The Poison Throne

Lorcan quirked a sad little smile. “Aye,” he said. “That’s me told.”

  Wynter hesitated for a moment, and then drew Razi’s note from her bodice. She handed it to Lorcan and he read it without comment, his jaw tightening.

  “What is it?” asked Christopher, straining to make out what they were up to.

  Lorcan looked to Wynter for permission and she nodded.

  “Can you read?” asked Lorcan kindly.

  “Aye.”

  “Here,” Lorcan leant forward and handed the note to Christopher.

  The young man took it, moved it too and fro, angled it, shifted his head with a pained little grimace, and finally found a position from which he could see the writing. He read it slowly, his lips moving. “Oh,” he said. “Poor Razi.”

  “We’re a danger to him,” said Wynter.

  “Oh, Wyn,” sighed her father, taking her hand. “That’s not it, darling.”

  “He thinks he’s a danger to us…” breathed Christopher.

  “Yes,” Lorcan agreed, nodding slowly.

  “But the closer we are to him, the more vulnerable he is,” insisted Wynter.

  “Aye. Jonathon just has to glance at Christopher there. Or have one of his guards smirk at you, darling. And Razi has no choice but to roll over and show his belly.”

  “Poor bastard,” said Christopher absently, and Lorcan didn’t even grimace at his choice of word.

  A sudden realisation struck Wynter. “Jonathon will never let you go,” she said to Christopher.

  “She’s right, boy.” Lorcan said, “You’re his best leverage to get Razi to do whatever he wishes. Jonathon’s going to want you around for a long, long time.”

  “Good Frith!” breathed Christopher. He stared at Wynter and Lorcan and they both gave him identical, pitying looks. Now who’s the poor bastard, is what he knew they were thinking.

  Freedom to Leave

  The next morning Wynter woke to a blessedly cool dawn. Outside was grey with mist and it drifted in her window. It was a glorious relief from the unrelenting heat, and she spread her arms on the pillows and revelled in it. It wouldn’t last. The hazy sky was already washed with rosy sunrise and Wynter knew that within the next quarter, this sweet coolness would have given way to another blistering, sun-blasted day.

  All her recent worries suddenly fell on her as if from a great height and pressed down on her chest, squeezing her heart. She rolled to her side with a groan and turned her face into the crook of her arm. Why couldn’t she have stayed asleep? It had been blissful and dreamless, and she wanted it back. She closed her eyes and tried to force herself to sink under the surface of her thoughts, tried to drift back down into that delicious well of innocent oblivion.

  Instead, her wayward mind travelled back to last night’s excruciating banquet. What a nightmare it had been, with its endless protocol and the constant, whispering scrutiny of the falsely merry crowd. The King’s guard had been a looming wall of intimidation at every turn, and Razi! Good Christ, Razi! Cold, aloof and unapproachable. On their walk to and from their rooms, he had spared her no words other than those that procedure demanded. Once in the hall itself, he had cast not a glance in her direction, unless to indicate where to turn or whose hand to shake first.

  Even during the interminable after-dinner dancing, Razi had paid her no heed. He had spent the night sprawled on his brother’s throne, a dour, brooding presence. Had Wynter not known the true heart of the man, she would have judged him a sullen, black-hearted knave. He did himself no favours with the attending crowd.

  This memory speared her heart, and she grunted in frustration and rolled onto her back. She could get up now, get dressed, go arrange food, and look in on her father. She could get an early start on the library. Instead, she closed her eyes and let the damp air settle on her face and arms. Birds were making little waking up noises in the orange trees. A cock crowed in the stable yards. Wynter began to float dreamily, and tried to go with it. Maybe if she relaxed she would fall back asleep.

  She heard her father say, “I am cold,” and she opened her eyes when someone answered. It was Razi. Their voices were quiet, but clear as bells on the still air.

  “Is it your feet, Lorcan?”

  “Aye.”

  “I shall fetch another pair of socks from your chest, if you like?”

  Lorcan replied tiredly that he would appreciate it. There was quiet scuffling about for a few moments. Then Razi said, “Is that better?”

  It must have been an improvement, because Razi murmured an almost inaudible, “Good.”

