The Poison Master

by Liz Williams

  There was a faint gleam as the phonoscope finished its deliberations, then a scroll of paper slid out from the slot.

  “What have we here? Nothing out of the ordinary. Sozoma, pure and simple. Not surprising. No one's allergic to sozoma, and for the record, it's surprisingly difficult to poison. Put anything in it and the molecules just slide away. You'd know that if you'd had an apothecaric training.”

  “That's what I thought,” Alivet said, accurately, but with no small degree of relief.

  “Let's have a look at this handkerchief.”

  The apothecary tucked the silk square into the phonoscope. Alivet waited restlessly. The apothecary squinted at the results.

  “How peculiar.”

  There was a long pause.

  “What is it?” Alivet said. The apothecary gave her a sharp glance.

  “Haven't a clue. Some kind of glistening residue. I've never seen anything like it before. What's your sis been up to?”

  “I've no idea,” Alivet said, with perfect truth.

  “Indulging in a spot of experimental research, if you ask me. Has she been trying to make drugs? You know that's illegal without a license? Have the Unpriests down on you like a mud slide, that will. Your sister should be more careful.”

  “I'll go home right after work and have the truth out of the little creeper,” Alivet said, aiming at hot indignation. It seemed to convince; the apothecary's frowning brow relaxed.

  “You know what it smells like to me?” he said. “Darkness. Darkness and shadows, like the smell of evening. Imagine,” he murmured, as if to himself, “if we could bottle light and atmosphere in the manner of the Lords. What delicacies of impression we might produce; what drugs and psychopomps to help us in our Search.” His dreaming gaze met Alivet's, and held it for a moment with perfect understanding. “Take your results. Talk to your sister. Don't have any more crazy dreams than you have to.”

  “I won't,” Alivet said. She slipped the papers into her pocket and turned to go.

  “One more thing,” the apothecary said. “I was listening to the wireless earlier. A girl died in Port Tree last night—a wealthy woman, taken up by an Experience merchant. The Unpriests are looking for an apothecary who was with him. For questioning. I thought I'd mention it.” His face was carefully blank. A warning, or a threat? Alivet's fingers closed on the wheel upon her palm.

  “That's interesting,” she said. “I'll remember that.” Then she was through the door and out into the evening, with a pocket half-full of answers. Unpriests are looking for an apothecary. But the man had not said that they were searching for the Experience merchant himself. Had the Unpriests caught up with Genever? Had he sought to blame her? She did not think he held her in any particular ill will, but a man might go a long way to save his skin, especially one as amoral as Genever Thant.

  As soon as she came out into the street, she heard a humming sound, vibrating up through the wet stone beneath her feet. She glanced up between tall black walls. The scarab flier was hovering overhead. Alivet shrank back beneath the overhang and looked around her. There were people moving through the crowd, hooded like the rest beneath their greatcoats, but moving with heads down and hands clasped in pockets as if they did not wish to be noticed. Alivet knew that way of walking; indeed, she was practiced in it. They were people on their way to a Search, and the locations of a Search had been designed to be kept secret from the Unpriests…

  A hooded figure paused, as if unsure of where to go, then set off again. Alivet followed it.

  The searcher led her down a warren of streets: buildings with black glass windows and gold tracery across their facades. This must be a very old part of town, for the ornamentation signified circuit diagrams, stylized coils of arcane machinery, stars hidden in the lattices of wire. Perhaps these houses even dated from the years immediately after the Landing, when humanity still thought it could sail back to wherever it had come from, before the Nine Families gained ascendance and the Lords granted the Unpriests their full authority. She could still see the marks of chisels and sting- needles in the walls, where the ornamentation had been pried away and then replaced.

  The figure before her stopped and glanced back. Alivet dived into a doorway and waited. As she did so, she took the chance to look behind her. No one appeared to be following. She had the sudden, eerie image of a dozen people reflected like the figures in an infinite mirror, all pursuing one another. And the one who led her: what might be leading this person? Dreams of a lost world… She could no longer hear the flier, but that might mean only that it had landed. Her head filled with images of Unpriests fanning out through the streets.

