The Poison Master

by Liz Williams

  “Alivet?” Genever asked, puzzled. “What's the matter?”

  “Nothing. I—” She could not simply march up to the fellow and demand to know if he had been stalking her. The figure on the causeway had borne all the marks of a dream or vision. Doubtless it had been nothing more than a remnant of the drug. But then what was this red-eyed person doing here? Who was he, and what?

  Unnerved, Alivet followed Genever and Madimi toward the fume room.

  “That person over there, the one reading the newspaper,” she said. “Did you see him?”

  To her relief Genever replied, “Yes. What strange eyes he had, hadn't he? They had no whites. Perhaps they were lenses.”

  “Have you seen anyone like him before?”

  “Never. Maybe he is from somewhere deep in the fens. There are some curious folk in the backwaters, I believe. There are said to be people who follow anube practices, who erect poles in emulation of sacrificial pedestals. It's safer to have nothing to do with such people.” Genever dismissed the man with a languid flick of the fingers, but his eyes met Alivet's in mutual understanding and she knew that he was thinking of the Search. No one spoke of the Search outside the confines of its practice. “You'd be wise to stay away from such a one.”

  “I've no quarrel with that,” said Alivet.

  By now they had reached the door of the fume room and Alivet only just remembered to remove Madimi's nose-plugs in time. The Lady gasped, assailed by a thousand odors. Alivet's careful nose dissected, selected, and considered. Lantium dust made a brief foray into her neural synapses, encountered recognition, and withdrew. Serenity powder served only to make her sneeze these days, but jherolie was as sweet and pungent as it had ever been. Alivet looked at the rapturous visage of Madimi Garland, besieged by a hundred hallucinogenic odors, and tried to glean a vicarious thrill. But she had long since ceased to be a pharmacological virgin.

  She gave the girl a little push between the shoulder blades. Might as well get on with it.

  “What can we try first?” the Lady breathed.

  Alivet considered this question. Better not start her off on something too powerful, or too long-lasting. After all, this was supposed to be an introductory session. Her mind moved briskly through a number of possibilities. She drew Genever aside.

  “How about sozoma? Mild enough to be a good introductory substance, brief enough for her to move onto something more potent.”

  “Sounds all right to me,” Genever said, wearily.

  “Try not to be too enthusiastic, Brother Thant.”

  Genever gave a small smile. “I was wondering whether there was any amusement to be gained in giving her a good heavy dose of rupe. That would be an introduction she'd never forget.”

  “You can't do that!” Alivet was scandalized, though she was almost certain he was joking. “I'd prefer it if clients came back from time to time. We could do with the money. Anyway, I don't fancy watching the poor girl sweat and shriek out the next few hours. It would be a cruel and pointless thing to do. And I'd like an early night.”

  Whatever Genever's current level of ennui, he could still be reminded of his responsibilities. “You're probably right,” he said. “You brought some sozoma, of course?”

  “It's in my bag.”

  “Let's get started, then,” Genever said, guiding Madimi Garland to a nearby couch. “Now, you sit there for a moment. Don't worry, we won't start you off on anything very pungent to begin with. Your sensibilities need to become acclimatized to different psychosomatic inputs. We're going to give you a mildly hallucinogenic fume called sozoma.”

  The Lady gave a happy nod, but as they settled themselves on the couch, someone reached out and touched Genever's arm. Alivet glanced up.

  “Good evening,” someone purred. The woman had the florid tattoo of a voluptuary sect inscribed upon her left breast, which was barely restrained by a velvet mesh dress. “Remember me?” She gave Genever a sultry look, her gaze assessing Alivet and slanting past. “The Hessing's unbonding party, about two years ago. Do you still think about those peony bushes? I do.”

  It was clear from the look on his face that Genever hadn't the faintest idea who she was. Alivet remembered the Hessing's party, but not the woman. The event had been an affair of such unparalleled dullness that it would be no wonder if Genever had seduced a stranger in the shrubbery. However, it would be unthinkable to be rude and the woman had an aura of money, so Alivet was not surprised when Genever leaned across and whispered into the woman's jeweled ear, “How could I ever have forgotten?”

