The Shadowed Path

by Gail Z. Martin

  He picked up one of the fresh leaves with his gloved hand and walked over to the bound captive. “Last chance,” he said. “Why did you try to poison the caravan master?”

  The poisoner muttered something in a language Jonmarc did not recognize, but the intent was clear. Jonmarc glanced to Steen, who shrugged.

  “Ah well. Your funeral.” Jonmarc placed the fresh leaf on the captive’s bare arm and began to rub it back and forth along the skin. “Funny thing about wolf’s bane. Just touching it lets the poison in.”

  “All right!” the captive shouted. “My name is Matvei. And I don’t even know your caravan master. It was a job. That’s all.”

  “Is your arm tingling?” Jonmarc asked. “That’s how it starts.” The terrified look on the poisoner’s face confirmed his guess. “But you know that, don’t you? I bet you’ve tried your wares out on animals, people, just to watch what happens.”

  He ground the leaf against the man’s arm again. “A healer can reverse a light dose. But the longer it goes on, the bigger the dose, the less likely anyone can save you.”

  “What do you want to know?” Matvei asked, his voice reedy with fear.

  “Now we’re getting somewhere,” Steen said. “Who hired you for the job?”

  “A couple of guys,” Matvei replied. Jonmarc ground the leaf another time.

  “All right! Two bounty hunters. Chessis and Vakkis.”

  Steen nodded. “That’s better. What did they tell you?”

  Matvei watched Jonmarc warily. “They said they needed some poison that was hard to detect. Something that could be slipped into food without someone noticing. Said that they wanted to use a couple of kinds, just to make sure.”

  “What did you put it in?” Jonmarc asked. Matvei paused.

  Jonmarc poked a finger into the flesh of Matvei’s arm. “Is it numb yet? The poison goes up the arm to the chest, then into the heart. Once it gets that far… well, you’d need a really good healer.”

  “I poisoned some wine, and I switched out the vegetables in a basket for some poisonous plants that are look-alikes,” Matvei replied, clearly nervous. “Before that, I slipped some belladonna in his stew. Pretty basic.”

  “What else?” The wide variety of poisons on the work table gave Jonmarc a gnawing suspicion that the poisoner might have done more.

  “Nothing,” Matvei said. But his gaze slid to the side as he spoke, and Jonmarc was certain the man was lying.

  Jonmarc walked back to the table and found a small jar of salve. “How about you tell us the whole truth, and I don’t try this ointment on you to see what it does?”

  Matvei’s fear of the poison wavered, and Jonmarc guessed that the poisoner was even more afraid of Chessis and Vakkis.

  “Who hired Chessis and Vakkis?” Steen asked. “They don’t work for free. Someone was behind this. Who?”

  “I tell you that, and I’m a dead man,” Matvei said.

  “You’re already a dead man,” Jonmarc replied. “You don’t think Chessis and Vakkis won’t come around to finish you off? They aren’t the kind to leave loose ends.”

  Matvei took several shallow breaths. By now, Jonmarc was certain that the plant’s poison had reached his shoulder and the muscles of his chest.

  “Tell us what we want to know, and I swear we’ll get you to a healer,” Jonmarc said. He was queasy about using Matvei’s poisons against him, but his concern for Linton’s safety and the safety of the caravan pushed him on.

  “A healer can’t do me no good!” Matvei said, his voice pitched high with fear. “You don’t know who you’re messing with.”

  “Tell us,” Steen urged. “We can get you out of here, give you safe passage across the river.”

  “You really don’t understand,” Matvei said. “But since it’s too late to change anything, I’ll tell you. Duke Ostenhas hired the assassins, and the assassins hired me.”

  Jonmarc’s eyes widened, and he and Steen exchanged astonished glances. “Duke Ostenhas?” Steen replied incredulously. “Why would the Duke hire assassins to kill a caravan master?”

  Matvei was laughing; a high-pitched, nervous laugh tinged with madness. “You don’t know, do you? But I do!”

  “Tell us,” Jonmarc growled, removing the lid from the salve jar. “What in the name of the Crone is going on?”

  Matvei giggled, a disquieting hysterical sound. “It’s the Duke’s wife. She’s behind it.”

  “Does Linton know the Duchess?” Steen asked, and Jonmarc swore under his breath, hoping that they were not all paying a high price for one of Linton’s indiscretions.