  Wynter lay still and looked at the ceiling. She listened with sorrow to the private decency of the same man who only last night had glowered his way through the feast and scowled and grunted at everyone who approached him.

  Her father mumbled something and Razi replied, “It is just for one more day, Lorcan! That’s all I’m asking of you.”

  Lorcan’s voice was tight with frustration. “I have much to do, your Highness. I need to oversee the library! And I need to get an idea of which way the tides are flowing out there! It will be fatal to fall out of touch.”

  “Lorcan,” Razi admonished gently, “You will die if you do not rest as I have asked. I cannot be clearer with you. You will die, and you will leave our lovely girl all alone in this awful mess. I cannot believe that that is what you would want.”

  “For want of one bloody day abed?” Wynter could hear the sneer in her father’s voice.

  There was no reply. Wynter knew what expression Razi would have on his face. She could dearly imagine his brown eyes, steady and immutable, not backing down. And she knew her father would be valiantly trying to stare him into submission, and failing. She sat up and quietly swung her legs out of bed.

  There was silence. Then her father grunted in defeat.

  “So,” Razi said, no triumph in his voice. She heard small sounds as he laid things out on Lorcan’s table. “I can trust you to do as I have asked?” A pause in which her father must have gestured or murmured. “You are sincere, Lorcan? There will be no scurrying about behind my back? Because I cannot be seen to return today, and I must be able to trust you.”

  “Aye! Aye!” Impatient and sharp.

  “Thank you. Now, I will not give you the opium today, for fear you begin to crave it. I am, instead, leaving you this hashish. Eat one of these portions with your breakfast, dinner and supper. I have arranged good, wholesome meals to be delivered…”

  “Sounds delicious…” murmured Lorcan snidely.

  “Do not be sour.”

  “Well, I’m not hungry.”

  “That is just the opium talking… you will be clemmed soon, particularly if you take the hashish, it’s powerful good for restoring a lost appetite. Here, drink this.”

  Wynter put on her robe and padded into the retiring room to peer in at her father’s door. Razi was stooped over the big man, his face calm and attentive, his hand poised for the return of the cup. He was dressed in a loose white shirt, leggings and riding boots. His crop lay on the bed at Lorcan’s feet. He must be heading down to the horses. She leaned against the doorframe and watched them. Lorcan handed Razi the cup he’d just drained, and made a face.

  “Gah! Tastes like bloody horse shit!”

  As Razi turned to put things into his bag. Lorcan lay back and watched him carefully, his eyes assessing.

  “Would the Hadrish be up to spending time with me today?”

  Razi paused a moment and then went on with his tidying. “Christopher will be in a lot of pain today, perhaps even more so than yesterday. But I have given him a draught, and I will leave it up to him.”

  “I like him,” said Lorcan suddenly, as if surprised.

  Razi said nothing.

  “I suspect that there are feelings between him and my daughter.”

  Startled, Wynter slipped out of sight and stood listening from around the corner. There was a long pause, and Razi sighed quietly.

  “There was a time, Lorcan, that to hear it wo
uld have made my heart soar. At one time I had hoped…” Razi’s wistful voice trailed off.

  “But now?”

  There was a decisive sound of Razi snapping his bag shut. “Freeman Garron will not be here long enough for any of my hopes to be realised.”

  Wynter’s heart contracted with unexpected grief at this news.

  Then her father said, “The King will never let him go. You know that.” And this filled Wynter with such fear that she didn’t know what she wanted or how she even felt. There was silence from the next room and she stepped back to the door and looked in. To hell with skulking around corners while her menfolk discussed things that affected them all. They didn’t notice or see her, and she did nothing to draw attention to herself.

  Razi was standing, side-on to her father, and the two men were regarding each other with knowing, tension filled faces. Razi dropped his eyes and placed his bag carefully back on the bedside table. He went to speak, hesitated and then, with the air of someone about to make a reluctant confession said, “I intend to make myself a very unpleasant addition to the royal platform, Protector Lord.”

  Lorcan winced. “Razi,” he moaned, “You will get yourself killed.”

