The Poison Throne (The Moorehawke Trilogy)

  Maybe Razi would be at the stables? It was barely past dawn and the deserted complex had a sleepy unearthly feeling, as though she were walking through a dream. She cut through the narrow alley between the spare horse stalls and the feed store. The exercise ring was ahead of her, and she could hear the trit-trot of a horse circling the arena. Dust spiralled across the mouth of the alley in the slanting early light.

  She was passing the dim mouth of an empty stall when a low moan of pain stopped her in her tracks.

  From behind the wooden wall, Christopher's voice gasped, "Stop! Wait!" low and urgent.

  Wynter crouched down, her hand on her dagger, the words ambush and assassin scurrying across her mind.

  Then another voice, feminine and impatient, whispered, "What is it?"

  "Just hold on a moment..." Christopher again. There was a moment of rustling, and the woman giggled.

  "Here... we go..." panted Christopher.

  "What in God's name is that?" whispered the woman, doubt and fascination overriding the husky expectancy in her voice.

  "That..." Christopher paused with a grunt. The woman giggled and then gasped, releasing a slow luxuriant uhhhhhhh. "That..." growled Christopher breathlessly, "... is your protection... against the likes... of me."

  He made another sound, another moan, which Wynter realised instantly, and with burning embarrassment, wasn't pain at all. She fled up the alley, her cheeks blazing.

  A sudden rage against Christopher Garron slammed her hard under the heart, like a punch to her chest. He seemed to be having no problem finding comfort! He seemed to be perfectly fine! But where was Razi? While Christopher pleased himself, where had he abandoned Razi?

  She found him at the exercise ring, sprawled listlessly on a milking stool, his long legs stretched out in the dirt, his back to the red-washed feed-store. He was supervising a horse being put through its paces and was dressed for work, dusty leggings, dusty riding boots, a pale green, loose-weave tunic. But he looked utterly exhausted and she doubted he would have the energy to sit a saddle.

  Wynter stopped, shocked at how drawn he was, how much older than his nineteen years he looked. Even his usually glossy mass of curls seemed tired - a dull, untidy mat hanging over his half-closed eyes.

  There were six or seven enormous, black-clad guards dotted around the ring - bodyguards. One made to stop Wynter, but Razi waved him away, smiling at her and moving his fingers in greeting as she crossed the yard.

  "Hello, brother," she said, kneeling beside him in the dust, and turning to watch the big horse cantering at the end of its lunge rope. It was magnificent, one of those arch, high-headed princes of a horse, uncut and fiery. "Is he one of yours?"

  "Aye." He put a hand on her head and smoothed her hair with a long affectionate stroke. Then he let his hand drop tiredly back into his lap.

  "Your tomcat is on the prowl," she sneered, and he turned his head questioningly. "Christopher," she clarified, "he's sowing his oats in the stalls."

  To Wynter's great surprise, Razi laughed, so suddenly and loudly that the guards all glanced their way. "He found her, then?" He grinned, his teeth showing white in his brown face, his eyes sparkling. "I should never doubt him!" And then he laughed again, Razi's luxuriant, chuckling laugh, and Wynter had to smile in return.

  Impulsively he took Wynter's hand in his, kissed it and held it loosely in his own, smiling to himself and watching the horse with renewed interest. His face was transformed with delight, and he was nineteen years old again. Tired, yes, and wan from pain and his recent ordeal, but not wasted looking, not defeated. It was such a radical and profound difference to how he had looked just moments before that Wynter felt all her anger at Christopher drain away.

  She put her head on Razi's shoulder and despite her former desire to talk, she didn't speak. This was enough. All the terrible subjects that they should have been discussing, all the awful truths and secrets, Wynter let them lie beneath the horse's trampling hooves, let them be pounded into submission. They drifted up with the dust that rose from the exercise ring, and she was free of them for a brief and fragile interlude.

  They sat quietly together, as the heat of the day built around them and they watched while the master groom put Razi's magnificent horse through its paces. Just as if they were any other brother and sister, on any normal morning. Razi murmured comments now and again. Wynter replied and occasionally she threw in a comment of her own. The groom shouted questions, and Razi answered them with a nod or a few words. On the periphery of their vision the guards stood like black, impassive cockroaches. Save for their presence, it was peaceful, a perfect moment of comfort that was doomed to end too quickly.

