The Shadowed Path (34 page)

Steen nodded. “Come on,” he said to Jonmarc.

No one paid them any notice as they made their way up the rickety steps to the second floor. Steen and Jonmarc paused at the door to the room Elian had indicated, and Jonmarc noticed a small smudge of soot just above the lintel, the mark Elian had told them he had left so that they would know they were in the right place.

Steen listened at the door, then nodded. “No voices,” he mouthed. That meant Steen heard someone inside, but not multiple people.

One sharp kick broke the latch.

Jonmarc and Steen were inside with the door closed behind them before the poisoner had time to turn.

“I told you I’d pay you tomorrow!” The speaker was a scrawny man with a complexion the color of raw dough. Lank red hair fell in his eyes that looked bleary; Jonmarc suspected that the man sampled some of the herbs that produced wild dreams.

“We’re not here about your debts,” Steen growled. Both he and Jonmarc had their swords in hand, and Steen gestured for the poisoner to step away from his table and hold his hands where they could be seen.

“Who are you? Why are you here?” Fear made the poisoner bold.

“Sit,” Steen ordered, and Jonmarc kicked a wooden chair toward the man. From beneath his cloak, Jonmarc produced a length of rope. Steen held the point of his sword against the poisoner’s throat as Jonmarc bound the man firmly to the chair by the arms and legs.

“Now,” Steen said. “Let’s start with your name.”

In response, the captive spat at Steen.

Steen sighed and looked at Jonmarc with exaggerated disappointment. “Ah, well. We’ll just have to call you ‘Bastard’ then.” He gave a predatory smile. “So, Bastard, why did you try to poison the caravan master?”

The prisoner glared at Steen and said nothing. Steen put on a pair of heavy leather gloves and began to poke around at the wares on a sturdy wooden table in the back of the room. “Let’s see here. There’s belladonna, some nasty mushrooms, water hemlock, yew, nightshade, and wolf’s bane,” he said, casually identifying the plants and leaves in bottles strewn around the table.

“If I didn’t know better, I might think that you were a poisoner,” Steen said.

“Go to the Crone.”

Steen chuckled. “Oh, I’m sure you have plenty of ways to send me there, but I don’t think I’ll go just yet.” He nodded, and Jonmarc pulled on a pair of gloves as well.

“Let’s play a game,” Steen suggested. “I’ll feed you a leaf, and we’ll see what it does to you. If you survive, you get to tell us some information. If the information is good, you get to tell us some more. If it’s not interesting…” He shrugged. “We’ll feed you another leaf, or berry, or seed, and watch what happens.”

Jonmarc knew something about plants. His late wife’s mother had been a hedge witch, and Jonmarc and Shanna had often helped harvest plants for healing mixtures. Shanna and her mother had told him which plants were deadly poisons, and which could be used—with caution— as medicine. A glance at the leaves and berries on the table told him that their unnamed captive had little interest in the medicinal uses of the plants.

“Pick something,” Steen said, waving a gloved hand at the table.

Jonmarc pretended to take a moment to decide. “Let’s try some wolf’s bane,” he said finally. “It won’t kill him right away—if we’re careful. And if he’s helpful, we just might reverse it… depending on how things go.”

He picked up one of the fresh leaves with his gloved hand and walked over to the bound captive. “Last chance,” he said. “Why did you try to poison the caravan master?”

The poisoner muttered something in a language Jonmarc did not recognize, but the intent was clear. Jonmarc glanced to Steen, who shrugged.

“Ah well. Your funeral.” Jonmarc placed the fresh leaf on the captive’s bare arm and began to rub it back and forth along the skin. “Funny thing about wolf’s bane. Just touching it lets the poison in.”

“All right!” the captive shouted. “My name is Matvei. And I don’t even know your caravan master. It was a job. That’s all.”

“Is your arm tingling?” Jonmarc asked. “That’s how it starts.” The terrified look on the poisoner’s face confirmed his guess. “But you know that, don’t you? I bet you’ve tried your wares out on animals, people, just to watch what happens.”

He ground the leaf against the man’s arm again. “A healer can reverse a light dose. But the longer it goes on, the bigger the dose, the less likely anyone can save you.”

“What do you want to know?” Matvei asked, his voice reedy with fear.

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Steen said. “Who hired you for the job?”

“A couple of guys,” Matvei replied. Jonmarc ground the leaf another time.

“All right! Two bounty hunters. Chessis and Vakkis.”

Steen nodded. “That’s better. What did they tell you?”