  The woman undulated against him, so close that Alivet could see the dilation of her pupils. She looked away, not wanting to appear too interested. As she did so, she saw the red-eyed man appear in the door of the fume room and look about him. He caught his lip between his teeth, all amused anticipation, then stepped through the door and strolled in the direction of the bar. Alivet stared at him with intense and covert curiosity. He wore long robes of some dark, rich material, but there was nothing very unusual about the clothes, no ceremonial marks or badges. He was moderately tall, and had a gliding walk, but there was nothing to really mark him apart from his odd countenance. It was impossible to estimate his age. Alivet forced herself to concentrate on Madimi.

  “If you'd like a repeat performance…” Alivet heard the voluptuary say.

  “Alas, I can't. I'm working tonight.” Genever sounded almost regretful. Alivet's glance slid back to the red-eyed man. He was staring directly at Alivet and she turned quickly away. As she did so, she saw his mocking smile return.

  “You poor man,” Genever's unknown paramour teased. “I'd better let you get back to these… little girls, then. But here's my address, if you did by any chance want to get in touch.” She spoke with a practiced seductiveness. Genever took the slip of paper and inserted it into one of the loops in his jacket. Kissing her on the cheek, he turned back to his client. Alivet pushed the long sleeves of her evening jacket out of the way, cast a last glance in the direction of the red- eyed man, then took the somoza from her bag and handed the little phial to her employer.

  “Brother Thant? Are you ready?” Their bound and blindfolded protégé was sitting hopefully on the couch.

  “Indeed we are, and I have your initial choice: a small quantity of sozoma. Now, set and setting are critical for a gratifying experience, and I suggest that you take a moment and think of some particularly favorite fantasy.”

  “What sort of fantasy?” Madimi Garland blushed beneath the blindfold. Obviously the Sisters of Restriction had been thorough in their asceticism, or her husband peculiarly inept. Genever reached out and touched her wrist with professional detachment.

  “To be perfectly frank, the drug works best with sexual images. It is of course up to you, and you don't have to tell me what they are.” Alivet was thankful for that. In this line of work, she had heard enough fumbling adolescent scenarios to last a lifetime. It was enough to put one off the practice, not that she had the time for that sort of thing anyway. She thought of the boys of Edgewhere and suppressed a smile. If her previous—and admittedly somewhat limited—experience was anything to go by, it wasn't as though she was missing a great deal.

  “I'll try and think of something,” Madimi Garland said, and now she sounded nervous. Telling her to relax would almost certainly have the opposite effect. Alivet patted the girl's thorn-ringed hand.

  “Just remember,” Alivet said soothingly, “there's really no wrong way to go about it.” Sozoma had been the obvious choice. Madimi Garland took a deep breath and let it out again. She quivered.

  “Are you thinking of something?” Genever inquired.

  “Yes,” the Lady whispered.

  Oh dear, thought Alivet, with resignation.

  “In that case, we can begin.” Genever snapped the glass teat at the end of the phial and held it under Madimi's nose. “Simply inhale.”

  Madimi Garland did so. Alivet saw the sparkling drift of sozoma lift from the phial and into the La
dy's arched nostrils. The Lady gave a shuddering gasp. What must it be like, Alivet wondered, to have such virginal synapses? She was unhappily certain that sozoma had never affected her so deeply. She looked back toward the bar. The red-eyed man was no longer there. His absence unnerved Alivet almost as much as his presence had done; it was like a spider in the room that suddenly vanishes. Yet his vanishing left a curious emotion in its wake, which after a moment Alivet identified as disappointment. She told herself to pay attention to Madimi.

  Madimi Garland slid limply back against the couch and closed her eyes. Her breathing deepened into trance.

  “Alivet?” Genever said, momentarily dropping the decadent facade. “I meant to tell you. I spoke to Hilliet Kightly just before you arrived. He says he's done the formulations you asked for.”

  “About time! I made the order up a week ago.”

  “He says he's had problems with the vetony—a bad batch, it seems.”