  Wynter felt Razi tense beside her, and he slowly got to his feet. Following the direction of his gaze, she saw a councilman standing in the shadows of the indoor arena. He was keeping out of sight of the soldiers and staring pointedly at Razi. Wynter recognised him as Simon De Rochelle, one of the few councilmen who hadn't forced Razi to the throne. Beside him lurked a ragged-looking fellow, lithe, tanned and furtive. He had the stiffly rosined hair and beard of a west country Comberman, and he was covered in dust. Straight in off the road, she thought, a messenger of some sort.

  Razi nodded to De Rochelle, and the two men melted back into the shadows.

  "Wynter," Razi murmured, still looking after Simon and his companion. "Go tell Christopher that I'll meet him in the kitchens in the next quartering of the shadows. Tell him not to wander about."

  "What's going on?"

  He turned his head and glared down at her with all the authority of his royal heritage, and she felt a small flare of anger that he would think to use that look on her. But he didn't soften, and she sourly dropped her eyes.

  "How do you propose to lose your guard dogs?" she asked.

  He glanced coldly at the looming soldiers. "Just give Christopher my message," he said, "and I'll worry about the rest."

  He went to walk away, and Wynter caught his hand, not wanting to part on such an unpleasant note. She needed something more from him before he left, but she wasn't sure what that was. She found herself gazing up at him, tearfully.

  He swung back, impatient to be on his way, but then he saw the distress in her face. "Sis," he said tenderly, putting his hands on her shoulders, and then he faltered. What could he possibly say to her? There was no comfort that could be given with words, nothing soothing he could say that wouldn't be a lie or a platitude. They looked at each other for a moment, struggling to express how they felt without actually dragging all the terrible facts of their situation into the light.

  And then Razi hugged her. He wrapped his arms around her and enfolded her in the warmth of his long body, bending his head down to rest his cheek on the top of her head. She let herself lean into him, and closed her eyes, breathing in his scent, that warm mixture of horses, sandalwood and clean linen. And for a moment she felt small and hidden and protected.

  "Go on," he whispered, too soon, and he kissed the top of her head. Then he was gone, dust swirling around his legs as he strode across the sun-blasted arena.

  The guards moved to accompany him, and Razi flung up a hand without looking at them. "Give me a moment," he ordered. When several of them continued to follow, Razi turned on his heel and levelled them with an unbelievably cold glare. "Goddamn you," he hissed. "Unless you're planning on wiping my arse, I suggest you give me a God-cursed moment."

  The guards faltered and dithered, and Razi stalked away without waiting for their response. Then they turned back to the ring and let him pass around the back of the indoor arena, and out of their sight.

  Wynter stood for a moment, the guards eyeing her. Then she slowly made her way back to the alley. The stall where she'd last heard Christopher was quiet now, and Wynter stepped into the dim interior fully expecting him to be gone.

  He was lying on his back, his ankles crossed, his left arm covering his eyes and his right arm flung loosely out from his side. He was completely naked, his chest ris
ing and falling in peaceful sleep.

  Wynter gasped. She wasn't a stranger to male nudity, but there was such an air of open sexuality about Christopher that she caught herself looking in a way she'd never really considered before. For the first time ever she found herself wondering what it would be like to have a man press his body against hers. What it would be like to have a man kiss her in that way she knew men kissed women when they were expressing more than simple affection.

  These thoughts brought such a giant, frightening surge of emotion that she squeezed her eyes shut and turned away. She was left with an impression of slim, well-made limbs shimmering against the dusky hay, shockingly dark hair against the pale skin of his chest and stomach, and, surprisingly, the dull gleam of silver snake bracelets hugging the tops of both of Christopher's arms.

  He's Merron! she thought, her eyes opening in surprise. He doesn't look Merron!

