She turned and hurried away along the blue-carpeted corridor.
****
Marine’s earnest campaign, however, was doomed to failure. Nanta was adamant. She would not consider the prospect of a sanctum, and nothing Marine or anyone else might say or do would ever persuade her. Her vehemence dismayed Marine; never before had she seen Nanta take such a stance, and it revealed an unimagined depth of strength and determination. But if it came to the worst, neither strength nor determination would be enough, and after two days of wrangling and pleading Marine realized that her only hope was to tell Nanta the whole truth. She had avoided that, half from fear and half from a desire to shield Nanta from the cruelty of it; but Nanta’s obstinacy left her with no choice. She must be told that her life was at stake. That, Marine was certain, would make the difference.
She was wrong. As she haltingly revealed the full tale, Nanta listened with a strange, intent alertness, her head slightly tilted, her expression quizzical-and her eyes growing dark with anger. When Marine finished, there was silence for some moments. Then:
“Marine. Why did you not tell me this before?”
“How could I?” Marine said. “The thought that the Imperator might wish you dead—or even that he could be responsible for your husband’s death—how could I find the words?” She looked away, giving a small, self-deprecating laugh that held no humor whatever. “I have always believed myself to be a strong, even a hard, woman. Now I am inclined to think that I’m merely a fool.”
“Not that, Marine.” Nanta was gazing thoughtfully at her; though her head was still averted Marine could feel the gaze, like something tangible. “You, of all people, are not a fool. But perhaps I have been.”
“You?” Marine turned back to her.
Nanta smiled. “Yes. For not accepting what the frost sprites told me, immediately and without doubting. As you yourself have said more than once, they do not lie. I believe your suspicions, Marine; I think you’re right. I am in danger.”
Relief swept through Marine. “Then you’ll leave the court?”
“No. I will not.”
The relief turned to cold crystal that seemed to freeze in Marine’s stomach. “But—” she began.
“I said, I will not. I’m grateful to you, Marine; more grateful than I can express.” Nanta paced slowly across the floor of her office. Her brocade skirt made a sound like frosted leaves, whispering and rustling, and for no rational reason it made Marine feel suddenly, deeply uneasy. Then Nanta stopped and turned to face her. She was not smiling now, but her eyes burned. “I want him brought to justice,” she said.
Marine stared, appalled. Suddenly this was not the Nanta she had thought she knew; not a young girl, an innocent, but someone—something—else.
She whispered, “To justice? But he is the Imperator!”
“I know. It makes no difference. If what we believe is true, and I think now we must both accept that it is, then I will not rest until that truth is revealed and he pays the penalty for what he has done.”
“Nanta,” Marine said desperately, “You can’t even think of it! It’s impossible!”
“It isn’t. It can be done. I will do it.” And in a dream there was a bier, and on the bier lay the Lady, and a voice was whispering, “Vengeance” . Marine knew nothing of that, nor ever would. But for four nights in succession now the dream had returned again, and Nanta had woken to find herself standing by Osiv’s coffin. Now she knew why. And her resolve was set.
Marine tried. She argued, she beseeched, she even fell to her knees at one point and begged, but nothing made any difference. Nanta remained immovable, until finally, when Marine had exhausted every possible avenue, she reached out a hand, silencing the last frantic pleas.
“Don’t be afraid, Marine. I’m not. The frost sprites gave me warning when I needed it before, and I know they’ll do so again. They will protect me.” She smiled again, a smile that made Marine wonder if, at this moment, either of them was entirely sane. “What more could I need?”
****
Marine dreaded Beck’s summons for a report on her progress, but when it came after two days there was no credible excuse for ignoring it. She did her best to play down Nanta’s refusal, and tried to at least hint that, with a little more time, the Dowager might be brought round; but she doubted that Beck would be fooled.
