The Poison Master

by Liz Williams

  “I'm not a connoisseur.”

  He smiled at her. “Neither am I.”

  Cautiously, Alivet sipped it. The wine tasted smoky and sweet, not particularly strong. But she knew from painful experience that appearances could be deceptive.

  “How's Celana today?” she asked.

  “As well as ever.”

  “And your other daughters?”

  “Ryma is with her mother. Ladeiné has been studying.”

  Alivet despised herself for asking the next question.

  “Do their mothers visit often?”

  “No,” Ghairen said, with a measured look. “I rarely see them. Both alliances were political. Ryma's mother is the daughter of a prominent member of the Soret. Ladeiné is the child of an heiress. Hathanassi law encourages brief contract marriages. My youngest daughters are the product of such.”

  “And your first wife?”

  “I married her for love.” Ghairen poured more wine, leaned back upon the divan. “Arylde Galu. She was one of the beauties of her generation.” He fell silent.

  “You must miss her,” Alivet said inadequately.

  His face was bleak. “Life is certainly quieter.”

  “And you never found out who poisoned her?”

  “No. And what about you, Alivet? Do you leave a lover behind in Levanah?” He spoke with care, and it was only then that she realized he was already a little drunk.

  “I don't have a lover. A few casual affairs, nothing more. My life has revolved around my work.”

  “Do you find it rewarding? Or merely necessary?”

  “Both. But it's meant that I've had little time for love.”

  “What about Genever Thant?”

  “He was my employer, not my lover. I hardly think I could have appealed to him.”

  Ghairen smiled again, with more than a shade of bitterness. “Don't underestimate the power young women can have over middle-aged men.”

  “I've always thought it was the other way round.”

  “Political power, yes. Economic, certainly. Sexual power? That's where shadows lie. That's where the tables can be turned.”

  He spoke idly, but she knew he was looking in her direction. She could feel his gaze boring into her. She took a quick sip of wine and choked.

  “Are you all right?” Ghairen edged next to her and patted her on the back. The coughing subsided. Ghairen did not move away. “I get the impression you're not used to wine. Well, wiser to stick to drugs. As the old saying goes, ‘Alcohol provokes fits of madness; opium provokes fits of wisdom.’”

  “Maybe so,” Alivet said sourly. “But they're still fits.” She glanced at him. The mask was well in place once more: amusement, challenge, sexual confidence. He reached out and touched the back of his hand to her face. Then he said, very softly, “Come here.”

  “Ghairen, I don't think—” Her voice faltered. That hardly sounded convincing. Only days ago she had been prepared to strike Hilliet Kightly where it hurt for just such a proposal. Kightly had been repulsive, but essentially harmless. Unfortunately, Ghairen invoked a different set of parameters. He slid to his knees beside her and took her hands. Alivet froze.

  “I told you about power,” he murmured into her ear. “Which of us has power over the other? Do you want to find out?”

  “I think it's already obvious,” Alivet said. To her dismay her voice sounded high, and a little frantic. His breath was warm on her neck. Lightly, his fingers traced her hands.

  “What if I were to tell you that I find it hard to breathe in your presence? That I can't stop looking at you? That all I can think about is touching you?” Very gently, he began to kiss her throat.

  He was playing games again, she thought, staring grimly over Ghairen's shoulder, but it had become very difficult to think. And then he said, “Alivet. Look at me.” She looked into his face and the mask was gone. She saw uncertainty, and longing, and need.

  “Ari?”

  Ghairen took her face in his hands and kissed her mouth. His eyes fluttered closed. He tasted of wine. She forgot about poison, about Celana. She felt as though she'd been ignited. He touched her breasts and gasped. Alivet pulled him back onto the divan, her fingers tangled in his silky hair. Through the roaring in her head, however, she did not forget the key in Ghairen's pocket. She slipped her hand into his robes and around his waist. Iraguila had told her that he wore armor: if this was so, he was not wearing it now. Her hand grazed a soft under-robe, then cool skin. Finally she found the pocket, arching her hips underneath him in a mixture of distraction and genuine response. Ghairen groaned. The key was in her hand, but then his full weight was on her and a determined hand was already pushing aside her skirts. Desire was transformed into sudden panic.

  “No, stop, stop it!”

  He was immediately still. He gave her a single, searching glance and sat up, breathing hard. “Alivet, I'm sorry. I thought—never mind. I didn't mean to push you so fast.” His expression was rueful.

  Alivet stood up shakily. The room was spinning and she put out a hand to steady herself. She was not sure if it was the wine, or something in that wine, or just Ghairen.

  “It isn't that I don't want…”

  “My timing could have been better,” he murmured.

  “I think I should go back to bed. Alone.”

  After a moment, Ghairen nodded. She could still read the need in his eyes. He rubbed his hands over his face. “I'll see you tomorrow.”

