by Sam Hawke
PROOFING CUES: Detectable bitter, acrid taste and pungent smell.
4
Kalina
I woke my brother with tea, made more out of habit than desire. Our diversion attack had petered out by dawn, after the new catapult had broken, and everyone sought their beds for some rest. Confined to our apartments long before then, I’d slept too deeply to even hear the commotion. Though guilt lingered for having rested in those circumstances, there was only so much my body could do, and now at least the gray fog of exhaustion had lifted from my head, and the worst of the soreness from my joints. Outside, daylight had progressed over our groggy city; there had been no more alarm bells throughout the night or morning.
While Jovan had taken a few hours of rest, I had searched our proofing tome and reference books in the hopes of finding something we had missed. Jov was convinced the poisoning and the attack on the city were linked, and until we had better intelligence about the motivations for this apparent rebellion, the only mystery to which I could put my mind was the murder. But all I had accomplished, besides some thin distraction, was confirmation that we knew nothing of the poison that had killed Etan and the Chancellor.
My brother’s initial conclusions were right; none of the known poisons could have produced the symptoms Thendra presented in her report. This poison was corrosive but incorporated some kind of pain-numbing component, like maidenbane, and left no trace in the vomit or excrement. Unlike maidenbane, though, it was capable of killing in a single dose and sufficiently odorless and tasteless to have gone undetected in Etan’s food. The only two single-dose, fatal undetectable poisons in our book were rare and complex substances that hadn’t been used on a person in all of Silasta’s recorded history, and both caused immediate and dramatic symptoms. Nothing fit. Whatever had felled our uncle was outside our knowledge.
Jovan emerged immaculate with his habitual air of precision and symmetry, but for the puffiness and scabs from his still-new extended tattoo on one arm. We drank our tea swiftly and without ritual at the table, beside the food prepared last night and meticulously laid out ready for Tain. Even after the night he’d had, Jov had not neglected his duty.
“Is there a Council meeting?”
He nodded. “Midmorning, if things stay quiet. Gave us all enough time for some rest. I don’t think the army will wait long to attack again; the longer they give us, the more time we’ll have to build defensive weapons and get organized.”
“I read Halka’s account of the great siege of Katan last night.” Katan was once an independent southwestern city state, now part of the Talafar Empire, famously attacked by the now-dispersed warrior clans of Bari for three straight months. Halka was a scholar who had survived it and immigrated to Silasta. Thankfully, she had learned our written language and published in it; I would never have made it through the tome with my Talafan. “No weapons broke its walls, but they’d have been starved out if the Empire hadn’t arrived when it did.” The book had been a sobering read, with its tales of internal rioting and disease. The Bari clans hadn’t realized how close Katan had come to destroying itself while they waited outside. “Without the harvests, we don’t have the food to hold out for three months.”
“We won’t have to,” he said. “Aven will be back long before then. Within days, we can hope. We just need to sit tight.”
“And protect Tain,” I added, handing the parcel of prepared food to him as he tied his paluma.
He nodded, grave. “I think this engages Etan’s rules of coincidence. The poisoning and the rebellion are connected; I just don’t know yet whether Tain’s in danger or if it was only an attempt to destabilize us before they attacked. No one poisoned Tain, and he was there at that luncheon right along with Caslav.”
“But he wasn’t meant to be,” I pointed out. “You turned up days early. The Chancellor basically forced Tain to go so he could berate him—no one was expecting him.” To that reassuring thought, I added, “And poison isn’t the only way to get to him. He has servants who can protect him from direct attacks, but can we trust them?”
We shared an uneasy look. We were under siege, apparently from our own people; it was hardly unthinkable that they might have agents working in service roles in the cities.
“Until we figure out what’s going on, we can’t do much about that,” Jov said, but he looked uncomfortable. “One of us should be with Tain as much as possible. Speaking of which, I’d better get to the Manor.”
