A Little Taste of Poison

  “You’ve gone all serious,” said Eulalie. “What is it?”

  Isaveth shook herself out of reverie and managed a smile. “Just thinking. After all, if you’re right about the scholarship, that’s my job.”

  * * *

  Isaveth’s first class of the afternoon was Calculation, which had seemed easy enough yesterday, but today included some unfamiliar measurements that left her baffled. What did AV stand for? Was ten AV the same as a hundred RV, or a thousand, or only one? Isaveth began leafing through her lesson book, hoping to find an explanation.

  “Miss Breck,” said the clear, cutting voice of Master Valstead. “This is not the time for idle page flipping. Please address yourself to the equations on the board—unless you find them too simple for you?”

  His eyes were cold as a frozen lake. Hastily Isaveth flipped the book shut. “No, sir.”

  She was staring at the formulas, wondering if she could guess the right answer, when pain lanced into her back. She jumped, twisted around—and met the innocent blue eyes of Betinda Callender, the girl who’d accused her of showing off in Common Magic.

  Yet Betinda’s hands were folded demurely on her workbook, and there was no weapon in sight. Perhaps Isaveth had imagined it. Embarrassed, she lowered her eyes and turned away.

  Minutes passed, and the pricking sensation had begun to fade when she felt a fresh stab, this one harder. “Stop it!” Isaveth hissed, but Betinda only smirked at her.

  “Miss Breck!” Master Valstead snapped. “I do not know what behavior was tolerated at your former school—”

  “Trash Heap Primary,” whispered Paskin, and titters and snorts rose from his seatmates as the teacher continued.

  “—but if you cannot remain quiet and face the front of the class, you will be asked to leave. Unless there is some reason you need to see Miss Callender’s work in order to complete your own?”

  Was he accusing her of cheating? The blood drained from Isaveth’s cheeks, then flooded back again. She wanted to tell the master what Betinda had done, but the only proof she had were the two throbbing spots on her back, and she couldn’t show him those without undressing.

  “Well, Miss Breck?”

  The whole class was looking at her. Isaveth cleared her throat. “No, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”

  “Good,” said the master, and began chalking up another set of equations.

  So now she had another teacher who despised her. And as a third savage poke made Isaveth flinch, it was clear she’d made a new enemy as well.

  She tried to steel herself, gritting her teeth and sliding as far forward as the desk would allow. But the fourth jab hurt so much she couldn’t help it. She gasped, and Master Valstead swiveled to glare at her. Tears stinging her eyes, Isaveth began packing up to leave.

  “Excuse me, sir,” said a boy. He was short and compact, with dark olive skin and a face as round as his spectacles, and there was something oddly familiar about him. “Miss Callender has been poking Miss Breck with her lead-point, sir. I saw her do it just now.”

  “How dare you!” exclaimed Betinda, rearing back in indignation. “What a horrible lie!”

  “Miss Callender?” asked Master Valstead. “Do you require Miss Breck’s attention for some reason?”

  “Sir, I would never.” She pressed a hand to her chest, looking wounded. “I can’t think why Ghataj would accuse me of such a thing.”

  The master shifted his gaze to the boy, whose expression stayed resolute. At last he said, “Mister Ghataj, please exchange desks with Miss Callender. If Miss Breck’s welfare is of such concern to you, you may consider yourself responsible for guarding it.”

  Giggles rippled through the class, and the boy winced. But he gathered his books and got up to let Betinda take his seat.

  Isaveth exhaled a silent prayer of gratitude. “Thank you,” she whispered to Ghataj, not daring to look back.

  Around them desks creaked, papers rustled, and lead-points scratched as her classmates returned to work. Isaveth had almost given up hope of an answer when she heard his gruff, barely audible reply:

  “You’re welcome.”

  * * *

  Isaveth’s back was still smarting as she headed to her next class, and her head spun with questions she couldn’t answer. Why would Betinda Callender be so cruel to her when they hardly knew each other? Was she jealous that Isaveth was learning Sagery when she was still struggling to bake spell-tablets? Or had she heard Paskin’s snide comments about Isaveth being poor and decided to put this upstart back in her place?

