The Poison Throne

  She blushed, then hesitated and bit her lip. And Razi? she wondered. It was hard to think of Razi in that way at all. She had never seen him as anything other than just… just Razi. She met Christopher’s eyes and he grinned stiffly against his bruises, amused at the question in her face.

  “Would it make a difference to you?” he said. “If he were? Would you think any less of him?” His grin faltered when she didn’t answer, and fell away entirely when she had to acknowledge to herself that it would make a difference. She wasn’t sure how she would feel about it, but it would make a difference. Christopher shook his head in disappointment. “You people,” he said. “You…” He left the sentence unfinished, just spread his hands and dropped them again in despair. He glowered out the window, mulling things over in his head. “Razi, Razi,” he murmured, “What are we to do with you?”

  Wynter was still staring pointedly at him, and he grimaced and flung his hands up again in exasperation, “Good Frith!” he said, glaring at her. “It’s just lies, all right? When Razi finally unbends enough to enjoy a bit of sport, it’s a woman he takes to his bed! Now! You have it! I wish you joy of the knowledge! You can continue to look on him with unblemished pride and love! He is excellent and perfect and not at all dubious!”

  Wynter laughed, too relieved to take his anger seriously, but he turned stiffly away to look out the window again, his face grim, and she realised that he was genuinely upset with her.

  She shook his knee, trying to lighten his mood. “We were brought up to call it the loving act, you know. My father told me it’s an expression of love, not sport!”

  “Oh, I have no doubt!” snorted Christopher. “Half of Razi’s problem is that he’s forever confusing the sport with love. He can’t seem to relax himself enough to just have some bloody fun. He’s too busy running off getting his heart broke by every set of brown eyes as looks his way.”

  “But surely…” she checked herself and sat back, amazed to find herself discussing this subject without the slightest blush, and with Christopher of all people. She frowned and thought about that for a moment. This was a subject that usually reduced her to a paroxysm of stuttering and scarlet mortification. And yet… she looked up at him. He was regarding her with puzzlement, still not quite over his anger but wondering what the pause was all about.

  “Surely,” she continued, settling back in her chair and watching him. “It’s all the better when you are in love?” This was what her father had told her, that the act was an extension of your love, that it should be saved for a man she loved completely and who she trusted to love her the same. She realised that she wanted very much to hear what Christopher had to say on the subject.

  “I’d say it’s very much the better when you are in love,” said Christopher, staring back at her. “That’s what my dad told me anyway.”

  “But… you don’t know?”

  He paused, his eyes slipping from hers. “I ain’t never combined the two,” he said softly.

  “You’ve never been in love, Christopher?”

  His lips parted, he began to say something, hesitated, and snapped his mouth shut with a grimace. Wynter swallowed. Christopher kept his eyes down for a moment and then met her eye again. “I ain’t never combined the two,” he repeated with one of those sudden and unexpected flashes of shyness.

  Wynter smiled, “Me neither,” she said, “having never experienced either.” She shocked herself with that little bit of daring, but Christopher just smiled affectionately at her and they let the subject lie.

  The silence carried on comfortably, and then Christopher sighed and ran his hand lightly over his face. Wynter could see that he was utterly spent.

  “Razi says that you should put warm cloths on your face,” she told him. “The better to speed your body’s expulsion of the bruises.”

  “Aye,” he sighed and began to push slowly to his feet. “I have water keeping warm by the fire in our rooms.”

  “I’ll fetch it,” she said, leaping to her feet, but he waved her down and continued to rise.

  “No. No. It’s all right.” He shuffled into the retiring room, heading for the secret door. “I’ll do it myself, and if you don’t mind, I’d quite like to lie down for a bit. Anyway, I know you’ve much to do…” His voice trailed off as he wandered to the back of the other room. Wynter got up and watched as he pushed the panel to one side.

  “You know, Razi asked that you wait here,” she reminded him.

  “Razi can kiss my Merron arse,” he said wearily, and disappeared into the shadows, the panel clicking shut behind him.

