The Sagelord stopped her with an upraised hand. “None of that. I’m paying enough for this party of yours without having to listen to a lot of fluff-headed talk about decorating as well. Did you hear anything I might actually care about?”
Civilla’s smile thinned. She was undoubtedly the family expert on gossip these days, with plenty of social engagements and visits to the leading families of the city. But though she was usually quick to share any rumors that would interest Lord Arvis, she had her pride, and he’d ruffled it.
“Well,” she said, “I don’t know. Have you heard that J. J. Wregget’s finally handed out this year’s Glow-Mor scholarship?”
Eryx frowned. “What, now? Harvest term’s nearly over. Why would he wait so long?”
“Seems he wasn’t impressed with any of the students who applied, so he went out and found his own candidate. But he won’t say who she is, only that she’s a ‘deserving young lady’ who prefers to remain anonymous.” Civilla gave a little shrug. “No doubt her family was ashamed to admit they needed the money.”
Esmond watched Lord Arvis out of his good eye. His father’s face was set and the corners of his mouth turned down, but he said nothing until Eryx asked, “Father?”
“I don’t meddle in Wregget’s business,” snapped the Sagelord, stabbing a forkful of pickled beetroot onto his plate. “It’s bad policy.”
Which made sense, because Wregget’s wife, Perline, was a close friend of Lady Nessa’s, and Glow-Mor’s recent “discovery” of Resisto-Paper had made it one of the most successful spell-factories in the city. Of course Esmond’s father would want to keep such a valuable acquaintance happy—with unrest still brewing among Tarreton’s workers, and a string of disastrous political blunders making the merchants and even some of his own nobles restless, Lord Arvis needed all the powerful allies he could get.
“Even so, you must know who his choice was,” Eryx persisted. “As chief patron of Tarreton College, you would have received a copy of the masters’ decision.” But the Sagelord only snorted and waved the topic aside.
Esmond could guess why. The notice must have arrived on one of his father’s bad days, when he was too busy groaning and dosing himself with stomach powder to care about paperwork. He probably couldn’t remember the name of Wregget’s candidate and didn’t want to admit it.
“Perline says,” Lady Nessa spoke up hesitantly, “that the girl’s a commoner. It sounds like Wregget found her selling homemade spell-tablets on the street.”
Esmond’s heart did a triple somersault and dropped into his belly. There couldn’t be more than two or three girls in the city who fit that description, and only one that J. J. Wregget knew well enough to reward. . . .
“Agh!” Lord Arvis doubled over, and the Sagelady leaped up in panic. She whisked off her napkin and began dabbing his sweat-beaded face.
“I’m so sorry, darling, I didn’t mean to upset you. We must get you lying down at once—”
“Upset?” Even through clenched teeth, his father’s voice was loud enough to echo across the room. “I’m not one of your wilting lilies! Bring me some Propo-Seltzer. I’ll be fine in a few minutes.” Gripping his abdomen, he lurched upright, and the footmen helped him out of the room.
“A commoner!” exclaimed Civilla when they were gone. The Sagelady hovered in the doorway, gazing anxiously after her husband, but Lord Arvis had been having these attacks for weeks and the rest of the family no longer worried about them. “That should please you, Eryx. You’re the one always making speeches about equality and better opportunities for the poor.”
Eryx said nothing. He took a roll from the basket and began slowly tearing it to pieces, while Esmond bit the inside of his cheek and resisted the urge to whoop and dance around the table. Whether by accident or the Sagelord’s grudging permission, Isaveth Breck was about to become a student at Tarreton College. Soon Esmond would be seeing her, maybe even talking to her, every day. . . .
And this time, Eryx couldn’t do a thing about it.
Chapter Two
“OW!” ISAVETH FLINCHED as the comb snagged in her hair. Annagail was doing her best to be gentle, but after a restless night with her head covered in pinch pins, Isaveth had ended up with a few tangles.
“Your hair’s so thick, I can’t help it,” said her older sister. “But I promise it’ll look beautiful when I’m done. Turn around and let me do the other side.”
