by Liz Williams
“Wise,” a murmuring voice said, from the darkness. “The protégés of the poison clans learn quickly… But you shouldn't be afraid of me. I'm here to help you.”
“I've heard that before. Who are you?”
“A friend. I came here to warn you.” The words were melodramatic, but the woman's tone was cool and invested with a concern that sounded sincere.
“A friend? I've never seen you before today. Why should you be any friend of mine?”
“Ghairen's enemy, then.”
That made more sense.
“I know what he's done to you,” the woman said. “I can help.”
“What do you mean, what he's done to me? Ghairen and I made a deal: I help him, he helps me. The details of that aren't any of your business. Who are you, anyway?”
“I am well aware of the details. Ghairen wants your help in defeating the Lords of Night; in exchange, he'll help to free your sister. What you do not know is that—whether or not Ghairen is successful—he does not want surviving evidence of his plots. And that includes you. He's poisoned you, Alivet.”
“What do you mean, he's poisoned me?” Alivet whispered furiously. She felt a coldness spreading over her skin; she thought of winter-ice across the fens.
“It's a plant-based toxin called mayjen. It's cued to temporal markers and it enters through the pores of the skin. It's almost always fatal. How long has Ghairen given you to get a result?”
It was as though Alivet stood in a vast, empty space, where words echoed and made little sense.
“A week,” she said, numbly. There was a hissing in her head. She recalled Ghairen's reluctance to wait another year: Did that have anything to do with his plans to dispose of her?
“Then that will be when the poison is due to strike.”
“You said it was fatal,” Alivet said. “What about antidotes?”
“There might be a way to save you, but it will not be easy. I will do my best.”
“How do I know you're telling me the truth?”
“You don't. You have only my own word—the word of a stranger, and the actions of Ghairen himself. What do you consider to be the truth?”
“I don't know,” Alivet said, but from what she had seen of the Poison Master, it seemed all too probable that he would prefer a plot without loose ends.
“I do not ask for your trust. Nor do I ask that you believe me. I only ask that you give me the opportunity to help you, once we reach Hathes.” The voice was low, a verbal caress.
“All right,” Alivet said, not knowing what to think. “But why should you go to such trouble for a stranger? I know you said you were Ghairen's enemy, but I can mean nothing to you.”
“Perhaps that's true,” the woman said. She stepped forward once more, her heels clicking on the metal floor; Alivet recognized the deathwatch sound that had awoken her. “I will be honest with you. My name is Iraguila Ust. My father was a Poison Master, too, Third Grade. He died from a dose of yth, administered to the leaves of a plant along the course of his daily walk. I know who administered that poison.”
“And you want revenge,” Alivet stated. Iraguila Ust's face floated before her in the pool of light cast by the lamp: small, pointed, and pale like a porcelain doll, the eyes lambent wells. “Well, I can understand that.”
“Helping you takes me closer to that revenge,” Iraguila murmured, and now Alivet could hear the hatred beneath the soft voice. “Any disruption to Ghairen's plans is a victory for me.”
“Where can I get in touch with you?” Alivet had no intention of entering into a fruitless dialogue. There could also be no question of trusting the woman, if her limited experience of the people of Hathes was anything to go by, but she needed to make sure of as many options as she could. Iraguila represented one such option. Perhaps the woman was even telling the truth…
The thought of being poisoned, disposed of as soon as she had ceased to be of use, filled Alivet with a sick dismay and something strangely like betrayal.
“I will come to you. And now I must go.”
Before Alivet could protest, Iraguila Ust had melted away.
“Iraguila?” she said, questioning the empty air. She waited, lingering in the silence of the dormitory, but there was no reply, only the name echoing back from the walls in a whispering hiss.
Alivet slid back into the cell and pulled the hatch shut behind her. Lying in the hot darkness, she made a quick mental inventory: Do I feel nauseous? Is my pulse too high? Where do I hurt? But everything seemed normal, except that her heart was racing and that might be caused by fright rather than a toxin.
