Raven's Edge

by Alan Ratcliffe

  The servant opened their mouth to shout again, but before any sound could emerge, Raven slipped past them with a murmured apology and dashed along the hallway.

  At least Raven had kept hold of the pitcher, something she was still thankful for as she left the keep a few minutes later, noting somewhat sheepishly that she did so only marginally cleaner than when she’d arrived that morning.

  * * *

  “What do you mean nothing?”

  The bald man spread his hands apologetically. Once again, Raven noted the stains and discolorations covering his slender fingers; the digits of one well-accustomed to handling the various arcane substances of his profession. There were other outward signs also – both his eyebrows and the ends of his beard were singed, while his skin had the sallow complexion of one who spent too much time inside crouched over smoking crucibles and too little out in the fresh air.

  Raven’s shoulders slumped. She’d been so sure... “How is that possible?”

  “Perhaps if you knew what precisely you were looking for...” he offered.

  “I told you, anything that might cause someone to fall gravely ill.”

  “If ingested. Yes, I recall quite well, I assure you.” The bald man smiled the hopeful smile of one who’d been as helpful as they knew how, and hoped this would be enough to send the unhappy person before them back on their way. “I’ve tested the specimen you provided for the common toxins – hemlock, aconite, nightshade, monkshood, larkspur, baneberries and the like – as well as different compounds. As best I can tell, there is nothing harmful present.”

  Raven’s fingers drummed on the counter-top. “Are there other apothecaries in town? One who knows more about poisons?”

  The bald man bridled at the implied slight on his ability. “None that would give you a different answer,” he sniffed. “Now, if there is nothing else...”

  “You don’t understand!” She slammed her palms onto the counter. “A man’s life hangs in the balance. Every day he grows sicker and sicker, and he surely has few remaining. It must be something he is given daily, so if it isn’t these then...” As she spoke, something clicked into place in her mind. She glanced down. The broth the servant had splashed across her front still clung to her clothes in dried globules. “What about this?” she asked, indicating the stains. “Can you test this?”

  The apothecary’s brow wrinkled. He leaned across to peer more closely at the stains. At such close quarters, Raven could smell the acrid odour of chemicals that clung to his bald crown. From somewhere below the wooden counter he drew out a slim metal implement, and in one quick flick removed one of the globules, much as one would remove the top of a boiled egg. He regarded it with interest, before nodding in her direction. “Wait here,” he said, before disappearing through a doorway.

  Faced with little alternative, Raven did as she was bid. As she waited, she glanced around the room in which she found herself. It was unlike any shop she’d seen before. There were no goods to speak of on display, instead the space between the door leading to the street and the wooden counter could be crossed in a single stride. Its only purpose appeared to be as a space for customers to stand in, or wait. And seeing as it lacked so much as a single chair, it seemed the proprietor didn’t particularly care how comfortable they were during the latter.

  Behind the counter it was a different story. The wall opposite the door was dominated by a large wooden unit stretching almost from floor to ceiling. Its front consisted of dozens upon dozens of small drawers, each one bearing a label written in a thin, spidery hand. To the side of this, against a side wall, was a mahogany desk. As well as the usual writing materials and inkwells, the desk rose at the back, containing further, smaller drawers.

  A number of shelves were fixed to another wall, adorned with neatly ordered rows of bottles, containing liquids of different colours. While she could read the labels of those nearest her, the words themselves meant nothing, to the point where she wondered whether they were written in code.

  Between the shelves and the many-drawered unit was the doorway through which the apothecary had left. As he’d come and gone she’d caught brief glimpses of a bigger room beyond and work surfaces cluttered with oddly shaped apparatus and the paraphernalia of his trade.

  She’d been pleased with herself for finding the shop, tucked away as it was in a narrow, dead-end side street and, unlike the other businesses and tradesmen along the city’s main thoroughfares, lacking a board or sign to advertise its presence. The only reason she’d found it at all was that someone she’d stopped on the street had directed her to it. Her first impression after entering was not a promising one, as it was absent of the usual trappings of the apothecary’s craft; melted candles, burning crucibles, smoking incense, racks of drying herbs... instead the interior was bare, almost stark in comparison.

  At least the owner himself had the appearance of one of his trade even if his shop did not, and he’d shown a keen interest in the sample she’d presented... even though the substance in the pitcher had by now taken on a hue and odour akin to strong urine.

  But Raven’s initial optimism had dribbled away when the apologetic apothecary had reappeared to explain that while he wouldn’t recommend drinking the makeshift concoction, it contained nothing that would kill her were she to do so.

  This was a last desperate throw of the dice. If the bald man came back empty-handed once again, there was nothing else she could do but return to the castle and hope to turn up some other cause of Kester’s sickness. But having already searched his room, she had little confidence of finding anything. She knew already her adversary was devious and calculating... perhaps they’d simply concealed their tracks too well.

  Or perhaps I’m wrong. Raven frowned at the nagging thought. It had lurked in the back of her mind since the mire, whispering doubts into her ear. She did her best to ignore it.

