“Gregor Voldhard is tougher than you think, my lady,” Aldor said. “Please, eat. It would be a shame for such delicious food to get cold.”
The ambassador deftly pulled a leg off her bird and buried her teeth with relish into the white meat. Aldor followed her example.
“I think they might have overdone it with the spices,” the Latanian woman smiled wryly. “Sometimes, my cook likes to take things too far.”
“You have nothing to worry about,” Aldor replied quickly. “This is the best thing I’ve had since my travels with Lord Gregor.”
“In that case, you should dine with me more often. I swear, the next time we’ll have you licking your fingers.”
Aldor took a sip of wine and cut off a succulent chunk of meat.
“Our best people went with Lord Gregor, and I’m sure they won’t let anything happen to him. Also, I would like to see the person who can threaten anyone as renowned as him.”
Irital put her uneaten leg down in disgusted before throwing back the rest of her wine.
“Water,” she said hoarsely. “How do you ruin such a tender bird?”
“That’s odd—my meat couldn’t be more savory,” the baron said in surprise. He noticed that the color had even gone out of the Latanian’s cheeks. “And how do you make partridge inedible with a few extra spices?”
The Latanian servant girl filled a small cup and handed it to her mistress. Irital emptied it in a few gulps.
“Wait a second…” Aldor looked at the woman’s shaking hands. The ambassador was pale and starting to choke, her delicate shoulders jerking. The terrified servant girl froze with eyelashes batting helplessly. With a crash, the cup dropped out of the Latanian’s spasming hands onto the carpeted floor.
“Help…”
The baron leaped to his feet, threw his chair back, and ran over to Irital, who was sagging to the floor. Her eyes rolled back, and foam dribbled from the corner of her mouth.
“Poison!” Aldor roared. “Get the healer, now!”
The servant girl screamed and dashed out of the chambers. A second later, the guard rushed in, alerted by the cries. Aldor barked at him angrily.
“Close the gates! Nobody gets out. And put the cook and servants under guard.”
The soldier backed away, staring at the twitching body of the Latanian.
“Did you hear me?”
“Yes…yes, sir!”
“Get to it!”
Irital convulsed and groaned. The baron continued holding her, racking his brains for what he could do to help. He glanced over at the table, at his uneaten brisket, at the ambassador’s overly seasoned partridge… The poison could have been in with the spices.
“The bird,” he said, the truth dawning on him. “The damn bird.”
The ambassador had mentioned that they’d prepared two partridges, one of which she’d given to her servants when she found out too late that he didn’t enjoy poultry.
And that meant that somebody else was going to die inside the walls that day.
“Lady Irital,” the baron said, gently shaking the woman by her delicate shoulders. “Curses! Stay with me, I’m begging you.”
The door to the chambers flew open. In rushed the castle healer, a stocky man wearing a long, black robe, with an equally black hat on his head and a large bag thrown over his shoulder. Confusion was plastered all over his face, and the baron had a hard time blaming him. Poisoners were despised in Highligland to the point that nobody really knew what to do when someone was poisoned. To Aldor’s surprise, Brother Aristid flew into the room behind the healer. But there was no time to ask what the itinerant monk was doing in the chambers. The servant girl paced the threshold, wailing and crying.
“Move her to the bed!” the healer ordered. “Bring me a pitcher of water and charcoal!”
“The charcoal will damage her throat.” The monk started digging through his small bag. “Better dissolve this powder in the water. It’s crushed tyrosine, and it’ll get her to vomit and clear her stomach.
The castle doctor stared at the man of god in shock.
“I’ve heard of tyrosine—it’s an eastern drug. Give it to me.” He grabbed the sack of powder out of Aristid’s hand. The servant girl was already holding a pitcher of water out to him. “How much?”
“Three pinches. And bring me a basin or a chamber pot. If we’re lucky, the lady is going to have a hell of a time vomiting.”
The healer dropped the powder into the pitcher and shook it hurriedly.
