The Poison Throne (The Moorehawke Trilogy)

  "Lorcan," Christopher asked, head still cocooned in the protection of his arms. "Has this to do with The Bloody Machine?"

  Lorcan started and gave the young man a frightened look. "Hush, boy!" he said. "What you don't know won't kill you."

  Christopher snorted. "Oh, I'm not so certain about that. I know less than nothing, and I'm still getting my head kicked in."

  Lorcan's expression vied between amusement and despair as he looked down at the young man at his feet. Without thinking, Wynter reached and covered Christopher's feet with the hem of his robe.

  "Thanks," he said.

  "Bloody theatre folk," grated Lorcan, poking Christopher gently with his foot. "Always with the dramatics." Then he leant back and resumed his pensive observation of the ceiling.

  Wynter looked at her father's pale face, the ever present trembling in his fingers, and she made a snap decision. She turned to leave.

  Lorcan glanced at her in alarm. "Wynter!" he said sharply, as though it had just struck him, "What were you doing here anyway? Is there trouble in the library?"

  "No, Dad," she said, turning to smile at him. "I just wanted to look in on you, that's all. I'd better go."

  At the hall door she paused, her hand on the key. An image came very clearly to her mind of Pascal Huette, reaching down to enclose that child's hand in his own. She knocked her forehead gently against the wood of the door. They left the baby, crying in its cradle. Jesu Christi. Her father would never forgive her - she'd never forgive herself - if they didn't at least try to save these men.

  She went back into Lorcan's room and stood resignedly in the door. Lorcan glanced across at her. Before she even spoke, he was dragging himself up and heaving his legs over the side of the bed.

  The Protector Lord's Men

  "God help me... I hate this." Lorcan's voice was tight with uncharacteristic bitterness, and Wynter assumed that he was referring to his physical weakness. She said nothing, just patted his arm and continued to keep watch up and down the torch-lit passageway, ready to warn him should anyone appear.

  They had taken much the same route that Jonathon had shown them the day he'd half-carried Lorcan back to his rooms, and, so far they had been almost completely free of public scrutiny. But this was the last section where it would be possible to remain secluded from the public eye, and Lorcan had stopped to catch his breath, and to try to gather his wits before donning the mask of Protector Lord. He was sweating and shaking, and Wynter was more and more convinced that she'd made the wrong decision telling him of the apprentices.

  They had left Christopher sitting up on Lorcan's bed, his head tilted back against Lorcan's pillows, squinting disapprovingly as the big man made himself presentable. "You're a bloody fool," Christopher kept saying. "Razi will kill you dead." Now she was wondering if Razi would even get the chance. She resisted the urge to ask, once again, that they return to their rooms. Lorcan had become quite irritable with her the last time.

  "I hate this constant panic. I wish I could just have a moment to sit down and think," Lorcan continued, and Wynter realised that he hadn't been speaking about his illness at all.

  He was reading the ceiling in that pensive way of his, his eyes roaming the carefully layered cobbles as if deciphering Sanskrit. "I hate this constant reacting," he said. "It's all I seem to have done for the last five years. React, react, react. No time to plan, no time to organise any kind of defence, before the earth shifts and the tides turn, and we're on the move again. Oh Wyn!" He groaned suddenly, putting his hand to his face, and for the first time in her life, Wynter heard defeat in her father's voice. "I'm too tired for this. I'm just..." He took a deep breath.

  Wynter bit her lip in sympathy. But even as she was putting a comforting hand on his chest and opening her mouth to say, it's all right, Dad. Let's go back, Lorcan was pushing himself from the wall and looking purposefully at the short flight of steps at the end of the passage. "Up those steps, across the rose garden, another flight of steps, and then the library," he said, as if making a deal with himself, "all right." He breathed out and launched himself forward, looping his arm across Wynter's shoulder.

  "Once we're at the top of the steps you'll be in full view," she grunted. "You'll have to walk alone, Dad."

  "Just get me there, girl!" his angry growl silenced her. They took the steps with careful deliberation, and paused at the top for him to gather his defences. Then Lorcan pushed back his shoulders, took a breath and stepped out into the sun.

