A Little Taste of Poison (23 page)

Once she'd prepared the base mixture, Isaveth set the jar in a pot of water and put it on the stove to simmer. The journal warned that this step could take two bells or more, so she walked to the front room and turned on the crystal set.

There would be no new episode of
Auradia
until tomorrow, but she could always listen to one of the daytime talkie-plays, or a comic show like
Silly Sailor
. She fiddled with the dials, tuning the crystal from one station to another.

“—not just the flavor, it's the savor! Try Perram's Puffers for long-lasting—”

“That was Janny Mastrocelli and the Tin City Orchestra with ‘That Darling Girl o' Mine'—”

“—Sages have mercy, Master Lyle! Can't you see the poor child is dying?”

Not in the mood for gloomy stories, Isaveth settled on a station that was playing music and began to wipe up the mess she'd made of the kitchen counter. The bright, brassy tunes proved cheering, and she was scrubbing along to the beat when the melody abruptly cut out.

“We pause this program to bring you a special report. Shortly after eleven bells this morning, Sagelord Arvis was pronounced dead by the Healer-General. . . .”

The cloth crumpled between Isaveth's nerveless fingers. She stared blindly at the wall, cold spreading beneath her ribs.

“. . . sources report the cause of death as liver failure, though the Healer-General has declined to issue a statement until a full investigation has been made. Lady Nessa, now Dowager Sagelady, accompanied the body to Sage Johram's Hospital along with the new Sagelord Eryx and the other members of the family. . . .”

The ice inside Isaveth cracked, and a pang of grief burst through. “Oh,” she whispered. “Oh, Esmond.”

*  *  *

Right up to the end, Esmond had hoped for a miracle. Not that his father would get well: He knew it was too late for that. Whether it was poison or merely drink that had done it, Lord Arvis's liver was too damaged for medicine or even magic to repair.

Yet two nights ago he'd dreamed that the Sagelord had woken from his delirious sleep and sent for him. He'd called Esmond to his bedside and told him he was sorry for not being a better father, but he loved him and was proud of him . . . all that stupid, sentimental nonsense that dying men said to their sons in the talkie-plays.

It was only a dream, of course. Before he died, the last person his father had spoken to—really spoken, in a wheezing murmur too low for anyone else to hear—was Eryx.

All at once Esmond's neck-cloth felt like it was strangling him. He clawed the knot loose and dropped his head into his hands, breathing hard.

He'd sat there for some unknowable time, when someone touched his shoulder. He dragged his sleeve across his face, furious at the interruption—to see Civilla standing beside him, looking as wrung out as he felt.

“You should eat,” she said.

Esmond shook his head, anger fading. He'd thought it was Eryx come to gloat, but he should have known better. Eryx would be in his study by now, pouring himself a drink and making plans for his glorious reign as Sagelord, and likely hadn't spared a thought for anyone else at all.

Part of him envied his brother for that. If only the
footman hadn't rushed out to stop Esmond getting into the carriage this morning, he could be at Tarreton College right now, too distracted by facts and formulas to think of his father dying.

No, not dying anymore. Dead.

“Esmond, please,” Civilla urged. She'd lost the remote, haughty expression she'd been cultivating for the last year or so; there were blue shadows beneath her eyes, and her lips were trembling. “We need to talk. I can't do this alone.”

“Do what?” Esmond said, but it came out harsh. “If you want help with something, ask Eryx. You know, the one who poisoned our father, and
you
let him get away with it?”

Civilla stiffened, and Esmond braced himself for a slap. But instead she whirled and stalked from the library, slamming the door behind her.

It didn't matter, Esmond thought dully as the click of her footsteps faded. He had nothing to say to her anyway. The only person he wanted to talk to was surely at the college right now, dark head bent over her workbook, nibbling the end of her lead-point as she thought.

Isaveth had worked hard these past few weeks. He hoped she'd do well on her midterms and be happy for a while. She'd hear the news about his father's death
eventually, but they could talk about it when Esmond got back to school.

After all, Eryx was Sagelord now, and all their plans to stop him had failed. There was no hurry anymore.