Isaveth had never bothered to style her cropped hair before; she’d just had Anna trim it when it got too close to her shoulders. But that wouldn’t do at a place like Tarreton College, so she sat meekly and endured her sister’s tugging as the two younger girls bustled around the tiny kitchen, making breakfast.
“Stop elbowing me!” complained Mimmi, giving Lilet a shove. “You’re making me spill.”
“Stop standing on my feet, then!”
“Enough of that,” Papa called as he came down the creaking staircase. “It’s a bad day that starts with a quarrel. You don’t want to spoil Vettie’s first day at the college, do you?”
“No, Papa,” they chorused, though Lilet rolled her eyes as she said it, and Isaveth had to smile. After the shock of Mister Wregget’s offer and all the challenges that came with accepting it, there was something comforting about listening to her little sisters squabble: It reminded her that no matter what else changed, the people she loved best would stay the same.
Once she’d eaten her fill of the grainy porridge Mimmi called “birdseed” and Anna had coaxed her pin curls into glossy waves, it was time for Isaveth to leave. Shivering in the chill of the front hallway, she laced up her boots, donned her red knitted hat and matching scarf—a Fallowfeast gift from Lilet and Mimmi—and turned in place while Anna inspected her coat, brushing out the salt stains and touching up a few faded patches with shoe-blacking. “There,” she said, straightening up. “I think you’re ready.”
“I don’t feel ready,” Isaveth admitted, with a glance at the freckled mirror. She’d found it lying in a rubbish heap last harvest and it had been hanging by the coat rack ever since, but now it only reminded her how poor she was compared to everyone else at the college. “I feel sick.”
Annagail took her hand. “You can still change your mind. If you’re not sure you want to go. . . .”
“I am sure. I’m just . . . a bit nervous.”
“Is it Meggery that worries you?” Anna moved closer, lowering her voice so Papa and their younger sisters wouldn’t hear. “She can’t hurt you, Vettie. All she can do is tell the masters you’re Moshite, and they know that already.”
“She could also tell the students that I’m Moshite.” Not that Isaveth planned to deny it if anyone asked: She’d learned that lying about her faith could be worse than admitting the truth. But while Annagail had worn a prayer scarf about her neck ever since their mother died, Isaveth wore hers only at temple or when saying the supper blessing. That was what the scarf was for, after all, and why should she make it easy for people to despise her?
“Maybe, but a housekeeper is still a servant,” Anna told her, “and that means Meggery’s expected to keep quiet and stay out of sight. She probably won’t even know you’re at the college, let alone make any—”
“Is that my Vettie?” Papa’s broad shoulders filled the doorframe as he stepped out of the kitchen, wiping his beard with the back of his hand. “Look at you, all dressed up and beautiful!” He seized Isaveth by the shoulders, beaming. “That boyfriend of yours won’t know what hit him.”
Isaveth cringed. “Papa, he’s not . . .”
“Don’t tease her, Papa,” said Annagail. “She’s nervous enough already.” Stooping to kiss Isaveth’s cheek, she whispered, “I’ll be praying for you.” Then she slipped back to the kitchen.
“Don’t worry, sweetling.” The twinkle in her father’s eye softened to tenderness. “You’ll do fine. Especially with Mistress Anandri and the Sagelord’s own son looking out for you.”
Isaveth couldn’t deny it, not wh
en she’d used those same words to convince Papa three weeks ago. But he had no idea that Governor Buldage was a murderer, let alone that Eryx Lording had put him up to it.
Yet how could she tell Papa the truth without confessing all the risks she’d taken to save him from the gallows? If he knew what powerful enemies she’d made, he wouldn’t just refuse to let Isaveth go to the college, he probably wouldn’t let her out of the house.
“Yes, Papa,” said Isaveth, hugging him. Then she scooped up her school bag and ran out to catch her tram.
* * *
When Isaveth arrived at Tarreton College, the snow was falling in fat flakes, soft and fluttery as goose down. She stepped off the tram, gazing at her new school in silent awe.
The main gate loomed above her, its square pillars engraved with the college crest on one side and two lines of cryptic runes on the other. Before her lay a cobbled avenue lined with spell-powered lampposts, still glowing faintly in the gray morning light, and past them, at the end of the long drive, rose the steep-angled roofs and pointed archways of Founders’ Hall.
