The Poison Throne (7 page)

Thankfully, Christopher didn’t come to her, and she stood and emptied herself of grief until there was nothing but weariness remaining, and a high green pain in her forehead from the tears. Finally she straightened and pushed the wet from her face with an efficient movement, sniffing deeply to clear her nose. The doorway was empty, but there were voices in the hall, a smoothly polished court voice and Christopher’s Northland accent, arguing.

“… it is my
job
,” insisted the courtier, “I’m supposed to bring them!”

“Give them to me, you God-cursed flunky, or so help me, I’ll skin you alive.” Christopher’s voice was a low hiss of anger.

“It’s
my job
—”

A loud slap and a yelp, followed by a shocked silence. Then Christopher’s voice, very calm now, “Are you ready to hand them over, or shall I ensure that you spill them and need go back for more?”

Metal things clattered together to the sound of discontented grumbling, and light footsteps retreated. Then Christopher came in, carefully carrying three large pitchers of steaming water and avoiding Wynter’s eyes.

“Now…” he said, as he skirted round her, then sloshed his way into her bedroom. He set two of the pitchers down by her washstand and poured most of the contents of the last into the metal basin. He took a bar of soap from his pocket and left it on the soap-dish. Then he retreated out the door, returning seconds later with armfuls of big cotton sheets for Wynter to dry herself with.

“Right…” he said, still not looking at her. “I’ll call you in time to dress for the banquet, unless your father is back by then.” And he went out, closing the door quietly behind him.

She was so tired now, her body singing like crickets on a hot day. The evening sunlight streaming through the window was heavy with the scent of oranges and orange blossom, and she closed her eyes for a moment and revelled in the heat and the solitude.

She shuffled into her bedroom, drew the bolt and stripped naked, leaving her stinking clothes in a heap on the floor. There was a sea-sponge on top of the pile of towels, along with a nailbrush, clippers and a comb, all engraved with Razi’s seal. Thank God she wouldn’t have to root for her own.

Slowly, her arms heavy and numb with fatigue, she unwound the leather straps binding her hair and let it fall to her shoulder blades in thick auburn waves. It was stiff and greasy with dirt, though, thankfully, she’d avoided the lice, and she used almost the entire first pitcher scrubbing it and rinsing it until it squeaked. When she was satisfied, she stuck her head back into the basin and combed her hair out under the clean water. It was always easier to unknot the tangles that way. Then she bent at the waist and let the whole heavy curtain of it hang straight and dripping so that she could wrap the length of it in a towel. Finally she straightened up, and with a flick of her hands flung her wrapped hair behind her, leaving it to hang like a long fat sausage down her back.

She threw the used water out of the window and replenished it from the second pitcher. The smell of roses and oranges and the lemon smell of the soap lulled her senses and the room took on a dreamy air as she methodically scrubbed three month’s worth of grime from her body.

She had one clean shift, unused since their departure from Shirken’s palace. It was musty and smelled of damp, like everything up North eventually did. But it couldn’t overpower the smell of lemons from her still damp hair, which she unwrapped and wove into a long braid to tuck under her night cap.

I’ll just lie down for a minute
, she thought as she crawled under the insect netting and lay on the cool, lavender scented sheets.
I won’t sleep till Dad gets here safe
… but she was unconscious before the thought had even registered in her brain.

She was standing in a wide field that stretched all the way to the bright blue horizon. It was filled with red poppies and, as she walked, they stained her feet red, and the hem of her shift. She could hear a high whining cry, as if a sea bird were caught in a net, and she looked around for the source of the noise, because it hurt her heart to hear it. The dye from the poppies began to burn her feet and when she looked down she realised that the flowers weren’t red at all, but white, white poppies stained with blood.

The crying was close at hand now, and she ran to the crest of a hill and looked down into a small valley. Wolves were gathered around some poor dead animal, gnawing and snarling and worrying its carcass. There were so many wolves that she couldn’t see their prey, but she began to understand that the high wailing was coming from it. Oh. The poor creature, it was still alive.

She picked up a longbow that was at her feet and took aim, hoping to put the animal out of its misery.
I’ll never be able to draw this bow. It’s too big for me
. But she did draw the bow, pulling back smoothly until the fletch brushed her cheek.