*  *  *

It wasn't too late, Isaveth told herself, though dread clawed her stomach and she felt weak in every limb. Even as ruler of the city, Eryx needed the council's support to carry out his reform plan, and they wouldn't meet until after Lord Arvis's memorial. If the potion she'd just made could dissolve charm-silver, there was still a chance to get hold of Eryx's documents and show them to someone with the courage, integrity, and power to do something about it. Like Eulalie's father, the Deputy Justice . . .

She'd removed the jar of potion from its hot-water bath a few minutes ago, and strained its contents through a piece of gauze-cloth until only a thin pinkish liquid remained. Licking her lips nervously, Isaveth tweezed up one of her test charms from the table and dropped it in.

It slid to the bottom, tiny bubbles escaping from all four corners, and landed with a clink. Isaveth was squinting through the glass when the front door creaked and she heard boots stamping on the mat.

Too light for Papa. “Anna?” called Isaveth, resisting the impulse to hide. School was almost over anyway, and she
could always claim that her last class had been cancelled. “Is that you?”

There was no answer. Reluctantly she tore her eyes from the still-bubbling charm—and there was Annagail in the hallway, taking off her coat.

Perhaps Isaveth had been wrong not to confide in her, the one person who'd always listened when she needed to talk. If she could share her worries, it would take a huge weight off her mind . . . and maybe then Anna would feel free to do the same.

Yet it had been weeks since they'd had a proper conversation, and Isaveth hardly knew where to start. “So . . . how was your day?”

Anna straightened up slowly, staring at the wall. Then she whirled on Isaveth. “Stop it,” she snapped. “Just stop.”

Isaveth's chest fluttered. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, stop pretending to care about anything but your precious college and your noble friends. You've changed so much since you got that scholarship, I hardly know you anymore.” Annagail snatched off her scarf and threw it onto the hook. “Don't you care that Lilet's been getting into fights at school because of you?”

“Me?” Isaveth was aghast. “Why?”

“Because she can't bear to hear anyone speak ill of you, and the other children know it. If she keeps on
like this she's going to get expelled.” Anna tugged up her stockings and stepped into their mother's old house slippers. “But you're so taken up with your Sagery and your fancy balls and everyone making a fuss over you at temple, you can't spare a thought for anyone else.”

“Anna, that's not—”

“For two days I've been in agony, not knowing what to say to Papa.” Swiping a knuckle over her wet cheeks, Annagail started up the stairs. “Especially after Mimmi told me she'd talked to you about Lilet first. So you knew. You've known longer than I have. And you just went on fussing over your sage-charms and said nothing at all.”

With every accusing word, the knot of pain in Isaveth's chest grew tighter. She wanted to tell Annagail she had it all wrong, and yet how could she? She
had
ignored Mimmi's report, telling herself it was none of her business and that Lilet could handle herself. And after she'd worked so hard to convince her family she was happy, how could she blame Anna for believing it?

“I—I'm sorry,” she stammered. “But Anna, it's not like you think. If you'd only listen—”

Annagail, three-quarters of the way up the staircase, gave no sign of having heard. “I've tried so hard . . .” She faltered, then started over in a more determined tone, “I've
tried to be patient. To imagine what I might feel like in your place. But you've made that very difficult, Isaveth.”

She'd never liked being called Vettie, or so she'd thought. Yet hearing her sister speak her full name was like a cold knife in Isaveth's heart. Her mouth opened, pleading, but by the time she found her voice Annagail was gone.

*  *  *

Isaveth was sitting at the kitchen table, gazing listlessly at her still-undissolved charm, when Lilet tramped in the door with one mitten missing and her hat askew.

“I heard the Sagelord died today,” she said, kicking off her boots. “Is it true?”

Isaveth nodded.

“Finally,” said Lilet with relish. “Also, Mimmi said to tell you she's at Aunt Sal's, playing with Pem.” She came into the kitchen, took a cup from the shelf, and began pumping herself a drink of water. “What's the matter with you? I thought you'd be happy. Sagelord Eryx and all that.”

Isaveth couldn't bear it any longer. She pushed the glass jar away and buried her face in her hands.

“Vettie?” Lilet dropped the cup into the sink and came over. “What's wrong? Is it Papa?”