  “No, no, no.” Delirium was beginning to set in, and Matvei sounded as if he had drunk too much wine. “The Duchess is Lord Guarov’s sister. Lord Guarov doesn’t like your caravan master. Don’t ask me why.”

  Jonmarc growled a curse and thumped his head with his fist. “Sweet Mother and Childe!”

  “This makes sense to you?” Steen asked. “Lord Guarov’s lands aren’t even on this side of Margolan. How in the name of the Formless One is he involved, and why in the world should he care about a caravan master?”

  Jonmarc signaled that he would explain everything, and returned his attention to the prisoner. “Were there any other poisoned items, besides the wine and the vegetables and the stew?”

  Matvei’s pupils were dilated. He began to heave, and retched up his dinner down the front of his shirt. “One more,” he said, his voice trembling. “He’s dying and he doesn’t even know it.”

  Steen pressed his sword against Matvei’s neck. “Tell us!”

  Matvei looked to Jonmarc. “I’ll tell you, but then I want the salve.”

  “You want it?” Jonmarc echoed incredulously. “It’s not too late. We can get you a healer.”

  Matvei’s laughter verged on madness. “Do you know what the Lord will do to me if he finds out I’ve told his secret? Chessis and Vakkis will cut me to ribbons, while I’m still alive.” His mad, wide eyes turned beseechingly to Jonmarc. “Promise me you’ll use the salve on me—and I’ll tell you everything.”

  It could be a trick, Jonmarc thought. But it’s the only chance we’ve got.

  “We’ll use it,” Steen said before Jonmarc could find his voice. “Tell us what you know.”

  “I paid a man who worked for the cook to slip deadly mushrooms into Linton’s stew,” Matvei said. “They’re slow poison, but sure. That’s why people call them ‘Destroying Angel’. He won’t feel anything at first, then when it hits, he’ll suffer for a while and die. Just a few candlemarks—no more than a day.”

  Steen snarled a curse under his breath. “Give me that!” he said, snatching the jar of ointment out of Jonmarc’s gloved hands. Using his own heavy leather gloves, he began to spread the salve on Matvei’s face, arms and chest. Then he shoved a bit of cloth into Matvei’s mouth, to stifle his screams.

  “What is that stuff?” Jonmarc asked, horrified and fascinated.

  “Witch ointment,” Steen replied. “Or so it’s called. It’s a mix of poisons that cause waking dreams—usually quite intense and often very nasty dreams. Legend says it’s how witches fly.”

  “Does it kill?”

  Steen met his gaze. “Often. But it’s a kinder death than he’s doled out for Linton.”

  They left Matvei to his dreams, and headed back toward the caravan, dodging the guards. Steen kept his poisoned gloves on, careful not to touch his own skin. Jonmarc kept his sword sheathed, but his hand was close to the pommel.

  Just as they rounded the corner, two guardsmen spotted them. “You there! Halt!”

  The guardsmen blocked the path to where Jonmarc and Steen had left the horses. Jonmarc gave a shout and brandished his sword, going straight for the two men. Steen appeared to be unarmed, though he brandished the tainted gloves like a lethal weapon.

  One of the guards went for Jonmarc, while the other attacked Steen. Jonmarc parried, blocking the guard’s sword, then pivoted into a perfect Eastmark kick, as Steen had taught him, sla
mming his foot into the guard’s sword arm. Angered, the guard came at him again, but Jonmarc was ready, and drove him back, channeling his anger at the bounty hunters and his fear for Linton’s safety.

  Steen dodged and wove, evading the second guard’s blade. The soldier regarded him with derision. “Why won’t you draw your blade? Is it smaller than mine?” he challenged.

  Steen’s silence, and his manic smile, unnerved the guard. “Stand still, and I’ll make this easy on you,” the guard taunted.

  In answer, Steen dropped and rolled, coming up behind the soldier. Before the man could turn, Steen grabbed the guard’s face with his gloved hands, covering the soldier’s eyes, nose and mouth with the ointment, pushing the man’s lips apart to expose the potent salve to the tender membranes.

  The guard’s sword clattered to the ground, and he fell to his knees, clawing at his face in terror.

  “I’ve got the same poison on my sword,” Jonmarc lied. “Want a taste of it?”