  “And where would his Majesty be then?” Razi sneered. “Hunting one heir like a rat in a cellar, and burying the other in a Musulman graveyard in town? My father is mad, Lorcan, but he is not stupid!”

  “Then he will hurt that Hadrish boy in ways you cannot possibly imagine. I know your father, and I am telling you, you have no chance against him.”

  Razi stood looking down on Lorcan, his face stony. Then his body sagged slightly, curving in on itself in weariness. “I will figure something out,” he said quietly.

  “But until then you must be careful, for your sake – and the Hadrish’s. You must bide your time.”

  “Yes,” breathed Razi, watching the brightening sky, “I have enough on my conscience with Christopher already.”

  “Wynter tells me that he is Merron?” asked Lorcan carefully.

  “By adoption, yes.”

  Lorcan flushed, fidgeted with his covers for a moment and then murmured awkwardly. “They are an uncommonly lusty people, Razi.”

  Wynter heard the now rare laugh in Razi’s voice when he said, “Aye! That they are! But you can trust Christopher, Lorcan. He will do naught to harm our girl.”

  Wynter’s cheeks blazed, but she wasn’t sure how to take that. What did Razi mean by harm exactly? Would Christopher not be interested in her?

  “If he has feelings for her…”

  She lifted her eyes, searching Razi’s gently amused face.

  “You can trust him, Lorcan. I promise you.”

  “Will you tell me something? Honestly…?”

  Razi turned his face away slightly, regarding her father through warily narrowed eyes.

  Lorcan held up a hand. “I am not asking you to betray a confidence. But…” he bit his lip. He met Razi’s eyes. “I want her safe.”

  Razi stared questioningly, and Lorcan sighed.

  “Is he a thief?” Lorcan finally asked and held up his hands, waggling the fingers. “Is he a criminal?”

  Razi looked at Lorcan’s fingers and swallowed. “He told me that he’d already explained…”

  “Well, he didn’t.”

  “Christopher is no thief, Lorcan. And if he lied it was only to protect me.” Wynter was stunned by the bitterness in Razi’s voice. His voice was trembling as he answered her father’s question. “He is a good, honest man. I made an enormous mistake bringing him here. My friendship has caused him nothing but trouble since day one, and now he is ensnared as a pawn to my father. I wish I had sent him home when first I—” He cut himself short and looked down at his feet.

  Lorcan dropped his hands to his lap and regarded him compassionately. “So what happened to…?”

  But Razi’s expression changed even as Lorcan was speaking, and the big man’s voice trailed away as he watched his young friend come to some great and sudden realisation. There was something dawning in Razi’s face, a huge, surprising rush of inspiration. He had an idea.

  Lorcan’s gaze drifted and he jumped a little when he saw Wynter standing in the early morning shadows. She met his eye and tightened her lips. You were talking about me, you old meddler! Lorcan raised an eyebrow and ducked his head. He gave her a little shamefaced, you caught me smile. She narrowed her eyes in mock aggravation.

  Razi remained oblivious to everything, completely preoccupied by his racing thoughts. It didn’t look like he intended answering Lorcan’s question anytime soon. “Of course…” He stood very still a moment, his mouth half open, his eyes distant. “Of course…” he said. “But how… without getting him killed?” He began to walk slowly from the room. Wynter opened her mouth to say something to him as he approached, but he didn’t notice her.

  Instead, he turned abruptly back to Lorcan and retrieved his crop from the bed. “I’ll need this,” he said, holding the crop up and nodding absently. He tapped Lorcan’s foot with the tip of it. “You stay abed and do as you have been told.” With that, Razi wandered thoughtfully from the room, blind to everything but his inner calculations, sliding the secret door shut behind him.

  Wynter met Lorcan’s eye. “Jesu!” said her father, “what was that all that about?”

  Wynter didn’t know, but for some reason it made her heart race in her chest and filled her with fear for her two friends.

  It was still extremely early when Wynter reached the library. She knew that Pascal and the apprentices had an hour’s journey from town to reach the palace every day, and she did not expect them to be there until the beginning of the next quarter. So it was quite a shock when she opened the library door and found them all standing, raw-eyed and anxious, in the centre of the room.