  She brooded over it for the rest of the afternoon, so distracted that she’d walked halfway to the gate before realizing she hadn’t checked the library for a message. What if Esmond had found out something important about Eryx? Could that be why he’d made a point of greeting her and Eulalie this morning?

  Squinting into the icy wind, Isaveth ran back, up the steps, and through the pillared entrance of the library. She searched the shelves for the books on agriculture, and flipped through one after another until a scrap of paper fluttered out.

  Same place and time. Be careful. —Q

  The Q was for his nickname, of course, so if anyone found the note they wouldn’t guess who had written it. But the sight of the initial made Isaveth’s throat ache. Quiz had been eccentric, erratic, and occasionally exasperating, but at least he’d been an equal, someone whose feelings and motives she could understand. She crumpled the note into her bag and turned away.

  When she came up the stairs of the bell tower, Esmond was pacing the landing, hands clenched behind his back. “There you are,” he said. “I thought you’d forgotten.”

  Isaveth didn’t bother explaining. She crossed to the makeshift bench and sat down, waiting to hear what he had to say.

  “Look, I’m sure you’ve been wondering about this morning. But Eryx already knows how I—I mean, he knows we’re friends, so I thought it would be more suspicious to pretend I didn’t know you. And acting the plummy noble was the only way I could keep from punching that noxious little weed in the face.”

  Well, at least he was honest about it. “What made you so angry?” she asked. “I don’t mean Paskin. I mean before.” And afterward in the dining hall, too. Why was he so different with Isaveth than he was around his fellow nobles? Surely they couldn’t all be unworthy of his friendship. . . .

  Esmond sighed and dropped onto the bench beside her. “I really thought I was on to something,” he said. “All I had to do was hunt down Eryx’s stash of blackmail letters—you know, the ones we were trying to find when we searched his study. They’ve got to be in the house, or so close that they might as well be. You know why, don’t you?”

  Isaveth nodded.

  “Well, I poked through everything papery I could get my hands on—I even had a look through Father’s office, just in case. But I couldn’t find anything, and there’s nowhere left to search.” He raked his fingers up into his hair. “It’s driving me mad.”

  Which was only half an answer, but still a relief. Isaveth had been starting to wonder if Esmond hated everyone who wasn’t poor, and she didn’t care for that idea at all. . . .

  But then, she was beginning to have similar doubts about Eulalie. In many ways she was the kind of friend Isaveth had always dreamed of, a girl her own age who liked her just as she was. Yet the way Eulalie had insisted on buying her lunch made Isaveth feel more like an adopted pet than an equal. Did Eulalie really believe she was clever and interesting, or was it only flattery? And why had she chosen Isaveth, over all the other girls at the college?

  “Isaveth?” asked Esmond, and she gazed at him blankly before remembering they’d been talking about Eryx. Focus, Isaveth.

  “He might have moved the papers after he found us ransacking his study,” she said, hoping her distraction hadn’t been obvious. “Wouldn’t you?”

  Esmond gave a short laugh. “Eryx is far too arrogant for that. It would look like he was afraid of us.”

  He is, Isaveth wanted
to say. That’s why he offered me two regals to stop being friends with you. But she couldn’t say so without explaining why she’d refused the money, and that would be awkward.

  “Maybe he moved them for some other reason. Does Eryx have another office? At Council House, perhaps?”

  Esmond shook his head. “There’s a room he and Father use for meetings sometimes, but it’s not private. I don’t think Eryx would leave anything there.”

  “A secret office, then.”

  “Maybe,” Esmond said reluctantly. “But if so, I don’t know how we’re going to find it. It’s not like we can slip one of your tracking-tablets into Eryx’s pocket and chase him around the city on my pedalcycle.”

  “We can’t track him, no. But if we could put out some sort of bait for him, and attach the tablet to that . . .”

  Esmond’s good eye widened. “We could trace it back to his stash! Isaveth, that’s brilliant!” He flung out his arms toward her, and Isaveth’s heart skipped—but then he seemed to think better of it and let them fall.