There were two simple options. Either Iraguila was lying, or she was telling the truth. If the former, then Alivet needed to find out why one of Ghairen's enemies would go to the trouble of seeking her out and manipulating her. If Iraguila spoke the truth, then Alivet must find an antidote as swiftly as possible. She wondered whether to confront Ghairen and decided against it; best to lie low. If Ghairen believed that Alivet knew nothing, then there was the possibility that he might betray himself. Besides, if he knew that she was aware of his actions, he would simply keep a closer watch on her, and Alivet needed to be as free as possible. She was an alchemist, an apothecary. It was not a discipline that taught a person to act without due thought and care. Hasty decisions resulted in experimental collapse. A person could be injured or killed.
Alivet set her anger and her fear, simmering like a crucible, to the back of her mind. And when the time is right, I'll let it bubble and boil. I'll transform it, into alchemical fire, and you, Ari Ghairen, will take the full force of that explosion.
Tossing restlessly in the little cell, it also occurred to her to wonder just how secure the dormitory could be, if any enemy could open a cell and sip from the honey within. The ease with which Iraguila had gained access was at odds with what Ghairen had told her about security and paranoia. Alivet frowned into the darkness. She did not like anomalies. Whenever they cropped up during her alchemical preparations, they almost invariably presaged disaster. This situation was likely enough to blow up in her face or fizzle into dust without additional complications. She needed to think things through. But the heat from the walls of her cell lulled her into unsettled sleep, her head still full of contradictions and alarm.
Chapter III
DRIFT-BOAT, ORBIT
In the morning, she wondered whether it had been a dream. The face at the entrance to her cell was Ghairen's: still smiling, still concerned. She watched him warily, trying not to let her confusion show.
“Alivet? Did you sleep well? Was the cell comfortable?”
“Well enough. I didn't wake in the night.”
“That's good,” Ghairen said, blandly. “I'll let you freshen up and then we must have you decontaminated.”
The decontamination room lay close to the dormitory, but it took some time for Ghairen to make his preparations. Perched uncomfortably on a narrow bench, Alivet watched as the Poison Master ransacked racks of vials. She had protested in vain. Ghairen had been adamant that she would be unable to set foot on Hathes without these measures. He had asked her to remove her skirts and shirt, but Alivet had flatly refused. The memory of Ghairen's hands, and the occasional glitter in his eyes when he looked at her, would have been enough to make her unsettled, even without the possibility of the poisoning. She felt as though she was in the hands of some sinister uncle. Yet there had been that moment of late-night confusion when she had mistaken Iraguila for Ghairen, the sudden rush of heat at the thought of his presence… Alivet made a resolute decision to ignore these inconsistencies.
She said, “You're not going to examine me, are you? You have access to my tongue and the skin of my hands—that's usually enough to administer a potion.”
“Normally, you see, you'd have been inoculated against all these things when you were a child, but as you're an offworlder, we'll just have to start from scratch.”
“What side effects can I expect?”
“Oh, a few, proba
bly. Shouldn't be worse than the occasional rash, or double vision. Let me know if you start getting any peculiar symptoms and I'll see what I can do. I'll give you the basics now. Ready?”
Reluctantly, Alivet held out her arm. Wait, she told herself. Do nothing yet.
“Now, this is a general antivenin, good against orope, perganum hamala, hoama, and mang. Very comprehensive. Grit your teeth.” Alivet felt a slight stinging sensation in her wrist. “Good girl.” He touched the line of her jaw, impersonally gentle. Alivet raised her chin and Ghairen dabbed something cool at the base of her throat. “Es-asa. Once it penetrates the bloodstream, it'll reduce the effect of some of the major alkaloids.”
But not, presumably, the ones that mattered.
“How many antidotes have you taken, Ghairen? How many does a Fifth Grade master need?”