  It was obvious that she had interrupted something. Gary was hugging Jerome, while the others stood about in a loose, shuffling, helpless circle. At her entrance, Jerome immediately broke free of Gary’s arms and turned his back, quickly swiping tears from his eyes. Pascal stood a little to the rear of his boys, his face stricken.

  Wynter closed the door carefully behind her, and put her roll of tools on the floor. “What is it?” she said warily.

  To her surprise, Gary rounded on her, his face red with anger and fear, and Pascal did nothing but watch. “Where is yer master?” Gary snarled. “You said he’d be here! Where is he?”

  Wynter blinked at the ferocity of the questioning.

  “Where is yer master?” repeated Gary, his gentle face changed utterly in his distress.

  “Yer know where he is!” howled Jerome suddenly, flinging his arms up and turning to show his tear ravaged face. “Everyone knows where the good Protector Lord is! Poisoned! Taken from the King’s side in his time of need! The only working man on the whole royal platform! The only decent soak in der whole bloody crew! Poisoned! And you,” he pointed a shaking finger at Wynter, “dancing with the evil bastard what done it! Dancing and making merry while decent men are dragged ter der… d… doom!”

  Pascal raised his hand to quiet the boy’s wild torrent. “Hush, Jerome.”

  Gary grabbed his friend’s shoulder. “Tat it, Jerome,” he said gently, his wary eyes on Wynter. “Tat it!”

  Wynter raised her hands in placation and she addressed Pascal, her voice calm and low, despite her rapidly escalating panic. “What has happened?”

  It must be something terrible, she though frantically. Something huge! These wild accusations, this barely contained aggression… none of that had been evident yesterday. Something must have happened! Someone must have said or done something, because these accusations hadn’t sprung from nowhere.

  “How can yer do it?” cried Jerome. “Take yer father’s place at the feast? And he locked away! Dying mebbe. No one ter see him all day but you and that Arab? How can yer – shaking yer arse all night in the black bastard’s face! Suppin’ from his cup like a harem wh—”

  “Hush, Jerome… come on
!” Gary pulled his friend back, trying to steer him away from Wynter, his face alarmed. Wynter stood with her mouth open. Her stomach and heart frozen in icy shock.

  Jerome began crying almost hysterically, pulling aimlessly against his friend’s grip. Gary’s face crumpled with sorrow and sympathy, and he tried to gather his friend into his arms, pulling him away from the others who stood, distraught and useless around the thrashing boy.

  Pascal, with tears in his eyes, gestured to the back of the room, and Gary and the other third year manhandled the weeping Jerome through the stacks and behind the bookshelves at the other end of the library. His distress was still audible and now and again, he would let out a wordless howl, as if he couldn’t contain the grief within him.

  Wynter wanted to say something, to ask something, but she wasn’t sure what. Her mouth opened but nothing came out. Pascal came and stood beside her, his jaw working, obviously fighting an overwhelming emotion. Finally he managed a tremulous hiss.

  “Protector Lady,” he said as if trying to give her a chance. “Where is your father? We came here this morning hoping he’d be here. Hoping we’d be able ter talk to him…” he looked Wynter up and down. “Where is he, lass?”

  What could she say? Without betraying Lorcan’s vulnerability, what could she possibly do? Wynter looked Pascal in his eyes, and tried to look convincing, but she was terrified that all she was managing was to look shifty and scared. “My father is detained on business of state, Master Heutte,” she said, keeping her voice soft. “I cannot find a way to convince you otherwise; you shall just have to take my word for it. Please, you cannot possibly think that I would aid in my own father’s downfall? That I would poison my own father?”

  Pascal continued to eye her warily. His little first years had retreated behind his back, their peaky faces glaring out at her from the safety of his shadow.

  “Everywan sawd yer dancing with the Arab,” whispered one of them, and Pascal pushed him gently out of sight.

  Wynter wanted to shout, I was not dancing with Razi! She wanted to say, I’ll dance with whom I damn well please! She wanted to ask, who told you such bloody lies? but none of those things would matter a penny. It would only lead to her having to defend herself against this atrociously inaccurate gossip. She lifted her gaze from the little boys and looked Pascal straight in the eye.