  She dithered for a moment, then she resolved to leave the stall and announce herself with a knock, thus giving Christopher the chance to get dressed in privacy. But she must have made some small sound, a scuff or a rustle, because, before she could take a step, Christopher had leapt from the hay, making her skitter backwards in shock. He rose to his feet in one smooth action and took up a defensive crouch, his black-handled dagger held out, his other hand raised.

  "Cé hé sin?" he said hoarsely in Merron. Wynter realised that she was silhouetted against the glaring light of the alley, and all Christopher could see was a black shape lurking in the doorway.

  "It's me. Wynter."

  "Oh," he sighed, and relaxed, lowering his knife and pushing his hair behind his ears. "Razi's in the exercise ring with the stallion," he said, gesturing casually towards the arena, and then he looked away to find his clothes.

  He was completely unfazed by his nudity, and began to dress unhurriedly and without any self-consciousness. But he seemed surprised when she didn't leave, and then disconcerted when he caught her staring while he did up the stays on his undershirt.

  Christopher cleared his throat pointedly, and Wynter turned away as he bent to pick up his underthings and his trousers. She didn't look again, and he rustled about behind her, sitting on the hay to pull up his trousers and put on his socks and tunic.

  "I'm done," he said, and when she turned, he was just slipping the dagger into his boot. He leant forward, his hands dangling between his knees, looking up at her in puzzlement. "Do you want me to walk you around to him?" he asked, genuinely solicitous, but obviously confused at what he took for her reluctance to go to Razi. The sunlight emphasised the sloping bones of his narrow face as he tilted his head.

  "You're Merron," she said, and then, in response to his surprised look, "I saw your bracelets. You belong to the serpent Merron."

  "You know the Merron?"

  "A clan of panther Merron used to winter in Shirken's forests. I got to know some of their customs. You wear the symbol of the serpent Merron."

  Christopher put his right hand over the bracelet on his left arm and said earnestly, "They're not the originals. I had to have them remade." It seemed important to him that she understand this, as though it would be a crime to pretend that these were the original artefacts. "The originals were stolen from me." He unconsciously ran his thumb over the gap where his finger should be.

  "I have no desire to cause offence," said Wynter, unsure of how he would take it, "but... you don't look Merron."

  To her relief, he laughed, "I'm a bit small all right, aren't I?"

  Wynter grinned back. Merron men were notoriously huge, broad and hairy creatures, every one. Christopher, on the other hand, would never be considered a large man; the only trait he seemed to share with his tribesmen was his incredibly pale skin, a feature for which the Merron were also famous.

  "I'm mostly Hadrish by birth, I think." He smiled, his grey eyes clear in the sun. "And when I was growing up, the troupe spent a lot of time living and travelling in Hadra, so I suppose you could say it was my home country. It was the master of my troupe who was Merron, and he took me in when I were but a mouse." Christopher's smile grew wistful and he paused, obviously remembering the man with great affection. "He raised me," he said softly. "He was my dad... he was who I called my dad." He raised his eyes to Wynter, questioning. "You take my meaning?" Wynter nodded. "He took me to the Merron aonach - their great fair - every summer, to catch up on his people, and eventually, despite my obscure origins, they adopted me! They called me Coinín, Rabbit, on account that I could outrun them all. Big, lumbering apes." He chuckled softly at that.

  "You're a foundling, Christopher?"

  "Well, I had me a mother for a while, but she wasn't so inclined to hang about. Mind you, I was a terribly wild infant!" He widened his eyes to illustrate exactly how wild an infant he had been. "And in her favour, she stuck by me for nearly four years! You would agree that she showed excellent perseverance, had you any idea what I was like!" He smiled up at her again, as though what he'd said was amusing and not, as Wynter found it, unutterably sad.

  How open he is about himself, she thought, how like clear water when compared to the usual courtier. If he were a trout pool the fish would have nowhere to hide, and you'd see every pebble on the riverbed.

  She cleared her throat. "Razi asks that you wait for him in the kitchens. He won't be long. He asks that you please do not wander."

  A touch of amused irritation clouded Christopher's face, and he looked away, sucking his teeth. "I'm not a bloody baby, Razi Kingsson," he muttered.