Beck listened without comment to what she had to say, and when it was done she nodded. Her expression was impossible to read; but then to Marine’s surprise she said:
“So you think that time is the key? Very well, Marine, 1 shall trust your judgment. Persevere for a while longer. After all, as Imperator Osiv’s widow she can hardly bow out of public life before the funeral takes place, so we have a little more time yet.” She smiled comfortably. “You’ve done very well. Continue the good work, my dear.”
Marine left, nonplussed but very relieved. At her desk, Mother Beck wrote a note to Father Urss, asking that she might call on him as a matter of urgency.
Urss gave immediate permission, and within the hour Beck had her instructions. Again Marine would be the conduit for what was to be done, but this time Marine would have no inkling whatever of the part she was destined to play. It was interesting, Beck reflected, that similar events so often happened in threes. There had of course already been three deaths. But Imperator Arctor had gone to his rest in the natural course of time, whereas Osiv and the physician had not. Poison in both cases; the first attributed to a virulent disease, the second, by a different concoction, to straightforward heart failure through overwork. Now, the third. This must be different again, to avoid any risk of questions. Not a sudden malady but a gradual decline, a sinking into weakness and frailty until the body could no longer support the spark of life. Thanks to her early training Beck knew exactly what to use. A certain herb, innocuous in occasional doses but not so when administered repeatedly over a period of time. One pinch each day, disguised in the Dowager’s food, would see the process through to its eventual completion. No pain, no side-effects; only the gentle slide towards death.
In a detached way Beck rather pitied the child. Under other circumstances she could have had great potential, and if she had not been so stubborn she might have been a decided asset to the Sisterhood in some symbolic role. A shame that that must now all be wasted, but there it was; there were more important considerations at stake than the survival of one young girl.
She returned to her office, and there chose a particular book from the shelves. She had not consulted this volume for a good while, as the traces of mildew on the cover showed, but now she took it to her favorite armchair by the fire and sat down to read. It did not take long to find and confirm what she wanted to know, and Beck put the book away again, satisfied. Then she rang for Sister Chaia. .
“Ah, Chaia; come in, come in.” Beck beamed at her. “I want you to run a little errand. Tell me, who is in charge of the Sanctum’s infirmary at present?”
Chaia delved into her memory. “That would be High Sister Ludia, Grand Mother. She qualified as an apothecary eleven years ago, and she—”
“Yes, yes; I’m sure she’s very worthy in all respects,” Beck interrupted. “Fetch her here, please, Chaia. Tell her that I have need of her services.”
****
When Kodor heard that the Dowager was unwell he went immediately to see her, only to be informed by a flustered Dorca that, .if it pleased His Majesty, and with her most abject apologies, madam was sleeping now and the physician had advised in the strongest terms that rest was the surest and swiftest cure, and—
“It’s all right, Dorca; I quite understand,” Kodor said, breaking gently into her anxious dissemblings. “Just tell me what’s amiss with her. I trust it’s not serious?”
Dorca’s face relaxed into a look of profound relief. “Oh, no, sire; not serious at all,” she assured him. “Madam is simply fatigued, the physician says, in both mind and body. All the strain of these last days, and the grief, and all that she has been req
uired to do—”
“Of course. Does she have all she needs?”
“Oh, yes, sire. Mother Marine attends constantly and does everything for her.”
“Does she, now?” Kodor’s expression altered a little.
“Yes, sire.” Dorca noted the change, and made less effort to hide her pique. “The Dowager seems to find Mother Marine’s presence a great comfort.”
“Indeed. Well, when my sister wakes, kindly tell her that I came to enquire.” He made as if to go, then paused. “Will she be fit enough to take her part in the funeral, do you think?”
Dorca’s face clouded. “Truly, Your Majesty, I have my doubts. It’s only two days away now; and madam seems so frail. She says she will take part; but I fear for her strength in such an ordeal, I really do! “
“Then you must be listened to.” Kodor smiled at her. “Don’t worry, Dorca. I’ll personally see that the Dowager is not obliged to do anything that might overtax her. If she misses the funeral, so be it. Her health is far more important.”