  “It’s got to be something juicy, though,” he said, clearing his throat, “with obvious blackmail potential. And we can’t just stick a tablet inside the envelope or what-have-you; he’ll get suspicious.”

  True: She’d have to find a more subtle approach. Perhaps if she ground up the source-tablet and rubbed the paper with it? “I’ll start working on it,” Isaveth said. “You find something we can use for bait, and I’ll give you the spell when it’s ready.”

  She started to rise, but Esmond stopped her with a touch. “Wait—you want me to use your tracking spell? Are you sure it’ll work for me?”

  Yesterday she would have had no idea what he was talking about. But thanks to Eulalie, Isaveth understood. “It’s Common Magic, not Sagery, so I can’t see why it wouldn’t. Besides, if the documents are at your place, you’re the only one who can look for them. It’s not like you can invite me to tea and escort me around the mansion.”

  “Bah.” Esmond wrinkled his nose in disgust. “All this nobles-and-commoners rubbish. What I wouldn’t give to be Quiz again.”

  So he missed those days too. It might not fix anything, but it did make her feel less lonely. “If you were a street-boy, they wouldn’t let you in the house either,” Isaveth pointed out. “You can’t have it both ways.”

  “More’s the pity,” said Esmond. “But you’re right. I’ll see what I can do.”

  Chapter Seven

  THERE WAS LITTLE HOPE of Isaveth getting any privacy for her experiments that evening; their furnace was so old and miserly that the kitchen was the only warm place in the house. But she coaxed her younger sisters into playing outside for a while, and settled Papa upstairs with a pile of blankets and a hot-water bottle to soothe his aching shoulder. So in the end, only Annagail was left to notice.

  “I thought you were studying Sagery now,” her sister said, lowering the sock she’d been mending. “What are you making a decoction for?”

  Isaveth was brewing three at the same time, actually; each tablet needed its own bottle of potion for the tracking spell to work. She glanced into the oven to make sure her tablets were browning, and stirred each of the pots again. “It’s for Esmond,” she said. “He needs it for an experiment.”

  Annagail frowned, but she didn’t protest. She knew what their family owed Esmond, even more than Papa did. “So he’s not afraid to be seen with you?”

  The liquid in the front pot was starting to bubble. Isaveth added a sprinkle of ground lodestone and stirred it again. “Well, he’s quite busy with his classes, so we don’t see each other that often. But otherwise he’s been friendly.”

  “Oh.” Annagail was quiet, looking down at her mending. At last she said, “Well, I’m happy for you. I only hope it lasts.”

  The back two pots were bubbling now. Isaveth sprinkled and stirred, then turned off the stove to let them cool. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.” Annagail dropped the sock and got up, heading for the front room. Puzzled, Isaveth followed.

  The window that looked out onto Cabbage Street wore a rime of frost so thick, Isaveth could barely make out Lilet and Mimmi playing in the snow. She pulled a blanket off the sofa and wrapped it around herself, shivering. “Anna, what is it?”

  Her sister sighed. “I worry, that’s all. Bad enough that we’re poor, worse that we’re Moshite, but if people find out you’re Urias Breck’s daughter . . .”

  “Why would that matter?” It hadn’t made any difference to Eulalie, and people like Betinda and Paskin hated her enough already. “The Lord Justice declared Papa innocent.”

  “Yes, but there are still people who think he was involved in Governor Orien’s murder somehow, even if he didn’t actually do it.” Annagail rubbed her arms fretfully. “You saw Su Amaraq’s article in the Trumpeter. She as good as said that the worker who confessed to the killing wasn’t clever enough to have done it alone.”

  Which was true—but Eryx had made sure the man’s confession was also his suicide note, so he couldn’t tell Su or anyone else who had hired him. Still, Isaveth would have liked to give the reporter a kick in the silk-stockinged shin for stopping there, instead of digging deeper to find the truth of the story.

  “Well,” she said, trying to sound confident, “people might find out, but they might not. And even if they do think badly of Papa, that doesn’t mean they have to think badly of—” She stopped, sniffing. “Oh no, the tablets!”

