The Poison Throne Page 6

  Wynter made a tiny noise of fear and went to leap forward, but Christopher pinched her shoulder, and she put her hand to her mouth and shut herself up.

  Suddenly Razi was imperiously waving his hand at the four men, turning them away. She saw sharp anger harden their faces and Heron’s mouth twist up into a bitter sneer. But if Razi ordered it, they had to obey, and so they took their leave with frowns and grudging bows.

  Razi and Lorcan stood and watched until the four men were out of sight. Then Razi turned to her father, speaking rapidly and with a concerned tilt of his head. Lorcan brushed him off, breaking away from his supporting arm. He took two or three stiff-legged steps towards Wynter and Christopher, his face grim, but his knees buckled almost immediately and Razi had to catch him. He staggered under Lorcan’s weighty frame and called for Christopher, who was already halfway down the hall.

  Wynter watched, frozen in mute horror as the two men propped Lorcan up and helped him down the corridor and into his rooms. When they had passed her by, she checked the corridor once more and closed and bolted the door, shutting out any possibility of prying eyes.

  Once in their room, Lorcan gave up any pretence at strength and let his legs go from under him, so that the two smaller men had difficulty dragging him across the floor. They heaved him into one of the round chairs, and Razi leant him back, putting a cushion between Lorcan’s head and the wall.

  “Let in more light,” he instructed. “Get some water. Christopher, go get my bag. Wynter, get a stool to prop up his feet, take off his boots. Christopher, my bag.”

  Lorcan was so limp and helpless that Wynter thought her father had passed out, but when she looked up from where she knelt at his feet, his eyes were open and staring glassily about. His mouth was wide, his chest heaving; he seemed to be fighting for air. She took all this in as she undid the lacing on his heavy riding boots and dragged them from his feet, which were freezing cold. She put a cushion on the fire-stool and propped Lorcan’s feet on it, then began to chafe them to try to get them warm.

  “He’s so cold, Razi,” she said.

  “Mmm,” Razi murmured. He had undone her father’s shirt to the navel and loosened the stays of his trousers. The big man’s face was beaded with huge droplets of sweat, the bright mat of orange hair on his powerful chest and belly drenched and slicked down. Razi pressed his ear to Lorcan’s breast and was listening intently. When Wynter tried to speak again, Razi lifted his hand and shushed her, reaching over to stroke her cheek without looking at her, before placing his hand on Lorcan’s belly and pressing down hard. Lorcan groaned and tried to pull away.

  “All right, good friend. All right,” Razi said softly, his ear still to Lorcan’s chest. He pressed down again, on a different part of Lorcan’s belly, to the same response. “That’s all right, Lorcan. That’s all right.” Razi sat back slowly and ran his hands over his face, looking at Wynter’s father over the tops of his fingers for a moment. His big brown eyes were cool and considering. Wynter could see him working things out in his head.

  Christopher returned and quickly bolted the door behind him. He put Razi’s bag down beside the chair. “I’ve sent for water,” he said quietly.

  Razi leant forward over Lorcan and murmured something in the man’s ear. Lorcan’s eyes rolled in shock, but Razi levelled a look at him and Lorcan nodded uncertainly. Razi patted his shoulder and then, to Wynter’s horror, he thrust his hand down the front of her father’s trousers and seemed to press his fingers hard into the other man’s groin. Lorcan squeezed his eyes shut and turned his head, whether from pain or mortification Wynter couldn’t tell, and she looked away, her cheeks burning.

  When she dared to glance back, Razi was feeling along both sides of her father’s jaw, his face drawn in concentration. Lorcan was beginning to come to himself a bit more and was attempting to lift his head and shoulders from the cushion. He looked over at Christopher with a kind of bleary resentment and tried to pull his shirt closed. Razi stayed him with a hand on his wrist. “Just a little longer, Lorcan. This will all be over soon.” He rummaged in his bag and pulled out a short, polished wooden trumpet. He warmed the mouth of it on his stomach and placed it on Lorcan’s chest, listening through the other end, his face intense. “Breathe as deep as you can, good friend. And try to hold the air in your lungs.” Lorcan struggled to do as Razi asked, but he seemed incapable of holding his breath and ended up gasping, his head dropping back, his skin breaking out once more into an oily sweat.