  “He said that last time. It's always the same old excuse.” She looked at the slumped form of Madimi Garland. “She'll be out cold for an hour or so. Do you want me to pick up the formulations now?” Hilliet Kightly's office was upstairs, after all, and it would save her making a return appointment. Genever echoed her thoughts.

  “Why not? It'll save time later.”

  Alivet wondered whether he might be trying to get rid of her, but it didn't matter. She looked covertly around for the red-eyed man, but he was nowhere to be seen.

  At the door, Alivet glanced back. As she had expected, Genever's lady friend had returned and was now perched on the arm of the couch, above the prone body of Madimi Garland. Alivet smiled sourly. Clearly Genever was seeking yet another diversion.

  The hallway that led to the private offices was hushed and dim, smelling of old incense and new polish; of wood varnished with gilt resin and amber, and thick sea-wool rugs brought all the way from the Isles of Mice. A dozen elevators stood at the far end, as ornamented as sarcophagi. Alivet fidgeted impatiently as the ancient lift rattled upward, then touched her tattooed palm to the office bell. After a moment, the door opened.

  The formulator had evidently been working late. Plates littered the desk and a strong smell of fried samphire filtered throughout the suite. In the public alchematorium where Alivet had her own rented cubicle, a policy had been agreed that no food was to be allowed onto the premises in case it disrupted the careful balance of odors achieved in each apprentice's cupboard, but the Port Tree formulators clearly considered themselves to be above such protocols. Alivet frowned. Hilliet Kightly, not at all discomfited, gave her a greasy smile, embellished with flakes of crab.

  “You've come for your formulations? Such dedication! And they say that the young today have no sense of responsibility. It is a pretty thing to see.”

  “My formulations, please.”

  Kightly slid from behind his desk, but Alivet snatched her hand back before he could slobber fish all over it.

  “You won't stay and have a drink? It's getting late, after all.”

  “I'm working. Where are my formulations?”

  “In the lab, on the desk. But I have a bottle of wine, a very fine vintage. Just let me find a couple of glasses, and—”

  He stepped forward but his bulk slowed him down. Alivet dodged past and was through the alchematorium door, quick as a snake in a garden. He had only enough time to snatch at her flying braid and tweak it. Like an overgrown schoolboy, fat on his secret fish. The pull on her braid had hurt, but Alivet kept her mouth shut. A tug of her hair was one thing; if the old bastard tried anything else she'd follow her aunty's advice and give him a good kick in the yarbles.

  Once again, she thanked the Wheel that Genever did not make a habit of molesting his colleagues. She slammed the door of the alchematorium shut behind her, taking momentary pleasure in the familiar ambience of a hundred, layered odors. Crucibles and alembics lined the walls, connected by the usual array of pipes and wires to the athanor furnace. Smaller burners stood beneath them, caked with a filthy residue, and the stone worktops were stained. A cold cup of herb tea stood on one of them, ringed with mold. Alivet frowned. Did Kightly's people take no pride in their work? She had heard that he used male apprentices; perhaps that accounted for the squalor. Employing boys, indeed, and putting honest girls out of a job. She would believe anything of Kightly.

  A phial of unfinished perfume stood on the workbench, redolent of spinet resin and old opium. And a faint under- note of fish, Alivet noted with displeasure, which she would love to stop and filter out. But there was no time. Damn Hilliet Kightly and his culinary flagrance.

  The formulations stood on the desk. Alivet ran swiftly through the order form. There were substances here from all over the fens: a spiral of gland-wood from Arden, a crush of lamp seeds, a phial of dust from the Fragrant Mulch Cliffs, and the vetony. With care, Alivet made the formulations into a bundle, closed the safe, and unlocked the alchematorium door.

  Kightly was waiting by the entrance. He stepped adroitly into her path as she came through.

  “You locked the door,” he remarked, archly. He clasped fat fingers, and rocked slightly upon his toes. She was reminded of a stout, unwholesome child's toy.