  Isaveth dashed into the kitchen, scrabbling for the hot-glove. Fortunately they hadn’t burned, but it had been a near thing. She whisked the pan out and set it on the table. “Anyway,” she continued, turning back . . .

  But the front room was empty. Annagail had gone.

  * * *

  Once the source-tablets for her tracking spell had cooled, Isaveth started looking for ways to disguise them. She’d cut them as small as she could, but there was no way Eryx wouldn’t notice a whole one. So she crushed one into powder (useless), dribbled wax over another to make it look like a seal (it didn’t), mixed a third with ink (which clogged up the pen), and crumbled a fourth into a batch of homemade paper (making it far too lumpy to write on). Only when Papa tramped downstairs to chide her for not going to bed did Isaveth give up and put her spell-making ingredients away.

  She woke next morning achy and sluggish, with an itch at the back of her throat. Shivering, Isaveth hurried downstairs, lit the stove, and made a pot of herb tea with honey, struggling not to cough until she’d drunk it down. Then she sat down to do the homework she’d neglected the night before.

  As soon as she opened her calculation book, however, Isaveth was lost. She still didn’t understand the formulas her teacher was using, and if she couldn’t catch up soon she’d be in trouble. Yet judging by the cold way Master Valstead treated her, he was the last person she could expect to help.

  She’d just have to look up the answers at lunchtime, then. Resigned, Isaveth packed up and headed off to school. But when she got to the library, all the books she needed were missing.

  “Hmm,” said the librarian when she showed him the half-empty shelf. “Bad timing, I’m afraid. They were all taken out this morning.” He snapped his ledger shut, but not before Isaveth had seen the list of borrowed books and the single name beside them: B. Callender.

  Anger flamed in Isaveth. She’d half made up her mind to hunt down Betinda, grab her by the collar, and demand the books back, when she spotted a familiar dark head at one of the study tables.

  Ghataj. Did she dare speak to him? He’d already been mocked and teased for helping Isaveth, so he might not be eager to put himself out for her sake again. Yet she had only half a bell left to get her work done, so it was Ghataj or nothing. Mustering courage, Isaveth crossed to his table.

  “Hello,” she said, then added quickly, “Thanks for your help yesterday. It was very kind of you.”

  “All right,” said Ghataj, “but you’ve already thanked me on
ce. What do you want?”

  His bluntness didn’t bother her; Lilet was the same way. Feeling bolder, Isaveth sat down and explained her problem. “Would you mind . . . ?”

  Ghataj pushed his spectacles up his small, hawkish nose and regarded her levelly. “All right. Get out your notebook.”

  As Isaveth scribbled, he explained the terms that had puzzled her and showed how they related to one another. All were measurements used in making sage-charms, and the formulas Master Valstead was teaching were to calculate the proper balance of ingredients.

  “I think I understand now,” Isaveth said when he had finished. She’d always been clever with numbers, so it took her only a few minutes to finish the equations, and when she showed the page to Ghataj he gave an approving nod.

  “You’ve got it. Well done.” He leaned back, regarding her shrewdly. “Where were you last term? I’m surprised they didn’t teach you this already.”

  “It wasn’t a very good school,” said Isaveth.

  A frown creased Ghataj’s brow, then his face cleared. “I knew you looked familiar. You came in late to the Young Politicians’ Club on Mendday.”

  Isaveth smiled wanly at him, resisting the urge to bolt. He was the boy who’d asked Eryx about the ban on political meetings in the city. “Oh, yes. I heard everyone clapping and wondered what it was about.”

  “It’s too bad you didn’t come earlier,” said Ghataj. “The speech Eryx Lording gave was brilliant. How did you like his idea about reforming the relief system? I think it makes a lot of sense, don’t you?”

  It would be safest to agree, but Isaveth couldn’t bring herself to do it. She liked Ghataj, and she owed him too much to lie.

  “I think it would be wonderful to give more relief to families who need it,” she said. “But if he can only do that by taking it away from anyone who’s ever opposed the Sagelord, then I don’t think that’s fair at all.”