  Chapter V

  TOWER OF THE POISONERS, HATHES

  Alittle later, as she inserted Ghairen's key into the lock of her bedroom door, Alivet thought: All my weapons are small ones. But even small weapons could be useful, if used in the right way. If her foray was successful and she did not get caught, she would undertake some further exploration of the apartment. All those locked doors, sealed secrets…

  She stole quietly across the hallway and paused before Ghairen's door. If he caught her sidling into his room, at least she had an excuse: she would stammer apologies for her earlier flight, tell him she had stolen the key just in case…

  And would you also give him what he wants? a voice asked inside her mind. The trouble was, Alivet thought, it wasn't only Ghairen's needs that were preoccupying her. The memory of him was so strong that he might as well have been standing beside her. She took a breath and opened the door.

  The room was quiet and empty. The sight of the divan brought memories back with a rush. Trying to ignore them, Alivet stole across to the far side, and inserted the key into the lock of the next door. She peered through. This room was much smaller and the walls were also paneled. A bed stood on the far side of the room: Ghairen lay within it, sprawled on his back amid a sea of dark robes. One arm was flung upward and his face was turned toward her. In sleep, he looked solemn, even sad. She had to resist the urge to slide into bed beside him. Think of poison, the little inner voice suggested. Think of murder. Reluctantly, Alivet turned away.

  The room itself was strangely austere. Alivet, if she had imagined Ghairen's bedroom at all, had pictured decadence, but this room was spare in its decoration. The only ornament was a figure standing in one corner: a carving the height of a man. As Alivet's eyes adjusted to the light she saw that it had four faces, looking out to every direction. It was very similar to the statue that they had seen beneath the Night Palace and Alivet's skin crawled. There were too many connections between Ghairen and the Lords of Night for comfort; the pull of desire became somewhat less.

  The face turned to the room was male, but at one side Alivet could see a woman's flowing hair. It was impossible to say what the other faces might be: they lay in shadow, or behind the figure. Its arms were raised before it, the hands placed together. It was made of a glossy black stone and the dim light of the ferns touched gleaming specks within the statue, as if it contained mica. Now that she could see more clearly, Alivet noticed that the air around Ghairen's bed was also shimmering, like looking through a heat haze. Well, it stood to reason that he had
some additional form of protection.

  She stepped softly back through the bedroom door and into the main room. The desk was of the sort that rolled open. Very carefully, Alivet drew it down, grateful that she had had the foresight to wear her gloves. She did not like the prospect of leaving fingerprints over the surface of the desk, and who knew what traps Ghairen might have laid.

  The desk was full of papers. Alivet leafed through them with interest, noting diagrams and alchemical formulas. It seemed that these were Ghairen's working notes. Afraid that they would rustle, she did not remove them from the desk, but reached to the back of the compartment, feeling for alchemical phials. She found nothing. So she began to examine the documents. She could just about see by the light of the ferns, but soon her eyes began to feel strained and the papers meant nothing to her. Just a few more moments…

  At the very bottom of the desk lay a small, folded piece of paper. Alivet pulled it out and opened it up. It was yet another diagram: a sequence of oblongs and lines. As she was puzzling over this, there was a sound from the bedroom. Hastily, Alivet stuffed the paper into her pocket and closed the desk. There were footsteps coming across the bedroom floor, soft and purposeful. Alivet fled across the room, her flying feet muffled by the rugs. As she twitched the door open, she looked back, half hoping to see him standing there.

  But it was Celana. She stood at the entrance to her father's bedroom, dressed in a night shift. She was staring directly at Alivet, who froze. Celana's mouth turned down, but she made no sound. Turning, she drifted back into the shadows like a ghost and the spell was broken. Alivet stumbled from Ghairen's rooms and into the hallway, where she closed the forbidden door as quietly as she could behind her.

  Back in her own bedroom, she waited for a few minutes, but the hallway remained silent. She looked down at the key in her hand. Might as well use it now that she had it, though the thought of simply crawling into bed and going to sleep was most alluring. Alivet's fingers closed upon the key. One more little foray, she decided. This time, she would find out what lay behind the locked door on the other side of the hallway. Once more, Alivet ventured forth.

  At first, the key seemed stiff in the lock, but then the door swung open. Alivet found herself in a narrow, dark passage. It smelled old: ancient material, musty with dust. The walls were paneled with metal; as she stepped through, she heard a faint humming and the walls began to glow. There was just enough light by which to see. Alivet hastened onward. The passage twisted and turned, a small maze in the heart of the Poisoners' Tower. She traversed a narrow flight of steps, up, and then down again. At last, afraid that she might lose her bearings, Alivet came upon two more doors: set opposite to one another, knee-high in the wall.

  Arylde Galu. She was one of the beauties of her generation. I married her for love.

  The room in which Ghairen slept had been so severe, with no trace of feminine comforts. Had Arylde slept there, too, or had she occupied her own room? Alivet thought of a shrine, whispering with echoes; of the glass globes. She thrust the key into the lock of the left-hand door and opened it.