  The rose garden was empty as they closed the door behind them, but Lorcan didn't bend from his rigidly self-imposed pretence. He walked slowly, with squared shoulders and ramrod straight back, his only concession to his terrible condition the bruising grip he had on his daughter's shoulder. Wynter kept just a touch too close to his side. She glanced up at him. Who do we think we're fooling? she thought, look at him!

  The granite steps into the other wing were almost his undoing. There were only six, but Lorcan stood at the foot of them, staring, his body shaking. Then he dug his fingers into her shoulder, leant forward and took each step like a man assaulting a mountain crevasse.

  At the top, he sagged, and she moved to put her arm around his waist. "Stop that!" he hissed savagely and straightened.

  Then they heard the shouting.

  "Shit," said Lorcan tonelessly and started forward again.

  Once inside the cool shadows of the tiled corridor, the sounds were very clear. At the end of the hall, the library door was open, and inside was the source of all the noise. Small children were bawling. There was an old man shouting, and other men too, yelling. Over it all, the mingled voices of three young men were screeching in fear and anger.

  "Oh, good Christ," moaned Lorcan, moving as fast as he could.

  We're too late, thought Wynter mournfully.

  But three things gave her hope as they rounded the corner and entered the library. There was no blood. There were only three soldiers. And they were only ordinary hall guards and one gate watchmen. There was no sign of Jonathon's personal guard. If any of that group of huge, relentless men had been present, it would have been the end for these boys. As it was, the situation might be salvageable, but only if they acted quickly.

  The guards were in the process of grappling with Pascal's crew, attempting to drag Jerome and Gary from the protection of the group. The two hall guards held Jerome suspended between them. He struggled wildly and kicked and spat. The third guard was prying Gary from the clutching arms of the other boys. Everyone was shouting and screaming, the small boys crying piteously through their anger. Pascal was striding up from the back of the library, a wooden mallet ready to strike down on the head of the man who threatened his son.

  Things were just on the point of no return.

  Lorcan paused, unnoticed, in the doorway. He drew himself up to his full height, let go of Wynter's shoulder and roared. "What are you doing with my men?"

  Lorcan had a deafening bellow when he wanted, and the room fell still under the ringing aftershock of his voice. The men turned to look at him, wide-eyed. They recovered quickly and for one moment, Wynter saw rage storm up in the eyes of the soldiers: who the hell did this carpenter think he was? One of them actually stepped forward, a snarling retort on his lips. Then the gate watchman recognised her father and snapped to attention.

  "Protector Lord Moorehawke! We caught two of these boys sneaking off the grounds without papers. When we tried to question them, my Lord, they ran and we pursued."

  Oh thank God! Not part of a purge then, not a court sanctioned arrest. Just a panicked attempt to flee that had gone wrong.

  Wynter saw the boys regarding her father with round-eyed wonder. So here he was! Every working boy's hero. The carpenter, the lowly working man, granted title and power by King Jonathon himself. The magnificent Protector Lord Lorcan Moorehawke, he who had saved the King's life when they were boys. Hero worship shone out of the boys' tearstained faces, and Wynter prayed that her father could live up to the challenge
of saving their lives.

  Only Pascal seemed to notice the terrible pallor of her father's face, the slightly hunched shoulders, the unsteady hands. She saw sorrow dawning in his face. He came to a stop behind the group, lowered his weapon and gazed sadly across their heads at Lorcan. Wynter didn't know if his grief was on account of Lorcan's suffering, or because the fate of his boys rested on the shoulders of such a mortally-ill man.

  Lorcan surveyed the boys coldly, and took a chance on them not having concocted some story. "I told you to wait for your papers, you little maggots. What do you think you're up to?"

  The boys swallowed and looked uncertainly at the guards.

  "Beg... beg pardon, my Lord..." answered the quick-witted Gary in a parched voice. "We forgot."

  Jerome just stood, owl-eyed and shocked, his lips trembling.

  Hold it together, thought Wynter. Hold it together, good lad.