Isaveth had never wanted to burden her sisters with
the knowledge she carried, or the fear that had driven her since she first heard Eryx Lording talk about his plan. She'd told herself that Anna was too guileless and Lilet and Mimmi too young to keep such dangerous secrets anyway. But she had to talk to someone or her heart would burst. . . .

And Lilet had fought for her. That meant she cared.

“No, not Papa,” she said, struggling to speak past the sobs heaving her chest. “Lilet, if—if I tell you something, will you promise to listen and not tell anyone?”

Lilet sat down next to her, spine straight and chin raised in determination. “You can tell me anything,” she said. “I won't say a word.”

So Isaveth spilled out her story, broken words tumbling over one another as her younger sister sat quietly, absorbing it all. She told Lilet nothing about her suspension—it wasn't important now. But she explained how Eryx Lording had murdered Master Orien and framed Papa, his plan to deny relief to the Moshites of Tarreton, and all that she and Esmond had done to try to keep him from becoming Sagelord.

“This decoction was supposed to dissolve metal,” she finished miserably, gesturing at the jar. “Only it doesn't seem to work on charm-silver. And now I don't know what else to do.”

Lilet huffed out a breath as though listening so long had exhausted her. Then she lunged forward and grabbed Isaveth in a fierce, bony hug.

“I knew it!” she exclaimed. “I knew you weren't just working on some silly prank with Esmond. You were far too serious about it.” She sat back, adding more soberly, “I think you should tell Papa about Eryx, though.”

“How can I? It was dangerous enough to cross Eryx before, but now he's Sagelord it's ten times worse. You know what Papa would do if he—”

“Where are my girls?” The front door burst open and their father lumbered in, shedding snow in all directions. “Did you hear the news? A new Sagelord at last!”

“Papa?” Annagail rushed downstairs, losing a slipper in her haste. “You mean . . .”

“Yes!” He tore off his coat and flung it over the banister, then swept Anna into a hug that lifted her off the floor. “Now we'll really see some changes in this city!”

Isaveth shot an agonized look at Lilet, but Papa was too busy dancing Annagail about like a tipsy bear to notice. “Brom and I are calling the first official meeting of our new Moshite Workers' Union tonight,” he announced. “As soon as the memorial for Lord Arvis is over, we're going to see Eryx and sort out this relief business, and then we can all sleep sound again.” His black beard split in a grin. “I've
never been gladder to work so hard for so little!”

Annagail leaned her head against his shoulder, looking happier than she had in weeks. “Oh, Papa, I'm glad too. I was so worried about you.”

Isaveth got up and began filling the teakettle, struggling to digest what she'd just heard. She'd never given much thought to what her father did when it wasn't snowing, but now she understood—he'd been making the rounds of the local factories and taverns with her uncle Brom, Aunt Sal's husband, and rallying other Moshites to stand up against Eryx's relief plan.

Except, of course, that he didn't know the idea had come from Eryx. Like Su and most other people in the city, Papa thought any political decision that seemed cruel or unjust must be Lord Arvis's fault.

She should have known Papa would hear about the plan, whether she told him or not. She should have known he wouldn't sit by and wait for others to fight when he could fight for himself. And now that her father had made up his mind, not even the truth about Eryx would turn him from it. If he'd been ready to start a rebellion against the old Sagelord, he'd be just as quick to defy the new one.

Yet when Eryx found out about the newly formed,
illegal Moshite Workers' Union, he'd have all the proof he needed to show the city council that Moshites were lawless radicals who didn't deserve their support. . . .

It might be a hopeless cause, but she had to try. Isaveth set the kettle on the stove with a clang and turned to face her father.

“Papa,” she said, “there's something I have to tell you.”

I
SAVETH DID ALL SHE COULD
to warn Papa about Eryx, short of revealing the plans she and Esmond had made to stop him. She told him the Lording—now Sagelord—was as wicked as his father had ever been, and that all his grand speeches about equality and justice were a lie. She'd even blurted out that Eryx had plotted Master Orien's murder, and possibly Lord Arvis's as well. But her words were so garbled with panic that Papa finally waved at her to stop.