She waited patiently for a glimpse of the poor creature, which still screamed in that horrible, high pitched way as its blood sprayed up and coloured the poppies all around it. The wolves began to fight over some small morsel of the creature’s flesh and their ranks parted for a moment. She caught a glimpse of sky blue robes and an arm as it flung upwards, in an attempt to escape, or as a reaction to the movement of the ravaging wolves, she couldn’t tell.

Oh
, she thought, with an interested detachment,
it’s Razi
.

She notched the bow a little tighter, released her breath and let the arrow fly with a high singing whine. It seemed to have a long way to go, this arrow, and she was able to trace its flight every inch of the way, admiring how it twisted and swung gently from side to side as it cut its way through the air.

By the time it reached its target all the wolves had gone and it was only Razi, alone and bloody, lying among the dripping poppies. The arrow found its mark with a loud knock as if Razi’s heart was made of wood, and his body leapt at the impact.

The sound reverberated around the little valley, repeated and repeated in a quick rapping succession. Razi’s eyes opened and they were grey and slanting and it wasn’t Razi at all, but Christopher Garron. He lifted his head, his hair all bloody, and looked at her in terrible hurt and confusion.

“Wynter,” he said, and the knocking continued to echo around the valley as she dropped the bow in horror at his bloody mouth, his accusing eyes.

“Wynter,” he said again and his voice was fading, getting farther away as all his blood poured out onto the flowers.

“Wynter.”

“
Wynter!
”

She woke with a startled gasp.

The shadows had grown but it was still light outside, she couldn’t have been asleep more than two hours. Christopher was calling her name and knocking softly but urgently on her bedroom door. “Wynter, Razi and your father are coming. I don’t think your father is well.”

The Eternal Engine Failing

W
ynter scrambled from beneath the netting and rushed to unbolt the door, pushing Christopher back as she flew past him.

“Where are they?” she demanded, looking about her wildly. “What’s wrong with my father?”

Christopher put his finger to his lips and gestured to the receiving room. Wynter followed him unthinkingly across the room, until she realised that the hall door was ajar and their rooms open to the scrutiny of anyone who might pass by. She was immediately aware of her thin shift and her night cap, and she hesitated in the receiving room as Christopher continued out into the hall. He didn’t notice her lagging behind, and he went out and stood, openly staring down the corridor, his face grave.

Oh, for goodness sake, had he no sense?

“Christopher,” she crossed the receiving room and hissed from behind the door, keeping herself hidden from the corridor. “You
can’t
just stand there looking!”

He flicked a glance at her and went back to his blatant staring. “Why not?” he whispered. “No one is paying any heed.”

“People here are
always
paying heed,” she said, flinging her hands out in exasperation. But he just kept on looking, a small frown creasing his eyebrows. “What is it?” she asked, longing to see. “Can you see my father?”

Christopher glanced at her again, and then back up the corridor. His eyes were troubled, his face uncertain, as if he was unsure how to explain the situation. Finally, he grunted impatiently, grabbed her shoulder and pulled her through the door.

“Look,” he murmured.

Lorcan and Razi were standing at the junction of the two corridors, about fifty or sixty feet from Christopher and Wynter. They were deep in heated discussion with Heron and three other black-robed councilmen, and for a moment Wynter wondered what on earth Christopher was talking about. Her father looked fine. He was listening intently while Razi gestured and grunted out some low, angry diatribe to the exasperated men in front of them.

Then Wynter noticed how straight her father’s back was, how rigid, how his arms were stiff at his sides, his big hands balled into fists. She saw that he wasn’t listening at all, not really, he was just standing there with an expression of grim determination on his face. As she watched, Razi discreetly placed his hand on her father’s back, right between his shoulder blades, and she saw the muscles tense along Razi’s arm, his shoulder jumping into taut relief as he took her father’s weight without the other men realising it.

Wynter made a tiny noise of fear and went to leap forward, but Christopher pinched her shoulder, and she put her hand to her mouth and shut herself up.