  She followed the searcher into a street of steps, slippery with rain and dead leaves. At the top of the second flight, the figure disappeared. Alivet blinked, then hurried down the steps and saw a tall door, half hidden below the level of the street. Unless the searcher had been swallowed by the ground or flown up into the eaves, this was the only possibility. Cautiously, Alivet bent down and knocked. The door opened and Alivet was drawn into the entrance of a cellar.

  “I've come for the Search,” she told the man within. “I don't have my summons—I must have lost it.” It had happened in truth, once before, and she was familiar with the drill. Moreover, the summonses were randomly distributed across the region; the Search kept no records.

  “Take off your hood,” the man told her. He motioned to someone deeper inside the cellar, a gesture of concealed alarm. Alivet did so. The man turned her head this way and that, and shone a light into her eyes. Alivet, trying not to twist away, had the impression of blue eyes in a narrow face, a widow's peak of hair.

  “No scarring, no eye implants. You must understand, you could still be a spy.” He sounded no more than faintly apologetic.

  “I understand,” Alivet said. It was no more than she had expected. The same held true for her: what if this should somehow be no more than an elaborate plot? But the Unpriests had no need of such complexity. The man reached down and took her hand, turning it over to peer at the wheel upon her palm.

  “An apothecary's wheel, or a good copy… Place your palm on this.”

  He pressed her hand firmly down on a pad. Alivet felt warmth and a tingling in the palm as the scrying-glass read the delicate, hidden traces within the tattoo.

  “Apprentice Alivet Dee. Your file is on record.” He glanced up. “But even an apothecary's tattoo could be faked.”

  “Do you wish me to take Veracity, as a final precaution?”

  “Might be a good idea,” the man said, dryly. He held up a needle. She barely felt the sting as the drug entered her wrist. Then she heard herself say: “My name is Alivet Dee, Third Level Apprentice. I was born in Edgewhere; I have taken seventeen Searches since reaching my majority.” Her voice seemed to come from a distance, as if she were speaking from the bottom of a well. The words rang and echoed in her head as the Veracity drug ebbed swiftly away.

  “It's gone?” the man asked. Alivet nodded. “Such is the nature of truth,” he told her, sadly. “Brief, and ill remembered. Go through.”

  Alivet went through a curtain into a long, dim room. It was almost full, and the crucible was already being passed around. This time, she thought, she would defy duty and only pretend to take the drug. She was wet, hungry, cold, and tired. If it was a minor psychopomp she would override it. And if not, it would only do her damage. She felt guilty—the Search was the principal duty of all responsible citizens and not to be taken lightly—but the Search could not now be her main concern. Besides, she reminded herself, she had not been summoned. Rationalizing did little good; the guilt remained.

  She could see that this drug was something to be drunk. It was imone, perhaps, or one of the fungal alkaloids. Those in charge of the Search were evidently waiting until the room was full, for people were still slipping in through the door. Alivet shuffled up to make room for new neighbors, hooded and silent like herself. She waited patiently until the crucible was passed into her hands and
raised it, pretending to take a sip. As the others had done, she rocked back with a sigh, and turned to her neighbor to pass on the crucible.

  He was staring directly at her. She saw a pale, handsome face, ruby eyes in a fan of bone. Arieth Ghairen, the Poison Master, was sitting cross-legged, no more than a foot away, still smiling beguilingly.

  Alivet's hands shook, jolting the crucible and spilling some of the substance onto the floor, where it hissed to a faint greasy smear. The Poison Master took the crucible carefully and sipped. She saw his pinprick pupils momentarily dilate, then slide into crescents, like small black moons against a sunset sky. Ghairen inclined his head and passed the crucible on.

  Leaning closer to her, he murmured, “You had best pretend. The trance lasts for only a short while. We do not want to attract attention, do we? And you and I must have our wits with us when we leave.” He patted the patch of ancient polished floor that lay between them. Alivet glanced around her, but there was no way out apart from the curtain. She could not simply get up and leave; it would make them suspicious.