The last time Isaveth had walked these grounds was in the heat of fairweather season, when the buildings had stood all but empty, awaiting the rush of harvest term. But she’d been so caught up in her mission back then, so desperate to investigate the scene of Governor Orien’s murder and prove her father’s innocence, that she’d barely noticed what the college looked like. Only now, with those dark days behind her, could she truly appreciate the school that was about to become her own—and it was beautiful. Even with icicles dripping off every roof edge and grimy salt trails sprinkling each snowy path and stair, the grandeur of the college buildings took Isaveth’s breath away. Who could look up at those soaring gray-gold towers, those arched doors and jewel-glass windows, and not feel humbled by their magnificence? Even after a month of preparation, Isaveth couldn’t quite believe she was here and not at the dreary little school back in Gardentown.
“Chin up, Isaveth,” she murmured, gripping the strap of her school bag. She’d taken an early tram, wanting plenty of time to collect her schedule and other essentials before class started. But her fellow students were beginning to arrive now, climbing out of spell-carriages and taxis, or strolling up the sidewalk with their friends. Most of the girls wore the slim, tailored coats and fur-trimmed carriage boots that were the height of fashion, and Isaveth had to fight the urge to hide behind the gatepost as they approached her.
Mister Wregget had agreed to keep Isaveth’s identity a secret, so no one but the masters of the college—and Esmond, of course—would know who she was or where she’d come from. With her new hairstyle, a smidge of lip tint, and her olive cheeks dusted rose for a healthy glow, she’d hoped to pass for the daughter of some lesser merchant family—her father wasn’t the only Breck in the city, after all. But despite all Anna had done to help her look the part, Isaveth still felt like the word “commoner” was branded across her face.
Yet the girls swept by without a pause, too busy chatting to notice her. The boys also ignored Isaveth as they slouched past, hands deep in their pockets and collars turned up against the snow. Relieved, Isaveth stood straighter and set off along the path to Founders’ Hall.
* * *
“Morning, miss,” said the porter, and Isaveth stiffened. She’d spoken to this man when she was last here, disguised as a cleaning maid—what if he recognized her? But when she dared to meet his eye, he only smiled and nodded at her to go on.
The corridor ended by the main staircase, where a sign pointed left to the registrar’s office. Isaveth was turning toward it when applause rippled out of a room nearby, followed by a voice so familiar it stopped her heart: “Thank you. Are there any questions?”
It couldn’t be—her ears must be playing tricks on her. Yet there was only one way to find out. Isaveth followed the sound to a small auditorium, whose door bore a sign reading CLUB MEETING IN PROGRESS. Inside sat several rows of students, from stiff-collared boys her own age to a cluster of fourth-year girls as old as Anna. And at the front stood Eryx Lording, surveying them all.
What a fool she’d been, to mistake his voice for Esmond’s! Isaveth ducked out of the doorway, hoping he hadn’t spotted her. But Eryx spoke: “We have a latecomer. I’m afraid we’re almost finished, miss, but don’t be shy.”
Fifty heads swiveled toward her, and Isaveth’s heart sank. She crept in and sat down in the first empty seat she could find.
“I have a question, milord,” said a girl in the second row. “You said you’d been urging city council to increase relief payments to needy families. Does that mean raising taxes for the rest of us?”
“An excellent question.” Eryx gave her a dazzling smile, and the girl blushed red as her hair. “Happily, the answer is no. My plan is to ensure that only citizens who are deserving—honest, loyal folk left unemployed through no fault of their own—receive financial help from the city, while those who use poverty as an excuse for crime and rebellion”—his gaze flicked to Isaveth—“do not. There will be plenty of relief for people who need it, if we weed out the lawbreakers first.”
Uneasiness squirmed inside Isaveth. The Lord Justice had declared Papa innocent, so he had no criminal record. But Urias Breck had long been a member of the Workers’ Club, a political group known for its fiery protests against the Sagelord’s rule. Was Eryx hinting that if Papa applied for relief in a month or two, he’d be rejected? If so, how would Isaveth and her family survive?