“My dear young lady, I am positively awash with all manner of substances. I have been given fatal doses of poison some nine times. Or is it ten? No, I'm sure nine is correct. As you see, I am still here. I would estimate that I've had something in the region of a hundred and seventy major protectives, and many more minor ones. But don't worry. It's not so likely that anyone would try to poison you. Once we've reached home, that is. I have every confidence that we won't see you lying on the autopsist's slab when our week is up.”
Alivet said nothing. She was taking careful note of the substances used by Ghairen. Still with that gentle touch, the Poison Master lifted up her plait of hair. She felt a needle at the base of her neck. She pulled away.
“What are you doing now?”
“Just a final precaution against thrope. You never know. The spores get everywhere these days…” His hand brushed her plait. “You have lovely hair, Alivet. As black as a night- dove's wing, as we say on Hathes.”
“Get on with it.” If he began complimenting her, Alivet felt, she would only weaken, and she felt compromised enough already.
“All done.” Ghairen stepped back, his head on one side. “We'd better find you some more suitable attire. You can't go around in those skimpy garments.”
Thus far, the Poison Master had hardly seemed prudish. “What do you mean, skimpy? I'm covered from my neck to my boots.”
“Nonsense. You have only two layers of skirts—and what are you wearing under that blouse? A shift? You might as well be naked. It's a matter of practicality, not morality. If you brush up against someone, or take an accidental spray hit, the results could be nasty. After all, you're not fully inoculated yet.”
“Are you saying I need protective clothes?”
The Poison Master beamed at her. “Of course, but nothing too prosaic, don't worry. They will be the height of fashion. I've gone to a lot of trouble to get you here, Alivet. I've no intention of losing you now. Besides, it would be a sad thing for such a charming young lady to meet a painful end if she didn't have to.”
Everything Ghairen said to her now seemed to contain a threat, wrapped in layers of meaning. He went to a tube on the wall and murmured into it. Alivet heard the sibilant syllables of what was presumably his own language.
“We're very close to Hathes. The drift-boat will dock at the landing site—no more portals, this time. I've asked the Journey Master to get you some clothes. I myself will check the garments thoroughly for toxins. I took the liberty of ordering black and red. I thought it would go with your hair.”
“It'll do.” The color of her clothes was the least of her worries, Alivet thought, but it was not lost on her that in that case, she would match Ghairen. Did he see her as some kind of accessory, perhaps? She felt her lips tighten.
“We'll head straight to the laboratory. I'm sure you understand the need to begin work. I'll arrange for you to have something to eat when we get there.”
“I can eat on Hathes, can I? I won't drop dead at the first mouthful?”
Ghairen considered this. “Not unless you're very unfortunate. But my home—the Atoront Tower—is quite secure. Here are your clothes.”
Taking them from a person at the door, he carried the bundle across the room. “A fumigation and a check, and then I'll let you get dressed.”
Alivet watched as he performed various tests: dusting the heavy skirts with a powder and placing a drop of luminous blue fluid upon the hem. Then, handing her the clothes, he turned his back. Alivet examined the garments, trying to make sense of them. The clothes seemed complicated: a mass of buckles and straps, and she couldn't see how they fitted. Eventually, she worked it out and found that she was dressed in a high-necked, puff-shouldered blouse with many hooks and buttons, and long looped skirts that reached her ankles, all made from some stiff glazed fabric.
The skirts hobbled her and the blouse was tight. She felt constrained and constricted and wondered whether Ghairen had chosen such restrictive garments deliberately. His treatment of her seemed fraught with subtle humiliations, but she wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of asking for help. Did all the women of Hathes go around trussed like a festival hen? Then she remembered Iraguila Ust; it would seem that they did. She fastened the last buckle and said with some apprehension, “I'm ready.” She did not want to look a fool in front of him.
Ghairen's mouth twitched slightly when he turned around, but he said nothing. He tweaked two of the buckles, and adjusted her collar. Alivet tried not to flinch.
