher reached his hand out, and held it open. Razi met his eyes, and Christopher held his ground, frowning in confusion at his friend's animosity. Razi dropped his gaze and turned away, leaving the door open so that Wynter and Christopher could follow on his heels.
Razi's face grew even darker as he got a good look at the Lorcan. "What have you been up to?" he growled, glowering down at the shivering man.
Lorcan rolled an eye to him and looked away, shifty as a thieving hound. "Oh," he rasped, "You know. This... and that."
"Good God," said Razi quietly, looking him up and down. And then he yelled and threw his bag onto the bedside table, upsetting the cups and vials already there, sending things crashing to the ground. "Can't... can't you people just... Can't you just DO WHAT YOU'RE BLOODY TOLD?" He kicked the table, hard, and the remaining things bounced and jiggled and fell over.
Everyone froze for a moment, stunned by his sudden outburst of violence.
"All right!" Razi said, turning on Lorcan, his face suffused with sarcastic bitterness, "all right, Lorcan!" He grabbed his bag and snapped the catch. "You want to act like a bloody child? Fine! Fine! I'll just knock you the hell out! I'll..." he rooted viciously in his bag for a moment, and drew out the bottle of tincture of opium. "I'll knock you bloody out and you'll have to... you'll..."
"That is enough, Razi," said Wynter, coming to stand on the other side of the bed, staring at Razi, her hand protectively on Lorcan's shoulder.
Razi glowered at her, breathing hard.
"What has happened, Razi?" Christopher's quiet voice drifted from where he leaned wearily at the bedroom door.
Razi paused, his eyes closing briefly. And then he unstoppered the tincture of opium and poured a few drops into the bottom of a beaker.
"What has happened?" repeated Christopher, a little impatiently. "Why have you removed yourself from our rooms?"
"It is unnecessary," added Wynter, "and not healthy to sever yourself so utterly from those who love you."
Razi paused at her words, then added water to the tincture. "I will not stay," he said finally. "I cannot."
"Razi..." groaned Christopher impatiently.
"It matters not, Christopher!" Razi slapped the cup down on the table, and reached to help Lorcan sit up against his pillows. "I simply cannot. Let that be an end to it!"
Wynter leant across and tried to assist her father from the other side. Lorcan shrugged the two of them off and struggled to sit unaided. Razi let the big man flounder for a moment, before reaching under his armpits and heaving him forcefully into position. He went to hand him the beaker of draught, but Lorcan caught Razi by the wrist and pulled down until the younger man had to either spill the drink or stoop to his eye level.
"What the hell has happened?" said Lorcan, not unkindly. "That you need to withdraw so thoroughly?"
Razi's anger wavered and his mouth became unsteady. "There have been... insinuations. Rumours that I cannot bear to tolerate."
Lorcan stared into his eyes. "What?" he said, trying to read Razi's face, still gripping his wrist. "What have they said?"
"Certain of the councilmen, those who..." Razi laughed, a dry bitter sound. "Those who support my brother... have... in an effort to discredit me..." he glanced desperately at Christopher, shook his head and ground his teeth.
Lorcan slowly released Razi's arm, his face taut. He took the beaker. "Then you are right to draw away," he said softly.
Wynter did not understand. She looked from her father to Razi, hoping for a clue. "What?" she asked finally. "What have they said?"
"Oh!" Razi threw his hands up in frustration, his cheeks burning. "It doesn't matter! Suffice it to say I cannot tolerate it!"
"What have they said?" insisted Christopher.
"That you are my catamite, Chris!" shouted Razi at last, spinning and holding his hands out, his eyes wide. "My catamite! I will not tolerate it!"
Lorcan winced and Wynter gasped, and the two of them turned involuntarily to look at Christopher. They expected rage, but the young man just squinted at them, obviously not understanding. "What does that mean?" he asked uncertainly. "What is a catamite?"To Wynter's amazement he turned to her, "Wyn," he asked, "what does it mean?"
She felt her face grow hot. "It means, Christopher... um... that Razi. That he has... that you are... his toy. That he has fashioned you as... his plaything..." she ducked her head, too mortified to expound, and almost immediately Lorcan surprised them all by murmuring something in Hadrish.
Christopher knew that word, all right. They watched as his jaw dropped and Wynter waited for the outrage, the hurt. To their immense surprise the young man just threw up his hands in relief and laughed.
"Oh Razi!" he said, "Is that all! Oh, friend! You don't know a bit of me, if you think that matters! And as for yourself, what does it say about you? Except that, were you so inclined, you'd have excellent taste in men!" He grinned at his friends, expecting them to share the joke.
Lorcan dragged his hand over his mouth, shocked, and looked sideways at Razi. The tall young man glared at Christopher, his body bowing forward with the strength of his emotion. "It may not matter to you, Christopher, but it matters to me." The light drained from Christopher's face at his friend's cold rage. "You are not in one of your bloody Merron camps now! The rest of the world doesn't share your people's dubious tolerances for such men, and I for one, will not be associated with their practices."
Christopher blinked, and Wynter saw him stiffen with anger and hurt, his scarred hands knotting at his sides, his bruised mouth compressed to a thin line. The
y all stood in awkward silence for a moment, then Christopher turned and walked stiffly from the room.
Razi looked at the empty door, then turned and began to put things back into his bag. "That draught..." he began, but his voice failed him on the first try. "That draught," he said again, much stronger, "is very powerful, Lorcan. You won't be fit for anything but sleep for the next good long while. So you will have no opportunity to gad about and orphan your daughter." Lorcan just silently watched Razi's face as he finished tidying. "If you need me," Razi continued, snapping his bag shut and not meeting Lorcan's eye or looking at Wynter. "Send a page to fetch me, any time of the day or night." He turned to leave.
"You are right to move out," repeated Lorcan slowly. "But you are a fool if you let this come between you and a true, loyal friend."
Razi listened to this with his back turned, his head tilted, and left without replying.
Christopher must have been standing or sitting in the receiving room, because they heard Razi say before he left, "I have business to discuss with you, Christopher. First I must wash and dress for court, but I shall return within this quarter, and I will speak to you here."
"Oh aye," said Christopher. "We should be sure and have Wynter attend as chaperone, in case this dubious Merron compromises your Highness's virtue."
There was a moment of stillness, and Wynter's heart dropped when Razi coolly replied, "You will be fit to travel within a week, Freeman Garron. I want you to be ready to leave as soon as I tell you."
All the sarcasm had gone from Christopher's voice when he said, "Oh, Razi. So soon? What of Wynter?"
Wynter strained to hear a reply, but there was none. Only the abrupt click of the hall door shutting, and then silence.
Papers
Christopher was still in the receiving room when Wynter finished with her father. He had taken her favourite seat by the window and was gazing down into the orange garden, his arm on the sill, his face grim. Wynter dragged a chair from the other side of the room, pulled it close enough that Christopher's knees brushed the arm of it, and sat down.
The Poison Throne (The Moorehawke Trilogy) Page 25