  Minutes stretched into longer minutes. Aside from occasional muffled mutterings from the back room, all was silent. She was readying herself to slink back out and return to the castle, cursing her folly, when the door opposite her opened and the bald man re-emerged. He shook his head gently as if in disbelief.

  Raven’s heart sank. “Did you find anything?” she asked, more in hope than expectation.

  The apothecary hesitated, unsure. At last he shrugged. “Yes.”

  “You have?” Raven’s eyes widened. Her hands gripped the edge of the wooden counter. “What is it?”

  “Something that should not be there.” He pursed his lips. “I assume it’s what you seek, but there are... difficulties.”

  “I don’t understand.” Raven released the counter. She felt her elation slipping away. “You’ve found evidence of poison, so...”

  “That would be the nature of the problem. What I found is, strictly speaking, not, in point of fact, a poison.”

  “Then what is it?”

  The bald man pinched the bridge of his nose. In a sudden flash of insight, Raven saw herself through his eyes. There she stood, in clothes torn and stained, her face covered in scratches and her arm bandaged from wrist to elbow, blood already beginning to seep through the wrappings. This dishevelled figure had burst unannounced into his shop crying of poison and plots and insisted that he test dubious substances to corroborate her unlikely, and probably deluded, tale. He must think her deranged, and his every effort to send her back on her way had proven unsuccessful.

  In that moment, she felt sorry for him. Truly she did. But she couldn’t leave without an answer. “You have to tell me,” she pressed. “Just this, and I promise I’ll leave and you’ll never see me again.”

  The apothecary’s grey brows knitted, then his face cleared and he sighed. “Tell me, young lady, what do you know of the nature of toxic substances? That is, poisons, as you call them?”

  “That they kill people?” Raven replied, with the distinct impression she was stepping into a trap.

  “A perfectly reasonable statement.” The bald man smiled. “The world then
being divided between those that are safe for us to consume, and those that are not. A moment, if you please.”

  He left through the rear door, and this time reappeared only moments later. Carefully, he placed a glass flask upon the counter. Inside was a clear fluid. “Contained within is a poison every bit deadly as the bite of the shadow viper which, as you may be aware, is the empire’s most venomous snake. A sufficiently high dose will cause your head to split... first you would become confused then your eyelids would grow heavy. As the effects worsen, your body will spasm and cramp... then sickness, vomiting and, in most cases, eventual death. There is no known cure.” He smiled brightly. “Would you like to try some?”

  Raven recoiled from the flask. “What? Of course not!”

  “Suit yourself.” The apothecary shrugged and gripped the flask. Before she could stop him, he raised it to his lips and swallowed the contents in three gulps. “Ah,” he said, dabbing delicately at his lips. “Quite refreshing.”

  Raven couldn’t help but stare in horrified fascination. “Have you lost your mind?”

  “Far from it.” The bald man bent down behind the counter and fetched up a clay pitcher. From this he poured more of the clear liquid into the flask, which he then pushed towards her. “See for yourself.”

  Expecting a trick of some kind, Raven gingerly took up the flask. She swilled the liquid around several times, then put her nose to the flask’s mouth. She sniffed. Frowning, she tipped it slightly, just enough to be able to dab a fingertip to the liquid. She glanced sidelong at the apothecary, who still wore a faint smile. If it was a trick, he gave no outward sign. Moving tentatively, she put the moistened finger to her mouth and let a drop fall onto her tongue.

  For several moments Raven didn’t move. She stood, frozen, flask still tilted towards her. All her focus was on trying to make sense of the flavour. Finally she blinked. “It tastes like water.”

  “That’s because it is water.” He beamed at her.

  “Is this a joke?” Raven snarled. She slammed the flask down onto the counter-top. “I’m trying to save a man’s life and you’re giving me water pretending it’s poison!”

  “Pretend? I don’t understand.” The apothecary appeared puzzled. “You told me that poisons are substances that kill, and I merely demonstrated one such.”

  “Water can’t kill people.”

  “If I was so inclined, I could prove to you otherwise.”

  “I’m not talking about drowning!”

  “Nor am I.” The bald man smiled placidly. “In normal, sensible amounts then water is perfectly harmless. Essential to life, in fact. However, were you to drink,” he went on, screwing up his eyes and making a so-so gesture with one hand, “oh, ten pints or thereabouts, then you would experience all the symptoms I described. As well as several others, no more pleasant.”

  Not for the first time, Raven felt her grip on the conversation slipping. “So what are you saying? That this man is being poisoned with water?”

  “No no, that would be, um, unusual to say the least.” The bald man placed his hands at the small of his back, as if delivering a lecture. “What I am saying is that, while your definition was indeed reasonable, it is equally true that using that definition then every substance known to man, even those thought to be entirely harmless, is, in point of fact, a poison. It is all a question of dosage.”

  “So the more you use, the worse the effect.”

  “If only it were that simple.” He pointed at one of the small cabinet drawers. “A grain of this is no less deadly than a handful of that,” he said, indicating another. “But furthermore, we find that in many cases a small amount of what the layperson would call a poison, is not only safe to ingest, but actually beneficial.” He tapped a finger against another drawer. “Take Dead Man’s Bells, for example. Properly prepared and in a small enough dose it has many useful properties, including soothing a troubled heart.” He chuckled. “Not in a romantic sense, you understand, but a very real medical one. But, were you to consume the entire contents of the packet within this drawer, death would be swift.”