  "You forgot? You forgot!" Lorcan's roar made everyone jump. One of the first years began crying again, but Wynter swore she saw a smile tug the corners of Pascal Huette's lips. "Well, see if you forget when I dock you a day's wage, you moronic chard!" Lorcan took two long steps into the room and gestured at the guards who were smirking sideways at the scarlet boys. "Do you think these good men have naught better to do than hunt mice? Make your apologies!"

  Gary turned immediately, stiff-limbed and numb. His face looked as though it might crack from tension when he said, "Beg pardon, good sirs. We didn't mean ter waste yer time."

  The guards turned their hard faces to Jerome, who they still held tightly by the arms. His throat worked as he tried to force some sound past the fear blocking his throat, but all he could manage was a squeaking terrified hiss. The guards just laughed, and one of them shook him.

  "Say you're sorry, squeaker!"

  "You are dismissed." Lorcan's order was cold and it sliced across their amusement like a butcher's blade. The guards realised that they had overstepped the mark. These were the Protector Lord's men, his and his alone to abuse and admonish. They released Jerome, who staggered away from them, and they snapped to attention, their faces carefully neutral. "Next time you see my boys," said Lorcan, "they will have their papers, and you will have no need to abandon your post in pursuit of honest guildsmen." He gestured sharply to the guards, and they left with a salute and the careful closing of the library door behind them.

  Silence settled in the room. Lorcan stood watching the door for a moment, his face blank. Wynter stepped closer to him. His eyes were very heavy, and he seemed to have drifted away for a moment.

  Pascal Huette's voice came softly through her concern. "Get the Protector Lord a chair, Gary. Gary... get the Protector Lord a chair."

  There was a sound of scraping and soft footsteps, and Gary and a third year brought one of the reading chairs around from the sitting area and set it quietly down behind Lorcan. They retreated to their master's side and watched as Wynter laid her hand on her father's chest, and spoke softly up into his face.

  "My Lord," she said. "The apprentices would like you to do them the honour of taking a seat."

  Lorcan focused on her, then looked over at the ring of uncertain faces regarding him from the other side of the room. "You idiots," he said, without a trace of humour or affection. "Why didn't you wait like my apprentice told you?"

  A row of curious eyes turned to Wynter. She saw confusion there, mixed with a small measure of shame and an even bigger measure of suspicion. Gary and the third year dropped their eyes, the small boys continued to gape. Jerome hadn't even lifted his gaze from the floor; he looked as though he might fall down. Pascal kept his eyes on Lorcan.

  "Won't yer do us the honour of taking a seat, my Lord?" The old man's voice was gentle, but without any dangerous pity.

  Lorcan looked behind him at the chair he'd carved with his own hands. He hesitated, as if deliberating refusing their offer, but Wynter knew he was calculating his chances of getting into the chair without losing his balance. He glared back at the ring of men, lifted his shoulders briefly in a shrug that said, oh, why the hell not, if you're offering. He sat down stiffly, arranging himself in an imposing and easily-maintainable position. Wynter placed herself at his back, and the two of them glowered across at the men. The carpenters quailed at the full weight of a double-barrelled, green-eyed Moorehawke glare.

  "Well?" snarled Lorcan, "My apprentice, speaking in my name, left you specific instructions to sit on your arses and await me. What in blazes were you doing, rabbiting about against the guards?"

  Pascal remained silent, seemingly content to allow Lorcan to reprimand his boys, or perhaps considering himself included in Lorcan's scathing ire. Gary shuffled uncomfortably, lifted his eyes to Wynter and dropped them again. "She went ter the Arab," he mumbled, "She didn't go ter you at all."

  "Rest assured, young man," hissed Lorcan, leaning forward like a snake spotting a mouse. "Next time you go spying on a woman of the Protector Lady's status, you'd better hope she's as discreet as my daughter. Had the Protector Lady opened her mouth about your presence, the King's guards would have seized you, and cut you into little cubes and fed you to their hounds."

  Gary's eyes flickered to Wynter again, and she regarded him coolly from behind her father's chair. Lorcan continued, his tone merciless, "They would have done this, because it is how the King would have willed it. Even that good man, his Highness, the Royal Prince Razi, wouldn't have been able to save you. Do you know why?"

  Gary blinked very rapidly and shook his head.