“We’re going to need a tube for her throat,” Brother Aristid said, demonstrating the shape with his hand. “Do you have anything like that?”
“Yes, I think so,” the doctor replied. “It’s just that nobody’s ever been poisoned in the castle. This isn’t your Gatson or Ennia—they kill people with iron around here.”
“Well, I’ve had to deal with poisons many times.” The itinerant monk looked through the healer’s bag and pulled the tube out of the very bottom. “Hold the lady with her head back and open her mouth.”
Aldor had seen limbs lopped off, terrible wounds, arms and legs lost to gangrene. Gaping stomach wounds and slippery organs flopping out meant nothing to him. But watching the fat tube forced down the throat of the helpless, fragile girl terrified him. The view made him want to turn and lose his dinner, but force of will quelled the spasm and kept his eyes forward. The monk finished pushing the instrument down the Latanian’s throat before pouring the water with the emetic powder into it.
“And now we wait,” the man of god said, sighing heavily as he carefully pulled the tube out of Irital. “I hope the Keeper will hear my prayers.”
The golden-haired servant girl huddled near the headboard, wiping away the foam and drool from her mistress’ face. The castle healer looked at the monk with awe.
“I didn’t know the masters could heal with anything besides prayers.”
“I’m not a master; I’m an itinerant brother of the church,” the monk replied. “I go to many places, and the more I know and can do, the better my chances are of surviving. It’s not everywhere that the followers of the Way are given a warm welcome.”
Aldor shook himself.
“Brother Aristid, you wouldn’t be capable of identifying the poison, would you? I saved Lady Irital’s food.”
The man of god shrugged uncertainly.
“That depends. Some substances are impossible to identify.”
“The ambassador ate half her food and complained that the cook had overdone it with the spices.” The baron took Irital’s plate off the table and handed it to the monk. Brother Aristid lifted a piece of uneaten partridge to his nose and closed his eyes, breathing in deeply. Then he licked it, rolled it around on his tongue, and suddenly spat onto the floor.
“Drinna’s Blessing,” he said after some thought.
“Whose blessing?” Aldor asked.
“Drinna’s Blessing is the name of the poison. I’m surprised it was added to poultry, although that explains why there were so many spices…”
“But why wasn’t it just put in the wine? That would’ve been simpler.”
The monk shook his head wearily.
“Not at all. Drinna’s Blessing brightens the wine, leaves a residue, and is just generally visible, which makes it impractical. Very strange…”
“What’s bothering you, holy brother?”
“Are there any Ennians in your castle? The poison that was used on this woman is very expensive, but highly effective. They call it the aristocrat’s death since it acts gently and tenderly. First, the victim has a hard time breathing, then their limbs start to shake, convulsions kick in, and finally, they fall asleep. After they die, the body doesn’t bloat, there aren’t any of your typical splotches on the face. The person looks like they just went to sleep. And that’s where the name comes from—Drinna was the ancient Ennian goddess of the night.”
“I’m impressed that you know all that, though I have no idea where you’d get that kind of poison i
n Ellisdor,” Aldor replied with a frown. “Is there an antidote?”
“The important thing is to not wait until the victim falls asleep, since waking them up is impossible. Whoever came up with this ungodly way of doing it wanted the victim to go with as little pain as possible.”
Suddenly, Irital wheezed, and something gurgled in her throat.
“Quickly, turn her over onto her side,” the monk cried. “Otherwise, she’ll choke on her vomit.”
It was like the ambassador suddenly turned inside out. Her slender body, supported by the arms of the servant girl and the healer, was wracked with spasms. Brownish liquid splashed all over part of the bed and the floor, and Irital groaned between attacks. It didn’t look like she had any idea what was going on.
Aldor prayed that the monk’s treatment would work, unwilling to picture the duke’s rage in his head. If Gregor’s sweetheart didn’t live, Aldor knew he’d be the first to lose his head.
Finally, Irital’s rasps calmed. She lost consciousness once again, softening into the arms of the healer. The servant girl carefully pulled the dirty bedspread out from under her.