  Finally Razi sat back on his heels, wiped his hands on a lemon-scented cloth that Christopher handed him and looked very seriously at the big man. “Lorcan,” he said, “I would like to consult with you now, if you are willing to talk honestly with me.”

  Lorcan’s eyes flickered between Wynter and Christopher, a hunted look on his face. Razi nodded. “Your daughter and Christopher Garron can wait outside if you wish, Lorcan. This concerns no one but you.”

  It was obvious that Lorcan gave the matter serious consideration, then he dismissed the idea with a wordless shake of his head. Breathing heavily, his teeth bared, he took his feet from the stool and struggled to sit up straighter in his chair. Razi leapt to help, shifting cushions about until Lorcan pushed his hands away and hunched himself into a reasonably upright position. He grabbed the arms of his chair tightly, a trick he had developed to stop his hands from shaking, and looked at Razi from under his eyebrows.

  “Speak,” he demanded.

  Razi remained sitting on his heels and he gestured Wynter and Christopher away with a tilt of his head. They went and sat, one on either side of the fireplace, doing their best to blend into the tapestries.

  “In your years abroad, Lorcan, you perhaps had some fever or a long illness?” Razi’s voice was quiet and gentle, yet at the same time he had a command about him, a sense of honest confidence that seemed to relax Lorcan.

  The big man nodded. “Over two years ago. A fever, it knocked the feathers from me.”

  Razi smiled and raised a questioning eyebrow. “Took you a while to recover?”

  Lorcan nodded again. Then he looked up, his face creased with concern. “My Lord,” he said, “there are more important things we should be discussing.”

  Razi silenced him with a raised hand. “No, good friend. No. We will not discuss anything but your health. That is my wish.”

  Lorcan clamped his jaw tight and looked away. Razi tapped his knee to regain his attention. “This fever,” he continued, “it left you weak? You tired easily? There was perhaps a loss of balance? You have much pain in your hips? Your shoulders?”

  Again Lorcan agreed, and Razi pressed his lips together and put his hand on his friend’s knee. “You see, Lorcan, I think that the fever has left its humours in your body’s waters. This is what I can feel gathered here,” he indicated Lorcan’s groin, “and here, and here.” He gestured to Lorcan’s armpit and jaw.

  Lorcan shrugged. “Yes. The doctors in the North told me similar. But they bled me and said it should clear…”

  Razi gritted his teeth and Wynter saw his hands clench. “And you’ve been bled regularly since, haven’t you?” Lorcan nodded. “I thought so, and purged?” Lorcan’s eyes found Wynter, and he blushed red and dipped his head. Razi seemed to take a moment to gather himself. Wynter saw him force his hands to relax. “All right, Lorcan. I want you to promise me that you will not allow any doctor to leech you or purge you again. I really must insist.”

  Lorcan seemed thoroughly confused. He frowned, his eyes questioning, and licked his lips, which were terribly dry.

  Don’t offer him any water, thought Wynter, knowing that her father would never betray his shaking hands by trying to bring a beaker to his lips.

  “Drink this,” Razi ordered, and Wynter winced. To her amazement, Lorcan allowed Razi to hold the beaker for him as he sipped from it.

  “The other doctors…” Lorcan cleared his throat, “the other doctors said it was beneficial to my system… to release the poisons from my blood.”
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  Razi seemed to consider something, what words to use, perhaps, and in the end he just said, “I think they’ve drained enough poisons. If that kind of treatment is continued, you… it is my opinion that your body will begin to leak its own beneficial humours, to your detriment. So, no more bleeding, no more purges. Are we agreed?”

  Lorcan raised his bright green eyes to Razi, and Wynter thought she had never seen him look so open and vulnerable. “Agreed. But, my Lord? What is there to be done?”

  “You need to rest.”

  Her father rolled his eyes to heaven at that, and began to pull away. Razi tugged his sleeve, his voice firm as he said, “Lorcan, I do not say this lightly. You need to rest. You need to rest frequently and well. You need to eat well. Lorcan, you need to avoid vexation.”