I let him go, finished my almost-cold tea, then slipped out myself. I too wanted to go to the Manor, but for a different purpose. I couldn’t attend a Council meeting, fight in a battle, or protect Tain from poison, but I had my own skills, and perhaps they were more suited to finding an enemy than even my brother’s. Someone had poisoned the leksot as well as the Chancellor, whether to falsely divert suspicion to the Talafan noble—I stopped suddenly, realizing Lord Ectar was probably still under guard at the Manor; had someone even told him what was happening?—or to disguise the murder as an accident. But Jov had taken the leksot to the Manor straight from the lunch, which meant either the poisoner had dosed the animal earlier as part of a plan, or he or she had gained access to it at the Manor.
Rather than follow my brother’s path up the great drive and to the main entrance, I took the back roads around to the servants’ entrance. The Manor had three wings: the servants’ wing, which contained the kitchens, laundries, and living quarters for the Chancellor’s household staff; the official business wing, containing the Council chambers, library, meeting and entertaining rooms, and the gardens; and the private wing, with the living rooms for the Chancellor and his or her family. The servants’ entrance, normally bustling with deliveries and activity, was closed up, eerily quiet.
The door was latched but opened to my tentative knock. A pockmarked man asked my business, rudely at first and then with greater deference when his gaze caught my tattoos. “Chancellor’s business to the main entrance, Credola,” he told me, confused. His crooked teeth made a whistling sound when he spoke.
“I need to examine all access points to the Manor,” I told him, trying to sound official. I pushed in, channeling someone more confident than myself as I breezed past. “We’re in a siege, man. We need to know how secure every building is if the city is stormed. And we might be facing thefts of food or supplies in the meantime. Who can get in here?”
He scurried after me. “Well, we take deliveries here, Credola. And anyone with a Manor chit could come through, of course. But the Chancellor stood down most of the staff because of the emergency; it’s only the kitchen on today.” A hum of noise and the spicy smell of baking fish wafted out as we passed the kitchen entrance.
“What about access to the other wings? Where’s the internal connection?”
He gestured ahead to a door at the top of a short set of steps. “The connecting passage is through there, Credola. It is always locked. The duty servant for the day only gives keys to staff assigned in the personal and business wings. All keys are returned at the end of the shift.”
I examined the door casually. Locked, as he said; nothing so sophisticated that it would be impenetrable to a skilled lockpick, but nothing that could be done too quickly, either.
According to the head cook in Lazar’s kitchen, none of the staff had been excused for a break all afternoon. Even if someone had slipped out unnoticed, it would have been difficult to come in through this normally busy area unseen, or to get through into the Manor proper without authorization. I supposed it was possible that servants working together, one in the Manor and one in Lazar’s, could have managed it, but if one of the Manor servants with access to the Chancellor’s personal wing was involved, why bother to poison Caslav at Lazar’s? There would have been easier opportunities in his own home.
I thanked the confused servant still trailing me, and retraced my steps back to the road. Stopping beside the gates to rub my aching wrists, I looked up at the main entrance. If the poisoner hadn’t come in through the se
rvants’ wing, there was really only one other option.
* * *
Argo had kept the front entrance of the Manor for the better part of five decades. His heavily lined and folded face seemed perpetually stuck in a solemn frown, and his movements had a slow, fluttery quality that called to mind a moth. He sat at his usual post by the door as if nothing had changed.
“Credola Kalina,” he said. “Have you come to see the Chancellor? The Council meeting is still going, I’m afraid.”
“No,” I said. “I’ve come to see you, Argo.”
His mouth dropped open a little, showing the gaps in his teeth, and his eyebrows rose.
“I was hoping you’d be able to help me. You keep a log of everyone who comes to the Manor, don’t you?”
He nodded. “I record all comings and goings, unless I’m otherwise instructed by the Chancellor.”
“And you always keep it? What about nighttime?” It seemed stupid to ask, but I needed to be thorough. I’d never seen anyone but him at the entrance.
“I’ve a room behind here,” he huffed, gesturing to a door. “If anyone but the Chancellor wants admission after I lock up, they have to ring the bell and wake me.”