Matvei watched Jonmarc warily. “They said they needed some poison that was hard to detect. Something that could be slipped into food without someone noticing. Said that they wanted to use a couple of kinds, just to make sure.”

“What did you put it in?” Jonmarc asked. Matvei paused.

Jonmarc poked a finger into the flesh of Matvei’s arm. “Is it numb yet? The poison goes up the arm to the chest, then into the heart. Once it gets that far… well, you’d need a really good healer.”

“I poisoned some wine, and I switched out the vegetables in a basket for some poisonous plants that are look-alikes,” Matvei replied, clearly nervous. “Before that, I slipped some belladonna in his stew. Pretty basic.”

“What else?” The wide variety of poisons on the work table gave Jonmarc a gnawing suspicion that the poisoner might have done more.

“Nothing,” Matvei said. But his gaze slid to the side as he spoke, and Jonmarc was certain the man was lying.

Jonmarc walked back to the table and found a small jar of salve. “How about you tell us the whole truth, and I don’t try this ointment on you to see what it does?”

Matvei’s fear of the poison wavered, and Jonmarc guessed that the poisoner was even more afraid of Chessis and Vakkis.

“Who hired Chessis and Vakkis?” Steen asked. “They don’t work for free. Someone was behind this. Who?”

“I tell you that, and I’m a dead man,” Matvei said.

“You’re already a dead man,” Jonmarc replied. “You don’t think Chessis and Vakkis won’t come around to finish you off? They aren’t the kind to leave loose ends.”

Matvei took several shallow breaths. By now, Jonmarc was certain that the plant’s poison had reached his shoulder and the muscles of his chest.

“Tell us what we want to know, and I swear we’ll get you to a healer,” Jonmarc said. He was queasy about using Matvei’s poisons against him, but his concern for Linton’s safety and the safety of the caravan pushed him on.

“A healer can’t do me no good!” Matvei said, his voice pitched high with fear. “You don’t know who you’re messing with.”

“Tell us,” Steen urged. “We can get you out of here, give you safe passage across the river.”

“You really don’t understand,” Matvei said. “But since it’s too late to change anything, I’ll tell you. Duke Ostenhas hired the assassins, and the assassins hired me.”

Jonmarc’s eyes widened, and he and Steen exchanged astonished glances. “Duke Ostenhas?” Steen replied incredulously. “Why would the Duke hire assassins to kill a caravan master?”

Matvei was laughing; a high-pitched, nervous laugh tinged with madness. “You don’t know, do you? But I do!”

“Tell us,” Jonmarc growled, removing the lid from the salve jar. “What in the name of the Crone is going on?”

Matvei giggled, a disquieting hysterical sound. “It’s the Duke’s wife. She’s behind it.”

“Does Linton know the Duchess?” Steen asked, and Jonmarc swore under his breath, hoping that they were not all paying a high price for one of Linton’s indiscretions.

“No, no, no.” Delirium was beginning to set in, and Matvei sounded as if he had drunk too much wine. “The Duchess is Lord Guarov’s sister. Lord Guarov doesn’t like your caravan master. Don’t ask me why.”

Jonmarc growled a curse and thumped his head with his fist. “Sweet Mother and Childe!”

“This makes sense to you?” Steen asked. “Lord Guarov’s lands aren’t even on this side of Margolan. How in the name of the Formless One is he involved, and why in the world should he care about a caravan master?”

Jonmarc signaled that he would explain everything, and returned his attention to the prisoner. “Were there any other poisoned items, besides the wine and the vegetables and the stew?”

Matvei’s pupils were dilated. He began to heave, and retched up his dinner down the front of his shirt. “One more,” he said, his voice trembling. “He’s dying and he doesn’t even know it.”

Steen pressed his sword against Matvei’s neck. “Tell us!”

Matvei looked to Jonmarc. “I’ll tell you, but then I want the salve.”

“You want it?” Jonmarc echoed incredulously. “It’s not too late. We can get you a healer.”

Matvei’s laughter verged on madness. “Do you know what the Lord will do to me if he finds out I’ve told his secret? Chessis and Vakkis will cut me to ribbons, while I’m still alive.” His mad, wide eyes turned beseechingly to Jonmarc. “Promise me you’ll use the salve on me—and I’ll tell you everything.”

It could be a trick
, Jonmarc thought.
But it’s the only chance we’ve got.

“We’ll use it,” Steen said before Jonmarc could find his voice. “Tell us what you know.”