  Wynter’s father actually laughed at this, a proper, hearty laugh that quickly ran out of breath and left him bent at the waist, but still grinning. His mirth was infectious and Razi and Christopher had to chuckle along with him, the joke not lost on any of them. Even Wynter smiled. Avoid vexation. Hah, some chance.

  “Ahhh,” wheezed her father, straightening carefully and gripping his chair again. “A laugh is as good as a tonic!”

  Razi took a deep breath and looked pointedly into Lorcan’s eyes. His next words stole Lorcan’s grin from him and blew a whistling hole through Wynter’s chest. “The humours have gathered in your heart, good friend. I can hear them in there, interrupting the ebb and flow of your body’s tides. Such impediments are not to be trifled with. You must pay heed to my instructions, Lorcan. Your life depends on it.”

  Her father’s heart. His heart. Wynter remembered lying on his chest as a small child, listening to the swish and flow of that engine, working steady and eternal beneath her infant ear. Lulling her to sleep, telling her all is well, all is well, all is well.

  Lorcan gazed at Razi, then over at Wynter, his green eyes bright. He smiled and shrugged as if to say, we knew this already, didn’t we, darling? He winked at Wynter and she tried to smile back at him. Ever since she could remember, her father had worked hard to make sure Wynter would be able to take care of herself if he wasn’t around. He had done a good job of it, and now at last they were home, and he had finally returned her to the safest place on earth, a place where neither her sex nor commoner birth would stand against her. He wasn’t afraid to die. But despite it all, despite the talking, the planning, all the preparation for a life alone, Wynter did not want him to leave. She could not imagine going on without his huge smiling affection in her life.

  Razi got to his feet. “Now,” he said, “I want you to let Christopher and me help you bathe and get you to bed for a few hours before the banquet.” Lorcan opened his mouth to protest, his eyes wide with indignation. “Lorcan!” Razi interrupted before the other man could speak. “You cannot do this alone, not at the moment. Just bite back your pride, man, and let us aid you this once. I’m going to give you a draught and it will help you sleep deeply for a short time. You’ll wake much refreshed, and I think, if you take it slow and remain calm, you’ll get through this bloody festivity without too much strain.”

  What could he do? With a last, rueful look at Wynter, Lorcan allowed the two men to lead him into his chamber, and, when the water came, they helped him to scrub himself clean of the filth of his long journey, and climb at last into bed.

  Wynter sat alone in the round chair for the longest time, listening to the low rumble of the men’s voices and watching the light move around the walls as the evening drew down. When her father had fallen asleep, Christopher and Razi took their leave of her. Razi kissed her and promised to return before the banquet.

  The scent of oranges gave way to the evening fragrance of woodbine and lilies as the shadows grew in the gardens below. The corridor outside began to fill with sound as the air cooled and people began to rouse themselves, or come in from the river to dress for the big event.

  Wynter thought of nothing at all. There was nothing that could be of any use. So she let the time flow through her and it was as though she slept for a while, though she knew she did not.

  Razi had promised to call her in time to dress, but she got herself up and out of the chair long before he returned, and wandered into her room to try to find something to wear. She had one light coat, one heavy. Two dress uniforms, one of which still lay in a pestilent heap on the floor. One heavy work uniform, three pair of long johns, three shifts, two night caps, four pair of wool stockings, one pair of cotton stockings, two long knickers and a soft fine-wool dress suitable for informal dining in company. She had no formal clothes whatsoever, nothing suitable to wear in the presence of a king.

  Razi had put her mother’s camphor chest into Wynter’s room, and now she understood the reason why.

  One at a time, she took her mother’s dresses from their layers of lavender paper and nets of dried roses, gilly-flowers and orange pomanders. She noticed with surprise that they had been aired. Over the years, someone had taken care to regularly shake and hang them. Marni, perhaps? Or some maid who had been terribly fond of her mother?

  Comprehension dawned, and Wynter mentally slapped herself for her romantic notions. No one had taken care of these dresses through devotion to her mother! Most likely these had, until recently, been the property of some Lady’s maid-in-waiting. Poor girl, made to give up her wardrobe all of a sudden to its previous owner. I’d better watch for scissors in the dark and pins in my soup, she thought as she laid each lovely creation on the bed.