  How had Ghairen gotten in? The Search was supposed to be the best-kept secret in the city; she herself had been subjected to a scrying-glass and Veracity. Yet here he was, this unhuman person, sitting smiling beside her as though this was a commonplace for him. Had he followed her from the shore or from the center of Levanah? And if so, how? She had seen no sign of pursuit during her journey apart from the Unpriests' ill-fated boat, though there had been other craft in the marshes. And how could this strange man help her to free her sister?

  Doubt filled her with a poison of its own. She sat silent and afraid, mimicking the dreaming souls around her and every so often stealing a glance at the Poison Master. His eyes were closed, his countenance serene. She found herself studying the planes and angles of his face. Sitting so close, she could smell him: a subtle combination of odors, oddly exciting to the senses, yet somehow familiar. He smelled, she realized, like an apothecary. The acridity of wormwood, cedar shavings, and charcoal, a faintness of spice. It was a reassuring smell and it served to calm her, but only a little.

  Chapter VII

  CITY OF LEVANAH, MONTH OF DRAGONFLIES

  The Search seemed to last for an eternity, leaving Alivet aching with impatience. When she saw that a few people had begun to emerge from their trance, she followed their lead, stretching and murmuring. A hand closed around her arm.

  “Time to go,” the Poison Master said into her ear.

  Alivet struggled to her feet. Standing upright proved to be a mistake. The fumes from the drug, which now smoked about the room, were disorienting her, filling her head with paranoia. It had been a terrible idea to come here; she should have nothing to do with such a man. There was no way she could overpower him. She realized how much taller he was; she had to tilt her head to look into his face. If she could reach the front of the room, among the crowd, she might be able to evade him, but she was not even sure that she wanted to…

  Stop this, she told herself, it's only the fumes from the drug. You have to talk to Ghairen. What about Inki?

  “I'll have to tell them about my vision,” she said, stalling.

  “But you did not have a vision,” Ghairen said, softly. “And I would not want to make a liar of you.” His grip tightened. Her rational self told her that he was only trying to steady her, but the paranoia had a hold now and so, conversely, did an eager, unfamiliar voice that was instructing Alivet to follow him into the nearest dark corridor and comply with whatever happened next. That thought alarmed her so much that paranoia won.

  “Let go of me,” Alivet hissed. “I'm not going anywhere alone with you. If you want to talk, we can do it here.”

  Must be imone, her rational self said, with resignation. It's a well-known delusion-bringer.

  The Poison Master did not reply. He drew her to the back of the crowd, as if they were moving to wait in line for the recording of their visions. Alivet tried to pull free, but his grip was too strong. She was steered behind a curtain into a narrow passage. Anticipation flooded through her. Here, however, the air was clearer and Alivet's unruly emotions began to ebb.

  “Please,” Ghairen said. “After you.”

  “You can go first,” Alivet told him, breathing deeply. “I don't want you following me.”

  Rather to her surprise, he agreed. “I'm afraid I must insist that you don't try to run away,” he told her with avuncular politeness, as if she were a willful child. Alivet bridled. “So…” She felt something cold tighten itself around her wrist and looked down to see a metal link snaking between them. Alivet tugged and the link tightened. “I realize it's an indignity,” the Poison Master added, apologetically. “But I really am most keen to talk to you, and I'm sure you're equally eager.” His eyes glinted with a return of mockery. “Now”—he drew her forward—“it isn't far.”

  The passages through which they passed smelled of dampness and age. The stone floor was slippery, and Alivet could see flood-marks traveling up the walls. The light from the Poison Master's lamp flickered over ancient carvings: gargoyles, momes, even a single representation of a Lord. Alivet stepped sharply back, startled. The long head, carapaced like that of an insect, showed sharp teeth and empty sockets. The head arched into the horned coil of the skull.

  “I did not think that was permitted,” Ghairen murmured. “They don't like to be represented, do they?”