“But Father Urss will—”
“Father Urss,” Kodor reminded her gently, “is not the Imperator. “
“No. No, Your Majesty, of course he is not! Thank you, sire, thank you, from my heart!”
Nanta was in fact awake when Dorca returned to the bedchamber, and Marine was helping her to eat a bowl of soup. The new physician had ordered a special, invigorating diet for her, which Marine prepared in the palace kitchens, helped by a High Sister from the Sanctum who had been lent by Beck and was skilled in herbalism as well as cooking. Thus far the diet seemed to be doing little good, but the physician assured that time and patience would see a change in the right direction. Dorca and Marine watched with fond concern as Nanta struggled through most of the bowl’s contents, then when she could take no more the tray was carried away and Dorca said firmly that she should sleep.
In the outer room, Dorca told Marine of Kodor’s visit. Marine, too, was thankful to hear that Nanta would not be forced into attending the funeral; but her reasons went a little deeper than Dorca’s. Like Arctor’s, the rites would involve a sequence of events and duties in which Nanta would be obliged to spend a great deal of time in the Imperator’s company. Pola’s presence notwithstanding, Kodor would have ample opportunity to probe, and in a distracted moment it would be all too easy for Nanta to make a mistake. In that sense this illness was an unexpected blessing, Marine thought. She hoped it would persist for just a few days more.
****
Nanta slept for much of the afternoon. When she woke, Marine was gone back to her duties, but Dorca told her that Kodor had called on her, and also gave her a box of sweets that had been delivered a short while later. With the sweets was a hand-written note, wishing Nanta a speedy recovery and signed by her “loving brother and servant, Kodor”. Nanta consigned the note to the fire. But the sweets tempted her failing appetite and she shared some with Dorca before putting the box aside to be enjoyed tomorrow.
That evening, one of Nanta’s ladies-in-waiting found her mistress doubled up in agony on the floor of her bathing room.
The lady-in-waiting’s cries brought the other servants on duty running, and in the initial chaos, while one woman went to rouse Dorca, another ran for Marine. Marine arrived in great haste to find both Dorca and the physician there before her, holding Nanta’s head over a basin as she was violently sick again and again. The spasms seemed to be endless, but at long last they
abated and Nanta, barely conscious and moaning with shock and pain, was carried to her bed by Dorca and her ladies.
Marine grasped the physician’s arm in a savage grip as they hurried after the women. “What is it?” she demanded. “What caused this?”
“I don’t know, Mother.” The physician was younger than his predecessor, and earnestly dedicated. Marine saw from his face that he was as worried as she. “Until I can examine Her Grace—”
“Do so, and quickly!” Marine hovered like a bird of prey as the physician began to probe, checking Nanta’s pulse, lifting her eyelids, pressing gently on her stomach. Nanta’s moans had lapsed into the smaller sounds of labored breathing. The physician finished what he was doing and reached for his scrip.
“What are you giving her?” Marine snapped.
He turned a surprised and compassionate gaze on her. “A mild calmative, Mother, nothing more. It will lessen the pain she feels, and make her breathing easier.”
Marine subsided. She did not doubt either his competence or his intentions, but a sense of alarm was rampaging just below the surface of her mind, like a bird beating its wings in a cage. Something awry, something wrong. What was it? She didn’t know.
At the physician’s instruction Dorca was opening Nanta’s mouth, and several drops from a phial were placed on her tongue. Within a few minutes the stertorous breaths grew quieter and less hectic, and Nanta’s body began to relax. She was conscious, but her eyes were closed and her expression dull and weary. The physician stepped back from the bed and looked from Marine to Dorca then back to Marine.
“I think,” he said, “that it is still nothing more than sheer exhaustion. Her Grace has been under great strain, and her system is protesting against it. Has she been following the diet I prescribed?”
“Yes, sir,” said Dorca. “Only she eats so little at the moment.”