A great tome rested beneath Argo’s closed fists. “Do you think I could take a look?”
He stared, hands frozen on the book, dark eyes suspicious. His protectiveness decided me; this was a time for honesty, not deception. “I need to know everyone who was in the Manor the day Chancellor Caslav died,” I said. “You’re the only one who knows that. Please, Argo. It’s important.”
A long silence, then Argo slid the tome across the desk to me. “Wasn’t like any sickness I’ve ever seen,” he said, so quietly I barely heard it. Our gazes met before he dropped his and resumed his usual impassive expression.
Argo’s neat handwriting recorded orderly lines of dates, names, and even purposes in the well-kept book. I turned the stiff pages back three days. I skimmed through the times, my finger lingering on my uncle’s name for a moment.
The list of visitors between the time Jov had brought the leksot to the Manor until the time when the Chancellor had shown symptoms and rumors had begun flowing around the city was longer than I’d expected. It included accountants, the librarian, and Thendra the physic, all before the time I had found the leksot. I looked for names of people who had been at the lunch: there was Jov, bringing the leksot; the Chancellor returning from lunch; later Etan and Jovan again; and me. But interspersed were other Councilors: Credo Bradomir for a meeting with Caslav in the early afternoon; Credola Varina, the Theater-Guilder, to inspect the indoor theater for the upcoming concert for the Chancellor’s birthday celebrations. My own Guild leader, the Scribe-Guilder Budua, had met with Caslav’s personal scribe, and both Marco and Eliska had separately visited the library. Credo Javesto had “sought the Theater-Guilder on personal business.”
Six Councilors had been in the Manor the afternoon of Caslav and Etan’s deaths with enough time to have poisoned the leksot. I looked back down the list. Each notation included the arrival and exit time. The longest visits had been Marco and Eliska, then Budua and Bradomir. My gaze lingered over Javesto’s name. He had been in the Manor only a short time, and had left with the Theater-Guilder. So he had, as claimed, met up with Varina. Still, a conveniently vague reason for a visit.
I borrowed paper from Argo and made some quick notes. “Thank you,” I said, smiling at the old man. I clutched the paper to my chest. Its insubstantial weight belied its contents. It might not have the answer we needed, yet, but it was a step forward. “I’m going to go to the library now,” I told him.
“I hope you find what you’re looking for, Credola,” Argo said.
* * *
I did pay a short call to the library; the librarian was absent, but I found a Talafar history book worth investigating—the Empire had been involved in several sieges over the past few centuries, and there might be something of value to learn in there. But soon after I was nestled up in my spy hole above the Council chamber. Jov would report everything that happened, of course, but this gave me the chance to observe the Councilors myself, and I wanted to do so armed with my new knowledge about who had had direct access to the leksot and to the Chancellor that day.
They had converted the great Council table into a giant map. Chalk lines on the surface marked out the two halves of Silasta, separated by the lake in the center and the whole circumference surrounded by walls. Both bridges—Bell’s to the south at the river mouth and Trickster’s to the north at the marshes—were indicated, as well as the road and river gates and their accompanying towers. Remains of the old fortifications on the east side of the lake had also been set out, though those walls had been largely dismantled after the city expanded and only the Finger, the tower at the east side of Trickster’s Bridge, remained of the old west wall.
Lighter chalk marks divided the rough circle of Silasta into wedge-shaped sectors, each marked with a family or guild symbol. The Oromani symbol lay over a section of the upper city on the north side.
The mood in the chamber was somber. I had missed the inevitable bickering that must have accompanied the division of sectors, but after listening for a while Marco’s plan became apparent. Each Councilor would be responsible for an area of town and a section of the walls, with the Order Guards and messengers split between the sectors to help coordinate the defense of that area. Citizens would be allocated to each sector to ensure each had enough bodies patrolling the walls and preparing weapons and machinery.