  The second guardsman glanced between Jonmarc’s blade and his fallen companion, who was writhing on the ground and scratching long bloody cuts into his face. With a muttered oath, the second guard ran.

  Steen gingerly discarded his leather gloves into an ash can. “Let’s get out of here,” he said. They made it back to their horses without further incident and rode for a while in silence, until they were both certain they had not been followed.

  “Why would Lord Guarov care about Maynard Linton?” Steen asked.

  Jonmarc swore under his breath. “It happened a while ago, before you joined up with the caravan. We had some vyrkin with us, not causing any harm. Lord Guarov hates shapeshifters. He heard a rumor that the caravan was harboring some, and sent bounty hunters after them. It turned into a full-on battle, between the caravan and the Lord’s troops, until the king’s guards intervened. By then, Conall was dead. We got his wife and child to safety.”

  He shook his head. “I imagine Guarov is still plenty sore about taking a drubbing. I never thought he’d be after us this far from his lands, but the connection through his sister makes sense.”

  “I don’t know what we can do to help Linton, if what the poisoner said is true,” Steen replied. “I’ve heard of that kind of mushroom. It kills.”

  “Maybe Ada will have an idea,” Jonmarc said. “Maybe if she knows what poisoned him, she can do something about it.”

  Steen’s expression gave Jonmarc to know that hope was slim, but the former soldier said nothing.

  “What do you think will happen when someone finds Matvei?” Jonmarc asked.

  “I think the bounty hunters will know straight off that the caravan’s onto them. We’d best get the troupe on the road,” Steen said. “I don’t think this area is likely to be friendly much longer.”

  THEY RODE HARD for the caravan, fearing that they would hear soldiers behind them at any moment. The caravan’s guards closed ranks as they heard the hoof beats pounding toward them, then parted as they recognized the riders. Both men jumped down from their horses and Steen sent one of the guards running for Ada and the healers, and others heading for the cook’s tent to find the traitor.

  “Tell the rest of the guards we’re likely to be attacked,” Steen warned. “Bounty hunters, or the whole Ducal guard.”

  Jonmarc was already sprinting toward Linton’s tent.

  “Maynard!” he called at the tent door, but there was no answer, though lamps glowed inside the tent.

  Jonmarc pushed the tent flap back. Linton lay on the ground, clutching his belly, rolling back and forth in pain.

  “Jonmarc,” Linton said in a weak voice. “Get Ada.”

  “She’ll be here in a minute,” Jonmarc promised, crossing to kneel next to Linton. Steen took up a watchful position at the tent doorway, though the damage had already been done.

  “Damn sons of the Crone got me,” Linton murmured.

  “We found the poisoner,” Jonmarc reported. “He’s dead.”

  “Did you happen to find out what he used?” Ada stood in the doorway. Her face was flushed from running, and her hair fanned out behind her on the night wind. Alyzza was with her. Kegan, an apprentice healer and a friend of Jonmarc’s, was close behind.

  “Destroying Angel. Poisonous mushrooms,” Steen answered.

  Ada cursed under her breath. “How long ago?”

  “Several hours, at least,” Jonmarc replied. “The poisoner paid one of the cook’s assistants to slip the mushrooms into Linton’s stew.”

  “I assigned a vyrkin to sniff the food,” Ada said. “He didn’t find anything amiss. A vayash moru could have even tasted the food with no harm done. Linton wouldn’t wait until sundown.”

  “Even a vayash moru might not have caught it,” Steen said. “I’ve heard that type of mushroom tastes sweet—and its poison is delayed.”

  “Can you heal him?” Jonmarc asked.

  Linton moaned in pain. Ada used her healing magic to check him over, then sat back on her heels. She and Alyzza conferred quietly, and Alyzza planted her willow staff at the head of Linton’s bed. This time, Alyzza chanted and raised a yellow mist around Linton that sparkled and glowed. Ada placed both hands on Linton’s abdomen, closed her eyes, and together, the two called on their magic. As the attempt to heal Linton stretched on, Ada beckoned for Kegan to join them, and she drew from his strength as well.

  Trent, Corbin, and Zane stood silently near the tent doorway, awaiting an outcome. Steen moved to talk quietly with them, filling them in.

  Finally, the glowing mist faded, and Ada dismissed Kegan. She and Alyzza looked spent and haggard.