  The day passed in many small activities, and Razi certainly didn’t return within the quarter. Wynter came and went. She paid the overdue laundry bill and checked the horses. She prepared, and signed in proxy, the carpenters’ egress papers and delivered them herself, checking on their work and assuring herself of their continued safety. She accepted the delivery of a good meal, and returned Lorcan’s portions uneaten.

  Lorcan could not seem to get warm, so Wynter arranged for a fire-tender to set and light a fire and shore up a supply of fuel. Soon Lorcan’s room was an almost unbearable furnace, the grate blazing, the summer sun sweltering through the windows. But the big man still shivered under his covers.

  Razi arrived late in the evening, knocking loudly and sweeping past her as soon as she opened the door. He seemed rushed and distracted, and barely acknowledged her presence. He came to a halt in the middle of the room, and looked all around him.

  “Where is he?” he asked, as if he’d only left Christopher sitting for ten minutes and was shocked to find him gone.

  “Razi!” she exclaimed. “It’s been hours! You surely didn’t expect him to still be waiting?”

  Razi blinked at her in confusion, and it was obvious that he did indeed expect Christopher to be waiting. “I… I needed to speak to him here!” he said, as if that was all that mattered.

  She put her hands on her hips and compressed her lips in frustration. “Well,” she snapped, “Christopher says you can kiss his Merron arse.”

  Razi gaped. “Wynter!” he admonished, shocked. Then he looked away, ran his hands through his hair, thought for a moment, “He’s probably asleep, I’ll have to bloody knock. Damn it…” he threw his eyes to heaven. “There’s nothing for it. I’ll have to go in through the hall!” He strode past her, heading for the door. “Sorry, sis,” he said absently, “must rush.” She smiled at his unconscious endearment.

  He paused at the door, and spoke over his shoulder without looking at her. “You understand, he’ll be gone within the week,” he said firmly.

  “So you’ve said,” she replied.

  “I mean it. Once I’ve set things in motion, he’ll have to leave as quickly as possible. There’ll be no turning back.”

  “What do you intend to do, Razi?” Wynter asked, her stomach instantly knotting around itself.

  He finally looked directly at her. “I want you to stay away from him now, Wynter. It will be easier for you both. I know… I know that everything always seems so simple when Christopher is around. He’s so straightforward. He has a way of making a person forget themselves, and that’s fatal for people like us.”

  It hurt to acknowledge this, it cored her heart, but she nodded. “I know,” she whispered.

  Razi hesitated, as if he wanted to tell her something else. Then he squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head grimly. “All right,” he said and left.

  Moments later, she heard him hammering on Christopher’s door. It took a long time for their friend to answer. She heard Razi’s deep voice speaking gruffly, but she couldn’t tell if Christopher replied or not. Then the soft thud of their hall door cut off all sounds.

  Wynter drifted into the retiring room and stood very still, trying to hear the voices from next door. The fire in Lorcan’s room blazed and crackled, and even the retiring room was almost too warm to bear.

  “Wynter?”

  She turned at the sound of her father’s voice
.

  “Yes, Dad?”

  “What are you doing, standing there?”

  She blushed and opened her mouth to explain, when the secret door slid open without warning, causing her to jump and reach for her dagger. Christopher hobbled out of the darkness, his face furious, his long black hair tossed and tangled as though he’d leapt from his bed in a panic.

  To her surprise he dodged past her, his eyes down, and limped straight into Lorcan’s room. He didn’t say a word to her father, just padded barefoot to the chair that was wedged into the furthest corner of the room and lowered himself into it. He sat silent and stony, eyes cast down, his hands clenched into fists on his lap.

  Lorcan regarded him uncertainly. It was obvious that the poor man was still mostly asleep and thoroughly confused at his young friend’s behaviour.

  Razi came in then, stalking through the secret door and into Lorcan’s room, his face like poison. “Don’t be so bloody childish!” he cried, coming to a halt in the centre of the room, glaring down at the top of Christopher’s dark head.

  Christopher said nothing.

  “Goddamn you, Chris! You think I won’t discuss this in front of them? You think my God-cursed pride will keep me silent? Is that why you’re here?”