Suddenly Razi was imperiously waving his hand at the four men, turning them away. She saw sharp anger harden their faces and Heron’s mouth twist up into a bitter sneer. But if Razi ordered it, they had to obey, and so they took their leave with frowns and grudging bows.

Razi and Lorcan stood and watched until the four men were out of sight. Then Razi turned to her father, speaking rapidly and with a concerned tilt of his head. Lorcan brushed him off, breaking away from his supporting arm. He took two or three stiff-legged steps towards Wynter and Christopher, his face grim, but his knees buckled almost immediately and Razi had to catch him. He staggered under Lorcan’s weighty frame and called for Christopher, who was already halfway down the hall.

Wynter watched, frozen in mute horror as the two men propped Lorcan up and helped him down the corridor and into his rooms. When they had passed her by, she checked the corridor once more and closed and bolted the door, shutting out any possibility of prying eyes.

Once in their room, Lorcan gave up any pretence at strength and let his legs go from under him, so that the two smaller men had difficulty dragging him across the floor. They heaved him into one of the round chairs, and Razi leant him back, putting a cushion between Lorcan’s head and the wall.

“Let in more light,” he instructed. “Get some water. Christopher, go get my bag. Wynter, get a stool to prop up his feet, take off his boots.
Christopher
, my bag.”

Lorcan was so limp and helpless that Wynter thought her father had passed out, but when she looked up from where she knelt at his feet, his eyes were open and staring glassily about. His mouth was wide, his chest heaving; he seemed to be fighting for air. She took all this in as she undid the lacing on his heavy riding boots and dragged them from his feet, which were freezing cold. She put a cushion on the fire-stool and propped Lorcan’s feet on it, then began to chafe them to try to get them warm.

“He’s so cold, Razi,” she said.

“Mmm,” Razi murmured. He had undone her father’s shirt to the navel and loosened the stays of his trousers. The big man’s face was beaded with huge droplets of sweat, the bright mat of orange hair on his powerful chest and belly drenched and slicked down. Razi pressed his ear to Lorcan’s breast and was listening intently. When Wynter tried to speak again, Razi lifted his hand and shushed her, reaching over to stroke her cheek without looking at her, before placing his hand on Lorcan’s belly and pressing down hard. Lorcan groaned and tried to pull away.

“All right, good friend. All right,” Razi said softly, his ear still to Lorcan’s chest. He pressed down again, on a different part of Lorcan’s belly, to the same response. “That’s all right, Lorcan. That’s all right.” Razi sat back slowly and ran his hands over his face, looking at Wynter’s father over the tops of his fingers for a moment. His big brown eyes were cool and considering. Wynter could see him working things out in his head.

Christopher returned and quickly bolted the door behind him. He put Razi’s bag down beside the chair. “I’ve sent for water,” he said quietly.

Razi leant forward over Lorcan and murmured something in the man’s ear. Lorcan’s eyes rolled in shock, but Razi levelled a look at him and Lorcan nodded uncertainly. Razi patted his shoulder and then, to Wynter’s horror, he thrust his hand down the front of her father’s trousers and seemed to press his fingers hard into the other man’s groin. Lorcan squeezed his eyes shut and turned his head, whether from pain or mortification Wynter couldn’t tell, and she looked away, her cheeks burning.

When she dared to glance back, Razi was feeling along both sides of her father’s jaw, his face drawn in concentration. Lorcan was beginning to come to himself a bit more and was attempting to lift his head and shoulders from the cushion. He looked over at Christopher with a kind of bleary resentment and tried to pull his shirt closed. Razi stayed him with a hand on his wrist. “Just a little longer, Lorcan. This will all be over soon.” He rummaged in his bag and pulled out a short, polished wooden trumpet. He warmed the mouth of it on his stomach and placed it on Lorcan’s chest, listening through the other end, his face intense. “Breathe as deep as you can, good friend. And try to hold the air in your lungs.” Lorcan struggled to do as Razi asked, but he seemed incapable of holding his breath and ended up gasping, his head dropping back, his skin breaking out once more into an oily sweat.

Finally Razi sat back on his heels, wiped his hands on a lemon-scented cloth that Christopher handed him and looked very seriously at the big man. “Lorcan,” he said, “I would like to consult with you now, if you are willing to talk honestly with me.”