  “You’re saying this man has been given too much of that medicine...”

  “Possible, though I think it unlikely. I know of this Doctor Burbage. His reputation as one of the finest physicians in the empire is well-deserved I believe.” He saw the look of surprise on her face. “This man you’re trying to save, it is Kester Maccallam, is it not?”

  Raven had been at pains to give away no clue to his identity, not wanting to spread rumours before she was sure her hunch was correct. “How did you know?”

  “Call it a lucky guess,” he said, with an enigmatic smile. “But people have been talking of little else these past weeks. You don’t have to worry, by the way. If word of poison is to reach the duke’s ears, I have no wish for the trail to lead back to me, I assure you.”

  “Well, thank you for your discretion, at least. Even if motivated by self-interest.”

  “When you trade in substances such as these, it is wise to keep a low profile if your liege lord looks for someone to blame.”

  Raven folded her arms. “Aren’t you worried that will happen anyway after I speak to him?”

  “No, and I shall tell you for why,” he replied, with a brisk shake of his head. “The toxin I found in that last sample – I don’t stock it. Nobody does. At least none of which I’m aware.”

  That caught her by surprise. “But what is it?”

  “It is called the Dreamer’s Kiss, and if you had gone to any of my esteemed colleagues instead you would not have learned even that much.”

  “How could you know that?”

  “Because they would have done as I did when you burst through my door crying about poison. They would have tested for known toxins and found none, as I did. But I have something they don’t.”

  “Which is?”

  “A journal written by my predecessor. He had travelled extensively in his youth, and spent some time in the Fire Islands. There, he observed the native people making use of a substance in their rituals, with some fascinating results. As far as he could tell it grew only there and nowhere else. When he returned, he brought back a small amount to test its properties, all of which he recorded in his journal. It almost didn’t occur to me to check there, but you were so insistent...” He shrugged. “You see, by your definition at least, the Dreamer’s Kiss is not a poison.”

  “What?” Raven was aghast. A vision of Kester, gaunt and pale, rose up in her mind. “How can that be? The duke’s son lies at death’s door!”

  “But there lies the proof of what I’m telling you,” the bald man insisted. “No poisoner in their right mind would use the Dreamer’s Kiss on their victim, it acts far too slowly. How long since Kester fell ill? A month? It is a question of dosage, as I told you before. According to my predecessor’s notes, the taste is very bitter. To disguise it in food, as they have done, you would need to use minute traces for it to be undetectable. But at that concentration, the effect would be small at first, and would need to be administered regularly to cause one to sicken, as Kester has done. And the side effects would be immediately obvious. The patient would be feverish, delusional... even violent. It would be impossible for the crime to remain hidden.”

  If it’s impossible to mask, then you would have to hide it in plain sight... such as through a very public witch’s curse, thought Raven. She also remembered both the duke and Conall commenting on how at first Kester had screamed and thrashed on his sickbed. By the time she saw him, it was possible he had grown too weak and frail to display such symptoms. It fits. It all fits. “Could it have gotten into his food by accident?” she asked.

  “No, impossible,” the apothecary said firmly. “The Dreamer’s Kiss is too rare, practically unknown in the empire. Nor could it be part of his treatment, for according to my predecessor’s notes it has no discernable medical application. No, it had to have been put into his food deliberately and with the intention to cause a slow, lingering death.
There can be no other explanation.”

  Raven had heard enough. “This journal,” she said. “Can I borrow it?”

  The apothecary reached into a pocket and drew out a slim, leatherbound book. “I assumed you would ask,” he said, handing it to her. “It will help persuade His Grace, no doubt.”

  She nodded and went to the door, but as she placed her hand on the knob, the bald man called out. “One more thing; the one you’re hunting. To have done this, not only are they clever, they must also be exceptionally cruel. Take care.”

  “Thank you,” Raven said. “You’ve been a great help.” With that, she pulled open the door open and left.

  * * *

  When Raven emerged from the dingy alley, she found the main street eerily deserted. Along both sides were an array of workshops and traders, and where it had been bustling when she’d passed through earlier, now, despite it still being the middle of the day, there was not a living soul in sight.

  She discovered the reason why a few streets later. In the centre of the city was a bridge dividing the poorer northern quadrant from the nobles and wealthy merchants in the south. Immediately before the entrance to the bridge in the north was a wide, open plaza, which regularly played host to market stalls and street performers.

  A large crowd was gathered there now, but she knew instantly it was for a spectacle of a very different nature.

  The silence was the first clue. There was no laughter or heckling, nor the sort of good-natured chatter you would expect from street entertainments. Some people craned to see, but most stood stock-still, arms folded. As Raven approached she could only really see backs of heads, but the expressions on the few faces that turned her way were grim.

  The sombre atmosphere in the plaza lent a slightly unreal air to the scene, but a glance over the tops of the heads of the crowd brought reality rushing back like a brick to the face.