“Well, you must try to persuade her to eat more. You have the list I made; keep strictly to it, and if need be give her the ingredients in liquid form. The soups, for example—”
“She had soup today,” Dorca told him. “But she would not eat all of it, would she, Mother Marine?”
“No,” said Marine. She was looking around the room, her eyes alert, searching…
“And the Imperator himself sent her a box of sweets. She did take some of those.”
No one noticed Marine’s sudden tension at that remark. The physician shook his head. “It was most gracious of the Imperator, but unfortunately sweets will not help Her Grace’s condition. Her appetite is small and should be directed to more nutritious foods. Mother, if there is any of the soup left I suggest you see if you can coax her to take it. Then let her sleep the night through.” He gathered up his scrip. “Send for me at once if there is any deterioration; otherwise I’ll call again in the morning, after First Obligation.”
“Yes, sir.” Dorca glanced worriedly at Nanta. “Poor madam…”
“Don’t fear; she will soon be better.”
Marine escorted the physician to the door, and as she opened it for him she said, apparently casually, “I wonder if the sweets might have upset the Dowager in some way?”
“It’s quite possible,” the physician agreed. “Rich confections and a delicate constitution are not a happy combination. Still, her body has rid itself of them so I don’t think we need anticipate any more trouble.” He made a small, courteous bow. “Good night to you, Mother.”
“Good night.” Marine closed the door, stood staring at it for a few moments, then returned to the bedroom.
“Dorca.”
Dorca turned, surprised by Marine’s sharp tone, and with an effort Marine modified it.
“Where are the sweets that the Imperator sent for Her Grace, please?”
“I put them on her dressing table, Mother. That box, there.”
Marine looked where she pointed. “Ah, yes. The physician says that they’re too rich for her and we should take them away. . In fact, it’s quite possible that they are what made her sick.”
“Oh!” Dorca was mortified. “Of course! I should have thought of it; madam offered me several of them and they are so sumptuous—here, Mother, give them to me and I will put them somewhere out of Her Grace’s sight.”
“It’s all right,” said Marine. “Stay here with Her Grace; I’ll see to the sweets myself. And then I’ll warm the rest of the soup on the fire. She shall have that. It will do her far more good.”
Bearing the box of sweets, she retreated to Nanta’s dressing room. The fire needed
making up; she saw to it, then placed the warming-trivet near the flames and set the soup pot to heat through.
So: sweets, was it? Sent in person by the Imperator, no doubt with avowals of his fondest affection and concern. What was in them? Marine took one out of the box, examined it carefully, then bit into it. It tasted of fruit and spice, highly honeyed and, to her taste, unpalatably sickly. But it was only sickliness. She could detect nothing dubious, nothing to suggest that the sweets were not as innocent as they appeared.
But then, Marine thought, if the sweets had been adulterated, would she know? She was not an apothecary, and anyway it was unlikely that all poisons had a detectable taste. The physician was the obvious man to ask, but that was out of the question. However, there was High Sister Ludia …
Marine’s interest quickened. Ludia was not only a herbalist but also a trained apothecary. And she was a quiet, self-contained woman, not the sort to indulge in speculation or gossip. Besides, Marine was her superior, and thus to be obeyed without question. Yes, Marine thought; she would ask Sister Ludia to make a more thorough examination of the sweets. A purpose would be easy enough to invent, and it need have nothing to do with either Nanta or the Imperator. In fact, Marine decided, she would seek out Ludia straight away.
A hiss from the pot on its trivet caught her attention and she remembered the soup. It was beginning to simmer, and Marine drew the pot away from the heat. First things first. Before going to Ludia she must see that Nanta had a little more norishment and then was made comfortable for the night. Giving the soup a brisk stir, Marine poured a good helping into a bowl set ready. Dorca had left the tray; neatly Marine arranged spoon and napkin on it and placed the bowl in between. Then, balancing the tray in her hands, she rose to her feet and returned to the bedchamber.
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