  Christopher looked up at that, his eyes gleaming dangerously under their swollen lids. Razi held his hand out, “Give me the keys.”

  Christopher drew his clenched fists to his chest and glared defiantly at his raging friend.

  “Give me the God-cursed keys!” bellowed Razi, and Wynter leapt across the room and, without thinking, whacked him on the back.

  “This is my father’s room, Razi Kingsson! What do you think you’re doing?” She was angry with Christopher for bringing this in here, but she was raging with Razi. At least Christopher was being quiet.

  Razi glanced at Lorcan. The big man was peering at him as if through a dark glass from a long distance, mildly puzzled but nothing more. Razi glanced at Wynter and then turned back to Christopher, his hand out once more, his face grim. “The keys,” he said quietly.

  Christopher shook his head stiffly, his fists knotted at his chest, his sleep-tangled hair falling every which way around his shoulders.

  Razi dropped his hands, his face tight, his jaw working. “All right,” he said, his voice dangerously low. “All right, then. To hell with your keys.” He looked around and quickly spotted what he was looking for in the corner. He crossed the room in two long strides and had pulled the ties on Lorcan’s roll of tools and unfurled it before Wynter could do anything more than yell in protest. She leapt at him and tried to grab his hands as he snatched a chisel and a small hammer from the neatly organised pockets.

  “Hey!” she shouted, appalled. “Those are my father’s!”

  Christopher rose from his chair, his face distraught as he stared at the chisel. “No!” he cried.

  Wynter tried to snatch the tools from Razi and he shrugged her off, surging to his feet.

  “No! No, Razi!” Christopher was actually begging, and the despair in his voice made Wynter turn to him in shock. He stumbled after Razi as the tall man strode purposefully to the door. “Don’t!” he implored, “Razi, don’t! Please don’t break my father’s trunk!”

  The frantic pleading in Christopher’s voice was alien and heartbreaking, and it froze them all in their places.

  Lorcan said, “Good Christ… Razi…” his disapproval palpable in the silence.

  Christopher held his hand out then, a set of little silver keys dangling from his scarred fingers. “Take them,” he said, utterly defeated. “Take them. Go on. Just… don’t break the trunk.”

  Razi looked at his friend’s despairing face. He looked at the keys. He handed Wynter back the hammer and the chisel. She took them with numb hands and watched as Razi slid the keyring from Christopher’s finger.

  “It’s the only way,” he said softly, but Christopher flung his hand up and shook his head, his face creased in pain and disappointment. Slowly, he made his way back to the chair in the corner and sat and put his head into his hands.

  “What,” said Lorcan slowly, “What is the… only way?”

  Razi glanced at him and clutched the keys, looking uncertain.

  “He’s going to get my papers,” said Christopher. “He’s going to show them to the King.” He lifted his head, his face bitter and distraught. “He will kill you, Razi. You told me… you said…” He shook his head and turned to Lorcan in despair. “He’ll bloody kill him. Lorcan! Talk him out of it!”

  “No,” said Razi and held a hand up to silence Lorcan, his eyes on Christopher. “He won’t kill me, Chris, and he won’t kill you either. He’s going to do exactly what I ask of him. He’s going to give you safe conduct to the Moroccos. He’s going to let me go to Padua. He is going to bow to me, or I swear to heaven, I will release those papers to the council, and they will have me tried and jailed and disinherited by sundown the same day. And there would be nothing Jonathon could do because he wrote the bloody law.”

  “What law?” hissed Wynter. Razi ignored her and she grabbed his arm and shook it, heartily sick of him. “What law?” she yelled.

  Razi looked down at her, his eyes hard and glittering with bitter triumph. “Father’s anti-slavery law, sis. His infamous, wonderful, unique anti-slavery law.”

  Wynter backed off, releasing Razi’s arm as if burned. Razi grimaced at her, a sour, crooked expression that was nothing like a smile.

  “No, Razi,” she whispered. “No!” She shook her head and looked over at Christopher, praying that he would refute what Razi was saying. He just raised his head from his hands and gazed bleakly at her. “Christopher,” she said. “No!”