“What now?” the baron asked.
Brother Aristid pulled out his sack. “One more pitcher, back to the tube.”
“Can she take it?”
“Latanians are tougher than you and me, even their women,” the monk replied with a smile. “Although, I’ll be honest, this is the first time I’ve had to deal with one of them being poisoned. I don’t know if there’s anything different about their body.”
Aldor nodded.
“Will you be okay here without me?”
“Of course. You’ve done everything you can, Your Grace. Leave the poor girl to the doctors.”
“Agreed—I’m not much use here.” Aldor buttoned up his wool cloak. “I’m going to go look for the other body.”
Mixing in more powder, the monk raised his brows questioningly.
“When the ambassador invited me to dinner, she had two partridges cooked. But the servants told her I don’t like poultry, so she had them make something for me and give the other bird to the servants. I need to go see who else that Drinna blessed.”
“I’ll be praying,” Aristid said with a quick nod.
“Pray for Her Grace. If she doesn’t make it… Heal her, and you’ll save us all.”
Chapter 17. Missolen
Demos avoided speaking personally with Archella’s people, leaving that to his bodyguards. They’d long since been trusted aides as well, though he was about to break with tradition. The problem he was working on took complete mutual understanding and strict security.
Back in the familiar gloom of his office, the treasurer was able to take a good look at the person standing with his back to the wall. He was a well-built, broad-shouldered man of average height with dark-brown hair trimmed short, and he was dressed unpretentiously and practically. A soldier’s sword served as his weapon. Hearing Demos and Lahel, their guest turned. Devaton caught a sliver of a smile on the nondescript face covered in stubble.
“Is that him?” Demos asked Ihraz as the latter disappeared into the darkness.
“Yes. Master Archella sends his regards and put this man at your service.”
Demos glanced at the spy.
“Master Sauli used to work with us. Why you this time?”
His guest shrugged.
“Sauli—how do I say this?—no longer meets the requirements of the guild. I took his place.”
In other words, Master Sauli disappointed you.
“Your name?”
“Yun,” the guest replied with a short bow. “Master Yun.”
“Are you a soldier?” Demos looked down at the spy’s sword. “That looks like an Osvendian blade, the kind they equip soldiers with up north.”
“Your knowledge of weapons flatters you, Your Grace. I was a scout near Belfur.”
“Why did you leave the service?”
“My contract ended. Galloping around woods and forests is important, but I found it boring. I wanted to work with my head and earn some extra coin. My introduction to Master Archella happened at the perfect time.”
“I’d imagine you’re very familiar with the eastern part of the continent,” Devaton more stated than asked.
“I know every hole in Osvendis, and Belter is pretty close. I’m less familiar with Rikenaar, but that can be remedied.”
“What about Targos?”
“Doesn’t matter if it’s Rundkar,” Yun said with a gruff chuckle. “The guild has eyes and ears everywhere.”
“That’s good.” Demos leaned on his cane, giving his leg a break. “The job I need you to handle is a delicate one.”
“I wouldn’t take it if it weren’t.”
“Sauli was the same way, though he clearly made a mistake.”
“I’m not Sauli,” came the quiet reply. “I’m much better than he was.”
And you have a closet full of skeletons, I imagine.
“We shall see. I couldn’t care less who in your guild thinks they’re the best—all I care about is the result.” The treasurer continued looking over the new spy. “As far as the job goes, I need more than just your silence. I need you to not be seen in the first place. Disappear, move around imperceptibly, never leave any traces. Call that what you will, Master Yun, but I think we understand each other.”
The response was a ready nod.
“That won’t be a problem.”
“All the better.” Demos sat down on a couch, took a drink of wine, and grimaced. The sweet Targosian wine exploded in his mouth and all over his teeth like a bomb made of honeycomb. “This time, it’s all about your ability to get information and find people. If everything goes as planned, you won’t have to kill anyone.”
“Sounds a bit boring,” Yun replied. “But you’re the client. What’s your price for the guild’s work?”