“I paid a man who worked for the cook to slip deadly mushrooms into Linton’s stew,” Matvei said. “They’re slow poison, but sure. That’s why people call them ‘Destroying Angel’. He won’t feel anything at first, then when it hits, he’ll suffer for a while and die. Just a few candlemarks—no more than a day.”

Steen snarled a curse under his breath. “Give me that!” he said, snatching the jar of ointment out of Jonmarc’s gloved hands. Using his own heavy leather gloves, he began to spread the salve on Matvei’s face, arms and chest. Then he shoved a bit of cloth into Matvei’s mouth, to stifle his screams.

“What is that stuff?” Jonmarc asked, horrified and fascinated.

“Witch ointment,” Steen replied. “Or so it’s called. It’s a mix of poisons that cause waking dreams—usually quite intense and often very nasty dreams. Legend says it’s how witches fly.”

“Does it kill?”

Steen met his gaze. “Often. But it’s a kinder death than he’s doled out for Linton.”

They left Matvei to his dreams, and headed back toward the caravan, dodging the guards. Steen kept his poisoned gloves on, careful not to touch his own skin. Jonmarc kept his sword sheathed, but his hand was close to the pommel.

Just as they rounded the corner, two guardsmen spotted them. “You there! Halt!”

The guardsmen blocked the path to where Jonmarc and Steen had left the horses. Jonmarc gave a shout and brandished his sword, going straight for the two men. Steen appeared to be unarmed, though he brandished the tainted gloves like a lethal weapon.

One of the guards went for Jonmarc, while the other attacked Steen. Jonmarc parried, blocking the guard’s sword, then pivoted into a perfect Eastmark kick, as Steen had taught him, slamming his foot into the guard’s sword arm. Angered, the guard came at him again, but Jonmarc was ready, and drove him back, channeling his anger at the bounty hunters and his fear for Linton’s safety.

Steen dodged and wove, evading the second guard’s blade. The soldier regarded him with derision. “Why won’t you draw your blade? Is it smaller than mine?” he challenged.

Steen’s silence, and his manic smile, unnerved the guard. “Stand still, and I’ll make this easy on you,” the guard taunted.

In answer, Steen dropped and rolled, coming up behind the soldier. Before the man could turn, Steen grabbed the guard’s face with his gloved hands, covering the soldier’s eyes, nose and mouth with the ointment, pushing the man’s lips apart to expose the potent salve to the tender membranes.

The guard’s sword clattered to the ground, and he fell to his knees, clawing at his face in terror.

“I’ve got the same poison on my sword,” Jonmarc lied. “Want a taste of it?”

The second guardsman glanced between Jonmarc’s blade and his fallen companion, who was writhing on the ground and scratching long bloody cuts into his face. With a muttered oath, the second guard ran.

Steen gingerly discarded his leather gloves into an ash can. “Let’s get out of here,” he said. They made it back to their horses without further incident and rode for a while in silence, until they were both certain they had not been followed.

“Why would Lord Guarov care about Maynard Linton?” Steen asked.

Jonmarc swore under his breath. “It happened a while ago, before you joined up with the caravan. We had some
vyrkin
with us, not causing any harm. Lord Guarov hates shapeshifters. He heard a rumor that the caravan was harboring some, and sent bounty hunters after them. It turned into a full-on battle, between the caravan and the Lord’s troops, until the king’s guards intervened. By then, Conall was dead. We got his wife and child to safety.”

He shook his head. “I imagine Guarov is still plenty sore about taking a drubbing. I never thought he’d be after us this far from his lands, but the connection through his sister makes sense.”

“I don’t know what we can do to help Linton, if what the poisoner said is true,” Steen replied. “I’ve heard of that kind of mushroom. It kills.”

“Maybe Ada will have an idea,” Jonmarc said. “Maybe if she knows what poisoned him, she can do something about it.”

Steen’s expression gave Jonmarc to know that hope was slim, but the former soldier said nothing.

“What do you think will happen when someone finds Matvei?” Jonmarc asked.

“I think the bounty hunters will know straight off that the caravan’s onto them. We’d best get the troupe on the road,” Steen said. “I don’t think this area is likely to be friendly much longer.”

T
HEY RODE HARD
for the caravan, fearing that they would hear soldiers behind them at any moment. The caravan’s guards closed ranks as they heard the hoof beats pounding toward them, then parted as they recognized the riders. Both men jumped down from their horses and Steen sent one of the guards running for Ada and the healers, and others heading for the cook’s tent to find the traitor.