  “It isn't permitted. This place must be very old. And no, the Lords do not like to be represented. Statues, pictures—all that kind of thing is strictly forbidden. It can bring you the death penalty.”

  “Interesting. I'd heard that. Do you know why?”

  “No.”

  “Perhaps the Lords are not entirely as they appear,” Ghairen mused, “and wish to conceal any record of their various manifestations.” His tone was bland and Alivet could not tell whether he was imparting information or simply musing aloud. He went on, “When did the Lords bring your people here? And when do you think this building dates from?”

  “No one knows exactly when we came here. It could be as much as five hundred years old. There aren't many stone buildings before that—our ancestors didn't discover Gods- benediction Ridge until then.”

  “Discover where?” Ghairen's brows rose.

  “The islands in the north of the fens, where most of our stone and metal comes from.”

  “I see.” Ghairen paused before a door. “This place is a maze… but that's lucky for us.” He motioned her through the door. “We're going up.”

  “There's nowhere else to go,” Alivet observed.

  “Ah, but there is. So many secret doors and passages, so many hiding holes. Your ancestors must have had a great many secrets. As you still do, hmmm?”

  Alivet did not reply. Turning awkwardly in the passage, she followed Ghairen up the small, winding stairs.

  The stairwell, it seemed, was more than merely a route from cellar to hall; it served the whole building. Alivet passed several doors and openings, which the Poison Master ignored. At last, when they could go no farther, he touched a panel in the wall and helped Alivet scramble through into a room.

  “Now will you let me go?” Alivet demanded. It was disquieting, to be so close to him, and not unpleasant, which only contributed to her unease. She wondered, briefly, if this distillation of emotions was why people like Madimi got so enthusiastic about bondage. Careful. Distillation leads to calcination, and corruption is swift to follow. Alchemy did indeed have an answer to more subtle problems. Yet it was still only a question of chemistry, after all.

  Ghairen did not reply, but the metal link fell away from her wrist and vanished into the pocket of his robe like a serpent. Freed, Alivet studied the room.

  High windows looked out over the rooftops, gleaming with rain in the last of the light. Beyond, lay the misty expanse of the fens. The room was filled with plants: shelf upon shelf of fronded, ferny leaves. Alivet thought of her own rooms and closed her eyes, taking a breath of cool sweet a
ir.

  “Pleasant, isn't it?” the Poison Master said. “I was lucky to find such a place.”

  Alivet had no wish to waste time with small talk. “Perhaps so. But who are you? And what do you want with me? I'd like some answers.”

  “I've told you who I am. My name is Arieth Mahedi Ghairen. My—” there was the slightest hesitation “—friends call me Ari.”

  “And what should I call you?”

  “You can call me Ari, too. Brother Ghairen sounds so formal, and since I don't come from Latent Emanation myself, it seems a touch presumptuous to adopt your mode of address.”

  “What?”

  “I'm sorry?”

  “What do you mean, you don't come from Latent Emanation?” Alivet asked blankly. The only folk who were known to travel into the heavens of the world were the Lords themselves, despite the threats and rumors of beings beyond. Perhaps he was mad—and yet the dark red eyes were like nothing she had seen before. She felt suddenly small and afraid and she turned to the window so that Ghairen could not see her face.

  The Poison Master said equitably, “I am from elsewhere. From a world named Hathes, which orbits another sun. A very different planet to your own, yet not without its similarities. Folk marry, have children, grow old. They worry about their plants and if the weather will be fine.”

  He must be mad, surely, or from one of the strange places within the deep fens where folk spoke in riddles and metaphors. Alivet said carefully, “It sounds most interesting.”

  Ari Ghairen came to stand by Alivet's elbow. She could sense him behind her; his presence made her shiver. She twisted around and saw that he was still smiling. It occurred to her that it was not so much an expression of amusement or kindness as a form of habit, a simple configuration of the features as inexpressive as a mask. And she was alone with this madman in a small enclosed space. Not for the first time, Alivet cursed the Unpriests' prohibitions against carrying arms.