  "The reason his Highness, the Royal Prince Razi, would be unable to aid you is because the Royal Prince is as powerless in the face of the King's will as you or I. Do you understand what I am saying to you?" Lorcan let his eyes travel from face to thoughtful face, resting finally on Pascal. "Do you understand?" he repeated, speaking directly to the older man now. "The Royal Prince is a subject under the law to the King. He is a subject. He is following the King's will."

  Jerome seemed to wake suddenly from a bad dream, and looked at Lorcan with red-rimmed eyes, as if seeing and hearing him for the first time. He released a long shaky breath. "Yer trying ter tell us that that pagan Arab bastard ain't oercome with joy ter be setting his arse on the heir's throne? That what yer trying ter say, Protector Lord?"

  Pascal and the others swallowed hard at Jerome's audacity, but none of them moved to silence him, or to distance themselves from his words.

  Dear God, thought Wynter, these sentiments run deep. This boy is in mortal fear of his life. They are all of them in mortal fear of their lives What you got and still they go on.

  She looked at the row of pale and staring faces and could not help but admire their tenacious loyalty to Alberon. And by the same token, she could not help but marvel at how much they obviously trusted her father, to speak so dangerously in his presence, knowing as they did his proximity to the throne.

  Lorcan bared his teeth and he speared Jerome with a glare. "Let that be the very last time you malign a man on the grounds of his race, his creed or the circumstances of his birth, boy." He held Jerome's eyes until the young man dropped his gaze. Lorcan let his eyes fall on each face again and his voice softened a fraction, rising above icy to just shy of cold. "His Highness, the Royal Prince Razi... and mark me well, guildsmen, that how you will refer to him, on pain of imprisonment, by order of the King... The Royal Prince regards his present position on his brother's throne as a stewardship. He is as loyal and as faithful to the heir as you or I. Do you mark me?"

  The apprentices frowned uncertainly.

  "Do you mark me?"

  "What of the purge, Lorcan?" Pascal said, at last, speaking for them all. They gazed at their hero in fear and the barely sustained hope that he could save them from a hideous end.

  Lorcan hesitated, and Wynter knew that his hesitation was premeditated. Not a word her father said now, nor any little tic of expression, or gesture he made, would be unconscious, or done for anything less than effect. He hesitated, and so the men knew
that a purge was not something he felt he could control. Yet when he spoke, there was a measure of hope in his words. "It is not yet certain, Master Huette, that there is a purge. From what limited information I have been given, it would appear that it is only the immediate family of the assassin, Jusef Marcos, that has fallen foul of the King. Am I correct?" Jerome's eyes filled with tears. Pascal nodded. "Then it is possible it may end there."

  Jerome looked around him for a moment, lost. "What of my cousin, Lord?" he said, turning his swimming eyes to Lorcan. "What of their childern?"

  Lorcan's voice was gentle when he said, "Mourn them. With my sympathies."

  Jerome's bottom lip shook and his eyes overflowed, and Gary pulled him to him with an arm around his shoulder.

  "In the meantime," said Lorcan, his voice hard again. "Take a lesson from that excellent man, the Royal Prince Razi, and cease your continuous harping against the King. Guildsmen, if you do not want a purge, for Christ's sake, stop encouraging one."

  "You want us ter stay silent?" This was from Gary, unexpectedly bitter, and unwilling to concede, his arm around his friend's shoulder, his father uncertain and distressed at his back.

  "I want you to bide," said Lorcan, his voice surprisingly gentle again. "Like good men, like loyal and patient subjects. Bide and do his Majesty's will. And believe me when I tell you, trust the Royal Prince Razi, who toils in active patience for the return of his brother."

  This seemed to sink in. Even Jerome stood silent then, in blinking thought, processing all the Protector Lord had said.

  "Pascal," murmured Lorcan, "Put your boys to work."

  And this the man did, directing them to their various occupations until gradually the library filled with the sounds of planing and filing, and the steady gentle tap of small gauge mallets hitting delicate chisels.

  Finally, Pascal came over and crouched at Lorcan's knee. He managed not to keep glancing at Lorcan's hands or to search his face too closely.

  "Are we safe, my Lord?" he asked, his voice low.