  Razi continued mercilessly, that horrible travesty of a smile still on his lips. “Christopher is my slave, Wynter. I bought him. I paid good money for him, my fellow human being. I sat in an auction room and placed my bids and he was sold to me, just like a horse, or a dog, or a piece of meat.” He leant his head down to stare into her eyes, and he nodded grimly at the horror and disgust he saw there. “Good,” he said, and stalked from the room, Christopher’s keys in his hand.

  The Tidy Plan

  “Stop it,” said Christopher wearily.

  “Stop what!” snapped Wynter.

  “Stop looking at me as if I’ve done something wrong.”

  A sharp retort rose in Wynter’s throat, but she bit it back when she realised that she had, in fact, been glaring at him with undisguised rage. The realisation caught her by surprise and shamed her. She glanced at her father, who was just dropping his gaze to the floor, and she understood that he, too, must have been silently berating Christopher with his eyes.

  Why? Why were they so angry with Christopher? Why had she suddenly found herself wishing that he’d never been here, that he’d just go away? She sighed. Oh, it’s not your fault, Christopher. It’s none of it your fault.

  How could Christopher have helped the fact that he’d been bought and sold? Or that it had been Razi who had bought him? Razi, of all people. Razi, who must have understood the consequences of such a foolish action. Wynter raised her head and stared at Christopher again. What on earth had possessed the man? It was such a dangerous, such a stupid thing for a Southlander to do.

  “I’ve done nothing wrong,” Christopher insisted, misinterpreting her stare. His voice was quietly defensive. “And neither has Razi. Though he’s uncommonly devoted to his bloody guilt and self-recrimination, so don’t be directing those looks at him either.”

  Lorcan groaned in frustration and despair, and rolled onto his back, his fingers pressed to his eyes. Wynter, at a loss for what to do or say, wandered to the foot of her father’s bed, and sat looking at the floor.

  “I assume he emancipated you,” rasped Lorcan.

  “Of course,” sighed Christopher. “He gave me my papers the day he bought me. Hired me as his horse doctor that same evening.”

  “I assume that’s the reason he bought you?” asked Lorcan, sti
ll not looking at him, “In order to set you free?”

  Insofar as an ex-slave is ever free, thought Wynter, for they only ever had their own word and some flimsy papers as proof that they’d been released, and they were for ever prey to re-capture and re-sale.

  There was a long silence, and Lorcan and Wynter looked over at Christopher. He was gazing at his hands. “Suffice it to say,” he murmured, “I was in an unbearable situation, and Razi saved me from it.” He spread his hands, making his usual futile effort to straighten the finger on the left. “’T’ain’t his fault things went so wrong. Lorcan?” he asked, his voice breaking, “Will Jonathon kill him?”

  “I don’t think so. I think that Razi is right, Jonathon will let you go. I suspect that Razi will arrange for you to send him a message from the Moroccos, letting him know that you are safe. Then he will send you the papers… It’s an awful risky deal for you though, Christopher. You’ll have to travel unpapered down the goddamn port road, you’ll have pass through three separate jurisdictions, and you’ll need to voyage to the Moroccos unsupported and evade the check-men there until you get your papers back.”

  Christopher sighed into his hands. “It doesn’t matter,” he said, every syllable weary.

  “Where are you branded?”

  Wynter gasped, and Christopher looked pleadingly up at her father. Don’t, Lorcan. Please!

  “Come on, boy!” he demanded. “Where are you branded? If you’re challenged, would they have to search to find it?”

  Christopher continued to balk, but Lorcan pressed and eventually the young man sighed. “My arse,” he murmured reluctantly. “They branded my arse. It’s only the broker-mark, they don’t ever want those to show.”

  “Oh Chris!” murmured Wynter in sympathy.

  But Lorcan grunted and stared at him, thinking hard. “That’s not too bad,” he said pragmatically. “You’re lucky, had you been sold on, your house-master would have branded your arm or your chest, maybe…”

  “My face,” interrupted Chris softly. “The house I was destined for, they would have branded my face.”