“With careful management of our food and weapons, we can withstand this siege,” Marco said. He looked too big, perched on the edge of the Council chair as though he couldn’t settle into the plush furnishings. He sweated under the scrutiny of the rest of the Councilors.
“And then what happens?” Credola Nara asked, scowling. Was there extra venom in her tone? Her family hated Tain’s. For a short period the Ash family had been the ruling family, but it had been decimated by the sleeping sore sickness and thereafter had such a dearth of female heirs that its very survival had been in doubt. The Council had voted the Iliri family back to the Chancellery generations ago, but I saw the way she looked hungrily at the chair Tain now occupied.
“Our army will come back, hopefully within days, and theirs will be trapped between Warrior-Guilder Aven and our walls,” Tain said. “At which point they may be inclined to honor a peace flag and negotiate.”
Credo Lazar scoffed. “Why would we bother? Let Aven crush them and be done with it.” He seemed to have regained some of his diminished confidence.
“I agree,” Eliska said, vehement. She rubbed the back of her neck with one hand as she spoke. “They’re either invaders or traitors to their own country.”
Several other Councilors nodded or murmured agreement. Javesto caught my attention, tightening his lips and following the conversation in silence, his eyes expressive. Something lay beyond the surface there. If this really was a rebellion, was Javesto’s recent ascension to the Council part of some broader plan? He had grown up outside Silasta, after all, and was the only Councilor to have done so other than Marco. His excuse to visit the Manor on that fateful afternoon had also been the weakest.
“If we can spare more bloodshed, on either side, that’s the best outcome,” Tain said.
“Pah! If we wipe out the treacherous lot, that’s the best outcome,” Nara said.
Javesto shrugged. “And who do you suppose will work our estates and grow our food then, Credola Nara? I know you’re in excellent condition for your age, but I can tell you I don’t particularly want to farm my own lands, that’s for certain.” The image of the extravagantly dressed Credo tending a field garnered a few awkward laughs.
“Warrior-Guilder, what about the food rationing? Shall we coordinate a central distribution to ration stations?”
As talk moved on to food management, I gazed about the room, noting who agreed with whom, who stayed silent, who deferred to Tain, and who hesitat
ed. Tain wielded greater control than he had the other day, but still the Families jostled to be seen to “guide” him. I caught both Budua and Marjeta, the Scribe and Artist Guilders, glancing at Jovan when Tain emphasized that all Silastians, including the Council and the Families, should partake in the rationing. Caslav had eaten in private as much as possible, but events like that last fatal lunch had always been a challenge to secrecy. There was no telling who might have noticed Etan and Caslav’s relationship, and drawn inferences. If the poisoner knew Jovan was more than just a close friend and adviser to Tain, we had lost one of our biggest advantages. Of course, Budua and Marjeta might simply have glanced at my brother by chance. I doubted someone of Marjeta’s legendary warmth and gentleness could be a murderer, and she and Budua had been lovers for so long it was hard to imagine one being involved without the other.
I blinked. Talk had moved on and I had lost it.
“… would help if you could arrange access for me,” Tain was saying, his dark gaze fixed on the Scribe-Guilder.
Budua tightened her spidery lips and shrugged. “Of course, Honored Chancellor,” she said. “However, the city has never been under siege, so I can’t imagine why a previous Council would have had any useful discussions.”
“We didn’t start out as a peaceful people,” Tain reminded her. “Our ancestors were warriors, and they built this city expecting resistance. I can’t imagine everyone took kindly to us settling here and securing the best trade route in the continent. There must have been extensive conversations about defense from the Council in our early history.”
Budua lifted her shoulders again.
“In any case, I wish to review them,” Tain said, and this time he used his best Chancellor voice.
“As you will, Honored Chancellor,” Budua said. “I will arrange for you to be shown the archives when it is convenient.” She glanced at Marjeta, and when she moved one hand from the tabletop it left a tiny smear of sweat behind. I wondered what was in those records to cause her nervousness, and my earlier confidence about Budua and Marjeta’s involvement evaporated.