  “Did I? Sorry. Must be habit.” Foreseeing that if she dodged to one side, Kightly would move as well, Alivet stayed still. He took a step forward. She could smell him. And city folk had the gall to say that the women of the marshes smelled of fish. Her aunt had always made sure that they were well scrubbed, morning and night, yet here was Kightly reeking of carp and clearly thinking that Alivet was no better than she should be.

  “Genever works you too hard. You're young, should be out enjoying yourself, having fun—a pretty little thing like you.”

  “I do go out and enjoy myself. But not tonight. I'm working.”

  “Well, hark at Little Miss Prim.” Kightly was about to get nasty. She'd seen the same thing in her father when she was a child: the sudden shift from jovial aggression to genuine spite. Maybe Kightly would manage to drown himself, too, and do everyone a favor.

  A well-aimed kick would probably sort him out, but then again, he was one of Genever's most useful contacts and since she actually had to work in this city, temporarily emasculating Kightly might not be the most helpful option. Besides, her long skirts were hampering; she wasn't wearing the fen- dweller's boots and trousers anymore. There had to be another way, and Kightly's personal fragrance provided an answer.

  “Wheel!” she said suddenly, and clutched at her throat. “What's that smell?”

  Kightly looked blank. “What smell?”

  Alivet, gagging, pointed to a corner of the room. “Coming from there… Can't you smell it? Maybe only an apothecary would—oh, no. I'm going to—” She retched convincingly, and Kightly stepped hastily back.

  “Sink,” Alivet gasped, and bolted through the door. Once out into the hallway, she did not bother with the elevator, but took the stairs two at a time.

  She came out onto the landing that led to the restaurant and the fume rooms. The landing was empty, but a murmur of voices came from the main hall. Alivet turned toward the doors of the fume room and nearly dropped the bundle of formulations as the red-eyed man slipped from the shadows to stand in her path.

  “Who are you?” Alivet asked, and to her dismay found that her voice was rising. “Are you following me?” Even more dismaying was the unfamiliar sense of excitement that accompanied this thought, a world away from her revulsion at the prospect of Kightly's roving hands. However, the stranger gave her a blank, blood-colored stare.

  “Madam?” he inquired, politely. “Do you happen to know where the lavatories might be?”

  Mortified, Alivet pointed down the hallway.

  “Thank you. I'm so sorry to have troubled you.”

  Without a second look, the man brushed past her in a flutter of brocaded robes and disappeared down the hall. Alivet hurried back into the fume bar, feeling that she had made a fool of herself. That worry, however, was
instantly diminished by the crisis occurring in the bar.

  Genever, accompanied by a small crowd of interested onlookers, was bending over the motionless form of Madimi Garland, and for the first time in Alivet's recollection, he looked alarmed.

  “Brother Thant? What's wrong?”

  “I don't know. She won't wake up. I tried to rouse her and she just—gargled.”

  “Maybe she choked,” someone supplied, helpfully.

  “On what?” Alivet asked. She dropped to her knees beside the girl and took Madimi's hand.

  “Madimi? Can you hear me? Are you all right?” Sometimes people grew faint under the influence of fumes and it took a while for them to come out of it. She shook the girl by the shoulder.

  “Alivet,” Genever said, sharply. “We have to bring her round. Where are the reviving salts?”

  Alivet fumbled in her bag.

  “Here.”

  “Well, give them to her, then.”

  “All right,” Alivet said. She had never heard Genever sound so impatient. “I'm working as fast as I can.”

  As she held the salts beneath Madimi's aristocratic nose, however, the girl grew rigid. Her mouth opened. She arched backward with such force that the briar-bonds snapped and fell to the floor. Then she toppled from the couch.

  “Madimi!” Alivet cried. She crouched by the fallen figure and felt for a pulse. There was nothing. Alivet covered the girl's mouth with her own, breathed out and in, then out again. Madimi's lungs did not respond.

  “The antiallergen, quickly!” Genever snapped, kneeling by her side. Alivet fumbled for a needle and slid it into the girl's vein, but Madimi lay as stiff and cold as a glass doll. Rigor should not set in so swiftly; what in the world was wrong? The girl had certainly undertaken a full medical check; it was a prerequisite for all clients.