  “Did you heal him?” Trent asked.

  “We can slow the absorption of the poison in his gut,” Ada said finally. “That will protect his organs—for a little while. But it’s beyond my healing to rid him of the poison. It’s too far through his system.”

  “And healing is not my magic,” Alyzza admitted. “My magics are better suited to war and defense. I don’t have the gift for this.”

  “Throwing up won’t get rid of the poison—he’ll be retching soon enough,” Ada said. “The body will void, trying to purge, but the poison is already moving through his blood.”

  “Surely there’s something you can do?” Jonmarc pressed.

  Ada looked up. “There’s a mage who might be able to help. Sister Birna. Last I knew, she was in the Floating City. She used to be one of the Sisterhood, but she left them several years ago—I don’t know why. She’s one of the finest healers I’ve ever met—and a damn strong mage as well. She’s our best bet.”

  “I can get us to the Floating City. Where would we find Sister Birna?” Steen asked.

  “Ask Mama. She’ll know,” Ada replied.

  “Let’s get a wagon,” Steen said. “And get him bundled up. I’ll take him through to the Floating City.”

  “Count me in,” Jonmarc said. Steen opened his mouth to protest, but Jonmarc shook his head. “We were going to the river anyhow, to take me across to Principality. And I want to see this through.”

  “We’re coming, too.” Trent stood with his hands on his hips. “If the Duke does send his men after you, you’ll need reinforcements.”

  Before Steen could argue, Elian and Gil pushed to the fore. “We’ve got your traitor,” Elian said. He held a chubby young man by the scruff of his neck and threw him face down on the ground just outside the tent.

  Trent did not spare a second glance. “We already know who he’s working with. Tie him up and put him under guard,” he said. “If Linton dies, hang him.” The cook’s assistant blubbered apologies and begged for mercy, but with Linton sprawled on the floor and moaning in pain, the man’s appeals fell on deaf ears.

  “Take this,” Ada said, pressing a pouch into Jonmarc’s hands. “It’s milk thistle. I’ve already given Maynard one dose. Sometimes, it can help with poisoning.” She sighed. “But not always.”

  “Thank you,” Jonmarc said, and paused as Kegan and Dugan stepped closer.

  �
�If you go to the river, you’re not coming back, are you?” Dugan asked.

  Jonmarc shook his head. “Not now. Not for a while.”

  Dugan punched him in the shoulder, and Kegan clapped him on the arm. “Goddess go with you,” Dugan said. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

  “Let’s get moving,” Steen interrupted. “We don’t have much time.” He glanced down at Linton. “The Duke’s sure to send his men after us when he finds out what happened to the poisoner. We need to get the caravan moving, get out of his lands as quick as possible.”

  Ada nodded. “Leave that to me. We’ll meet you in the Floating City.” She made the sign of the Lady in blessing. “Mother and Childe go with you.”

  They loaded Linton into the back of a wagon, and Jonmarc climbed in to ride with him. He carried a canvas bag with all of his possessions, and around his neck, he had a pouch with the coin he had saved from his months of working for Trent. On his belt he wore the two swords his father had forged, along with a long knife Trent had made for him, and a dagger he’d forged for himself. Steen handed him a crossbow and quiver. “You know how to use one of these?”

  Jonmarc nodded. “Yeah. But I’m better with a sword.”

  Steen’s expression was grim. “We’ll try not to get close enough for you to use your sword. But I figure the duke already has men on the road, coming for us. Your job is to keep them off the wagon.”

  Steen swung up to the driver’s bench. Trent, Corbin, and Zane rode separately. Zane had a bandolier of daggers, the throwing knives that had earned him fame in his act with the caravan. Trent had a large hammer, and Corbin carried a wide hatchet in addition to their swords.

  “How far to the Floating City?’ Jonmarc asked as Steen flicked the reins. He drove the horses as fast as they dared on the dark, rutted roads.

  “A man riding full-out might make it in two candlemarks,” Steen said. “With the wagon, a little longer. But you see the roads. If we go any faster, we could lame the horses, or break an axle.”

  Jonmarc nodded, and tried to rein in his impatience. Linton groaned quietly, moaning louder whenever the wagon jostled. At times, he raved incoherently, caught in delirium. Violent cramps seized his gut, making him curl into a ball and rock back and forth, tears running down his cheeks.