  Wynter snorted. "Razi thinks we're all babies. He thinks he has to protect us."

  "And what's he up to, while I'm keeping myself safe and sound? I take it he's not wandering? I take it he's right where I left him, surrounded by guards, completely unassailable." Christopher's voice was dripping with amused sarcasm, and Wynter found herself pleased to have found someone with whom she could share her irritation at Razi's bullheadedness.

  "He's in secret rendezvous with a councilman."

  Christopher clenched his jaw, his amusement transforming to anger. "That Rochelle fellow?" Wynter nodded. "He have a messenger with him?" She nodded again. Christopher eyed her, trying to see her face. "What do they want from him, lass?"

  She shrugged, genuinely ignorant. "I don't know, Christopher, I... I am not privy to his secrets."

  Christopher turned away, his jaw twitching. He glared into the depths of the stalls for a moment and then abruptly shook himself. He flung his hands up and dismissed the subject with a gesture. "Pah!" he said. "A pox on the lot of them. They're not worth his spit." He stood up suddenly, brushing himself off, and shot a teasing smile at Wynter. "Best do as he says though, eh? Lest he sulk? But would you do me the grace of walking me to the kitchens? I can't seem to find my way around."

  Wynter saw this for a blatantly transparent lie, but that didn't stop her from ducking her head in agreement and matching Christopher's step as they strolled out into the sunlight.

  "How did you meet Razi, Christopher?" It felt strange to ask such a blunt question, a bit like diving off a high rock. In court life such things were weaselled around for weeks. A piece of information gleaned here, a piece of gossip uncovered there. It went against all her training to be so direct. She steeled herself for the expected lie, for the usual glib evasions. For some strange reason, she hoped that they wouldn't come.

  "I was playing at his aunt's wedding," he said.

  Wynter stopped walking. "You were... you mean music? You were performing?"

  He looked back at her, puzzled, and then it dawned on him, and he lifted his mangled hands. "Oh!" he said. "You assumed... No! Razi and I knew each other..." he shrugged, looking for a way to put it. "Before." He smiled.

  Wynter felt a strong wave of pity cross her face, it just overcame her, and Christopher's smile fell away. His face became hard and still, like it had the first time they'd spoken, after she had snidely referred to him as a tumbler of some sort. She swallowed.

  "Which... which of Hadil's sist
ers was it that got married?" she tried lightly. He held his resentful glare for a moment, and then he relented and accepted her offering in good grace.

  "The tall fat one," he said with an almost genuine grin. "What a crazy witch! I was mortal terrified for that poor groom!"

  Wynter laughed, though she had no idea who Christopher was talking about. She had never met any of Razi's mother's sisters. She was just delighted that Christopher had thawed.

  He started walking again and she fell into step. They passed into sunlight, and it beat on them like a golden hammer.

  "I was at Hadil's house for the whole wedding ceremony, a good three weeks. Most days I would wander down to the stables, and Razi and I fell to chatting about the horses." He glanced shyly at her. "I know an awful lot about them, you know."

  "Well, you are Merron."

  He grinned and nodded, "Aye."

  They turned the corner that would take them to the kitchen steps and the path ahead of them was suddenly full of life. Provisions were being delivered and there were carts and drays and many scuttling men and women.

  "And you just stayed on with them," she queried, "when the festivities were over?"

  Christopher tensed, and the unusually easy give and take of their conversation ground to a sudden halt. "Um..." he said, "When my time with Hadil was over... Razi..."

  Wynter felt a knot tighten in the pit of her stomach as she realised that he was about to lie. He would do it badly, and she was certain that it embarrassed him, but he was going to do it anyway. The realisation that Christopher was about to deceive her unexpectedly knocked the heat from her heart. Why? Why should it upset her so? Deception was an integral part of life, and only days ago she had been berating his lack of guile.

  But as Christopher feverishly groped about for the right words, Wynter felt a terrible disappointment growing in her. It was only then that she realised how light she had felt talking to Christopher, how much laughter he had managed to weave into the short time that they'd walked together. She swallowed back her bitterness as he cleared his throat and stumbled his way back into the conversation.