  She hoped their last owner hadn’t altered them too much, as her father had told her she was very like her mother in size and shape, and the dresses should fit her pretty well had they not been fiddled with.

  Mamma had good taste, she thought as she ran her hand down the rich fabric of one of the dresses. They were cut to the old style, bold clean lines and simple skirts that hung straight down from just below the bosom. Long wide sleeves with contrasting linings and trim. Each had a tight-fitting, long-sleeved silk shift to wear beneath. She decided that she liked them very much; their beautiful colours and elegant simplicity appealed to her. The new style amongst the courtiers up North was all ribbons and swags and little capes and round hats that perched on the back of the head. She would be considered hopelessly old-fashioned and plain in these. Not to mention freakishly short, she thought. She was generally considered to be a small person, but the new fashion for high cork heels and built up soles in both men’s and women’s shoes would really emphasise her lack of stature.

  Wynter giggled at the thought of Razi adding those extra inches to his already ridiculous height, and Christopher, with all his slippery grace, tottering along on heels. She doubted they would be indulging in the fad. And what about Albi, he… Wynter cut short her thoughts of Albi, hilarious as he would be in heels, broad, bullish and bounding as he was, or had been. She swallowed and turned her attention back to the dresses.

  It didn’t take her long to choose, and she slipped into sage green satin, embroidered with sprigs of pale roses, with pale rose lining to the sleeves. The matching shift covered her arms to the wrist and puckered at her bosom above the neckline of the bodice. It was surprisingly easy to move in this outfit and she was comfortably cool in the evening air.

  She considered trying to do something with her hair, tucking it into one of her mother’s pearl studded nets or coiling it or pinning it somehow, but she was a lost cause when it came to hair and she just brushed it out of its long plait and let it fall around her shoulders and down to her shoulder blades in glossy, cracking waves.

  What are you? she thought as she examined herself in the mirror. She looked like a doll; her pale face with its constellations of freckles floating in a wavy sea of hair; her usually busy hands resting against the green of her dress, her arms encased in rose coloured silk. She ran her hands across the fabric of her skirt, feeling the calluses on her palms snag and catch. The familiar weight of the dagger she always carried was missing, but there was no place for a
weapon in this formal attire. She lifted the skirts, revealing her scuffed felt indoor-boots and grinned. That’s what you are, she told herself, you are work-hardened hands, you are scuffed boots under a satin skirt. She looked herself in the eyes. Don’t forget it, she told herself.

  Razi and Christopher came knocking just as she was considering rousing her father. She drew the bolt and stood back to let them in. Razi was standing in the door, his hand poised to knock again, and Christopher was lounging against the wall across from them, as if he intended to wait outside. At the sight of her, Razi’s mouth dropped open and Christopher pushed himself off the wall and stood looking at her with a puzzled little tilt of his head.

  Wynter put her hand up and nervously touched her hair. “Is it not all right?”

  Razi shook his head, then nodded, blinked and muttered something. Christopher ran his eyes down to her toes and back again and said, “You’ll do.”

  As the two men came into the room, Lorcan’s door opened and he surprised them all by stepping out fully dressed and ready to go. Razi made a move to approach him, his face questioning, but Lorcan stopped him with a hooded glare. Razi spread his hands in defeat and turned away.

  Lorcan started back at the sight of his daughter. Pausing in the middle of pulling on a suede glove, he took in her face, her hair, the dress.

  “Izzy…?” he whispered. Then his confusion cleared, and he smiled sadly. “Wynter,” he said.

  His lips are so pale, she thought, frightened.

  Then he smiled at her, his full, broad sunshine smile and she felt herself relax. It would be fine. Yes it would. Everything would be fine.

  The Danger of Subtlety

  “Christopher seems to think he’s coming to the banquet.” Wynter kept her voice low and her head turned towards Razi as they followed the crowd through the long corridors to the dining hall. Christopher was padding along behind them, discussing music with her father, who was a keen but atrocious flautist. Wynter didn’t want to cause him any offence and risk another prickly exchange. If he was of the belief that all and sundry could attend these things, it would be up to Razi diplomatically to set him straight.