A brown hand shot up among the students, and a stocky boy in spectacles rose to speak. “Does the Sagelord intend to continue his ban against political meetings and demonstrations in the city?”
“Well, clearly meetings are not the problem,” said Eryx, “or we’d all be under arrest right now.” He waited for the laughter to subside, then went on. “Personally, I believe that free and open discourse is vital to a healthy society. That’s why I’ve been urging my father to lift the ban for any group that agrees to expel all members with criminal or antisocial tendencies”—his eyes flicked to Isaveth again—“and to hold only peaceful protests from now on.”
“Antisocial, my lord?” asked a girl in the row next to Isaveth. “What do you mean?”
Eryx gazed at the vaulted ceiling, fingers steepled in thought. “As I’m sure you’re aware, there are people in our city with a history of lawless behavior, the kind of folk who stir up trouble wherever they go. They despise the sacred traditions that bind all good citizens together, and promote their own radical beliefs instead. . . .”
He spoke delicately, but Isaveth knew what he meant: words like “lawless” and “radical” had been used to condemn Moshites for centuries. She sat rigid, trembling with the urge to leap up and denounce him—but how could she? Nobody here knew her, or had any reason to care what she thought. Especially since she was one of the very people Eryx was slandering.
“Of course,” Eryx continued, “any enlightened society must tolerate some disagreement, however—er—disagreeable. But I think we should draw the line at endorsing bad behavior, much less rewarding it. Thus my plan to reform our relief system, which I hope all of you will urge your local council members to support. Thank you.”
With another burst of applause the students rose, many pressing forward to greet the Lording and shake his hand. Isaveth hid her face in her handkerchief, pretending to wipe her nose while she calmed herself, then got up and hurried out the door.
* * *
“You’ll need a robe,” said the registrar, a stoop-shouldered man with a voice as bland as the rest of him. Opening a drawer, he pulled out a square of gray cloth and handed it to Isaveth. “And your timetable . . .” He glanced under the counter. “Hmm. Wait here, please.”
He vanished into the adjoining office, while Isaveth shook out the robe and examined it. Unlike the masters’ robes it was sleeveless, so she could wear it over her coat as easily as under—and since her first class might be anywhere on the grounds, that seemed like a sensible idea. S
he draped it around her shoulders and smoothed it, waiting for the registrar to return.
She couldn’t think too much about what Eryx had said or she’d start to panic. He’d spoken of treating Isaveth’s father and other politically-minded Moshites as undesirables, denying them financial support and encouraging their fellow workers to shun them—and the students in the club had applauded as though it were a splendid idea. As though her family deserved nothing better than starvation, which was what it would come to if Papa couldn’t find a proper job soon.
Her only hope was that she’d leaped to the wrong conclusion, and Eryx hadn’t been talking about Papa at all. But the Lording hadn’t seemed surprised to see Isaveth, and she couldn’t forget how his cold eyes had lingered on her as he spoke. . . .
“Miss Breck?”
The greeting came from behind her, so unexpected it made her jump. Isaveth whirled and found herself staring into the lean, sallow face of Hexter Buldage, the new governor of the school.
“Oh,” she said, but it came out as a squeak, and she couldn’t think of anything else to say.
Buldage smiled. His expression was kindly, his eyes mild as harvest fog; if she hadn’t known otherwise, she’d never have guessed him for a murderer. “Welcome to Tarreton College. I hope you’ll be happy here.”
Mute with fear, Isaveth could only nod. How much had Eryx Lording told him about her? Did Buldage realize she knew his most terrible secret?
“I hear great things about your talent for Common Magic,” the governor continued. “If you show a similar aptitude for Sagery, your classmates will have to work hard to keep up with you.”
There was no stiffness in his posture, no sinister undertone to his words. If her presence here troubled him, he was doing an excellent job of hiding it.
“It’s . . . an honor to be here, sir,” said Isaveth, recovering at last. “Thank you for giving me—uh—this chance.”
“My pleasure. If there is anything I can do to assist you, let me know.” Still smiling, he stepped back, turned in a swirl of midnight robes, and walked out.
A Little Taste of Poison Page 2