Under the circumstances, she would never have admitted to Ghairen that she was entranced with the prospect of seeing another world. Like most people, she had seen relatively few places even on Latent Emanation and the prospect of experiencing a different planet, even with the threat of such dire consequences, was enthralling. The dreams of the eight- year-old Alivet, of flight and freedom, returned to haunt her.
She accompanied Ghairen back to the alcove chamber, where other passengers were meshing themselves in.
“How long before we dock?”
“Soon.”
The drift-boat hummed beneath her feet and the whir of distant engines grew louder. The mesh grew tight against her waist and she felt a pressure behind her eyes. The drift-boat shuddered once and then was still.
“We're here,” Ghairen said, rising from his seat. With the Poison Master, Alivet joined the queue of passengers filing along the corridor and passed out through a sequence of doors. She looked about her with interest as they left the drift-boat. Here were metal corridors: strange, glistening architecture like spun glass. The floor was pale and polished, disquietingly similar to the texture of Ghairen's skin. Alivet paused to run her palm over it; it was cool and smooth, like Ghairen's impersonal hands. She wondered whether the people of Hathes made their world in their own image and if so, what it would be like outside. There were, however, no windows.
As if he had caught her thought, Ghairen said over his shoulder, “This is the landing tower. We'll be coming to one of the land bridges soon. That'll give you a better view of the city and the boat.”
“What's the city called?”
“The oldest name for it is Ukesh, though it is sometimes known as Mothlem,” Ghairen said. “Freezing in winter, hot in summer—though it must be said that summer is short. We're on the edge of the arid lands, so there's always a wind, but you won't be going outside.”
“Why not?”
But Ghairen did not seem to hear her. He led her down a gallery that overlooked a hall. Alivet looked down past pillars of crimson glass to see a throng of people below, moving across a patterned black floor. From this height, they looked no larger than insects. Alivet's head spun and she stepped back quickly. Ghairen's hand steadied her. Alivet did not pull away.
The gallery led to a platform, reached by a flight of steps. The platform itself appeared translucent, as though a solidified section of the air hung above her head. It reminded her of the Night Palace, and indeed, the landing tower was built on the same inhuman scale. Once again, Alivet could not help wondering how much of their technology the people of Hathes had inherited, or stolen, from the Lords. Or could there be other species like the Lo
rds? That was yet another disquieting thought.
“It's quite safe,” Ghairen said. “There's no way you can fall.”
Nervously, Alivet followed him up the stairs, then forgot to be afraid. The platform overlooked a series of immense windows, each reaching hundreds of feet high. From here, a plain made jagged with rocks vanished into the shimmering distance. She saw a boiling red sun hanging low on the horizon, set in a sea of cloud, and the light was caught and reflected by a ziggurat towering up into the sky. As Alivet gazed, the sun dropped behind a bank of clouds and the gleaming walls of the ziggurat dimmed as though a light had been switched off. Alivet saw groves and forests inside the ziggurat, a plume of white water cascading from the heights.
“What is that?” she whispered, and Ghairen replied, “It's called Athes-efra. In your language—I suppose ‘parcverticale’ is the closest translation.”
“It's a park?”
“Park, sanctuary, and alchematorium. Most of all, it is a poison garden. It's where the botanical components of our most valuable toxins are grown, though refining and distilla tion are conducted elsewhere. I have”—Ghairen gave a modest cough—“a small garden of my own, as I will show you if we have time. But there is more to see here.”
On the other side of the platform, a spine of glass extended into a second gallery. Alivet stepped onto it and glanced down. The ground lay far below; she felt as though she had ventured out into empty air. In a dizzying moment she saw a sweep of rock: twisted black pinnacles as tiny as spent matches. Ghairen had already reached the far end of the gallery. Alivet gritted her teeth and followed. The floor was slippery, coated with a gliding fluid. Now it was as though she walked on water rather than air. Alivet moved with care, imagining herself falling, the glass shattering so that she flew down to the rocks below. Ahead, Ghairen's footsteps were light and soundless; he stepped forward like a tightrope walker she had once seen at the World's End Fair. He waited for her to catch up.