Devaton tapped wordlessly on the edge of the table with an overgrown fingernail. Ihraz, understanding the signal, showed the guest a box the size of two fists filled with gold aure from the imperial mint. The spy glanced over and whistled.
“I take back what I said. It’s a very interesting offer indeed.”
“That’s the only kind I know,” Demos replied, running a finger over the scar near his ear the way he always did when he was thinking. “Okay, you need to find a woman by the name of Sister Tanal.”
“She’s a nun?”
“She may not look the part.” Devaton reached over to the table and pulled a medallion out of a drawer. It was adorned with a miniature portrait of a black-haired woman with a high forehead and a predatory look on her face. “This picture is about five years old, though she’s barely changed since then. She left the capital in secret to become a sister in the church. Also, she says she took the name Tanal and now belongs to the cloister in Ulfiss.”
“East of Osvendis…brutal,” Yun sighed as he looked over the portrait. “A noble lady, I imagine.”
“You have no idea how noble. Well, you can probably guess. She’s missing. Sauli went looking for her and reported back that she never showed up in Ulfiss, so now I’m wondering which of them was lying.”
The spy carefully placed the medallion in his pocket. Devaton slouched back on the cushions, unable to hold back a blissful smile.”
“There’s a chance the woman set off secretly for Targos. I’d like you to look for her there, too.”
“Targos… I have friends there.”
Demos took a small scroll off the table and handed it to Yun.
“Here are the names, positions, and addresses of people who might have helped her plan her escape. To start with, work them over, just do it secretly. Then, look for tracks in Targos. Report back to me personally.”
The hireling studied the list before sticking it in his pocket, a satisfied look on his face.
“That’s even better. We have somewhere to start.”
“You need to get information without drawing attention to yourself. Nothing
else is important.”
“Will we be getting a deposit to cover our expenses?”
Devaton pointed at the casket with the gold.
“There’s your deposit right there,” he said with a laugh. “I highly value the services of your guild.”
“All the gods, dead and alive! I’ll tell you this right now: working with you is a joy and a pleasure.”
“In that case, I’ll count on your complete dedication to the job.”
“We’ve never given you reason to doubt us,” Yun grinned. “Would you mind if I asked you one more question before I left?”
“Go ahead, Master Yun.”
“It’ll be easier for me if I know the woman’s worldly name.”
“Empress Izara Targosian.”
Not a single muscle on the hireling’s face twitched.
This guy has balls of steel.
Yun carefully poured the gold out of the casket and into his pouch with a broad smile.
“Well, that explains everything. Turns out, I was right.”
At least one of us can see this thing clearly. A luxury in times like this.
“Is that all?” Demos rubbed his eyes, fighting a sudden weakness that had come over him.
By the dead gods, could you get out of here? I can barely hold myself upright.
“You won’t be disappointed, Your Grace. Goodbye.”
Master Yon bowed shortly and left the room via the open window.
Chapter 18. Ellisdor
The castle was at a standstill. The gates had been closed despite the protests of the people who hadn’t left for the city in time, while the guard had been doubled. Even some troops newly arrived that morning were pressed into service. The servants who weren’t under lock and key were walking on eggshells to avoid attracting the steward’s wrath.
On his way down to the kitchen, Aldor thought back once more to his incredibly good fortune. The courtesy of making a new dish had been all that had saved him.
“We need a tester,” he muttered to himself.
The kitchen staff had been locked up in complete darkness. Absolutely everyone was in the cells—cooks, maids, assistant boys. In the meantime, the baron was focused on finding that second partridge or, at the very least, its victim. The influx of refugees meant that every handful of grain was accounted for, and somebody had to have noticed the delectable aroma the roasted bird would have given off. But the kitchen servants swore up and down that they hadn’t touched it. Judging by the fact that they were all in good health, they were probably telling the truth, too. Hans did the best he could, digging through all the jars and baskets in the kitchen, sticking his nose into all the vats of leftovers and trash. But there was nothing to be found.
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