  Something loomed out of the darkness, tentacles coiling. Alivet stumbled back with a stifled cry. The thing sprang after her. She pushed it away. It fell into the cupboard and was still. After a moment, shaking, Alivet discerned the outlines of a cleaning device: the bag, the tubes, the brass wheels. She slammed the cupboard shut. Perhaps the second door would be more rewarding.

  Again, the lock was stiff and the door stuck. No longer caring about long-dead wives, or the threat of discovery, Alivet gave it a single hard shove. It opened. She looked through, into her own room, seen from the other side. The passage led right through the apartment, presumably past the alchematorium above, then down again. The only mysterious woman in Ghairen's present world was, it seemed, herself.

  ELABORATION

  Sun, Moon, Mars, Mercury, Jupiter, Venus, Saturn, Trine, Sextile, Dragon's Head, Dragon's Tail: I charge you to guard this house from all spirits whatever, and guard it from all disorders, and from anything being taken wrongly, and give this family good health and wealth.

  Inscription on Elizabethan house in Burnley

  Chapter I

  MORTLAKE, LONDON SPRING 1582

  Dee had spent the morning of that fateful day in conversation with a Mr. Clerkson, a man who served as an agent for scryers and mediums. Over the past few weeks, Clerkson had paraded a procession of likely fellows before Dee: roving scholars and runagates, chapmen and cozenors. After receiving the fifth such person, stinking and shifty, Dee had taken the agent aside.

  “Look, it cannot be borne, this motley collection of piss-prophets and Kit Callots that you keep bringing before me. My wife has a tongue like a veritable shrew, but for once she has been complaining with good reason.”

  “They are all practiced men,” protested Clerkson.

  “Yes, but practiced in what? What good is a scryingman to me if he can stammer no more than ‘I see a dark man upon the road when the moon is new’ or ‘There is a devil in the wainscoting’? I need firm answers and a knowledge of the lore behind them. Besides, I do not want to have to lock up the silver every time such a person comes to the door.”

  “Your reasoning is sound,” the agent admitted, with very poor grace.

  “Then find me a man who knows what he is about.”

  “I shall do my best.”

  That morning, Clerkson had appeared at the gate with an expression of moon-faced smugness and a man at his side.

  “This,” said the agent, with the air of one who plucks a gold coin from the gutter, “is Edward Talbot.”

  Dee regarded the man. He was young, perhaps in his middle twenties, with chestnut hair of a fashionable cut. His color was high, suggesting a choleric disposition, and Dee was inclined to think that Clerkson had discounted his stern warnings and brought along some mere roaring boy. But Talbot's manner was curious: he muttered to himself beneath his breath as he looked about the garden. Puzzled, Dee listened.

  “Oh yes, this is very fine, most fine indeed: here we have lavender, here white poppy and thyme, to be planted when the March moon is new. And here the little clover of the Trinity and gillyflower…”

  He knew his herbs, Dee thought, but did he know anything else? There was a hectic ardor beneath the young man's manner that suggested madness, but this was no bad thing in a scryer, whose work was by its very nature prone to attract those who were touched by the moon. Dee had no quarrel with such Tom O'Bedlams, but he did have a problem with rogues and Talbot was wearing a strange garment akin to a cowl, which hid his ears. Dee would have liked a look at those ears, to see if they had been clipped for coining.

  “Mr. Talbot,” he said, firmly, and at once Talbot was all attention, like a dog that has been called to heel. “Shall we venture within? I should like to see you at your art.”

  Once they were inside the study, Dee ushered Clerkson out the door and told him to wait. Then he found a seat for the young Edward Talbot, who was gazing around the study with entranced fascination, and placed the obsidian mirror before him. Talbot's eyes grew wide.

  “Black as night and solid as air,” he said.

  “Quite so,” Dee said, crisply. “Let us see if you have as great a talent for seeing beyond the world's confines as you have for remarking upon the obvious.”

  Talbot gave a great laugh at this. Then, sobering, he stared into the mirror. He did not undertake any of the mystical incantations or curious passes so favored by Clerkson's usual clients, nor did he feign a trance. He simply looked.

  “What do you see?” Dee asked, urgently.

  “I see an archangel, four-faced, spinning upon a globe,” Talbot replied. Dee found himself gripping the edges of the table.

  “Does it speak?”

  “It speaks,” Talbot said. His gaze was as intent as ever, Dee noticed, but there was an odd glaze over his eyes, a kind of milky film with fire behind it. He had never seen such a thing before.

  “It says,�
� Talbot went on, and now his voice seemed subtly changed, “that to achieve your goal, you must consult both Steganographia and The Book of Soyga.”

  Dee sank into a nearby chair, his hands trembling. He now had both works in his possession, but there was no way that Talbot could be aware of this. Both were filled with Cabalistic invocations, with lists of spirit names, but he had wondered about the value of The Book of Soyga, which seemed incomplete.

  “Is my Book of Soyga of any usefulness?” he asked.

  “The book was revealed to Adam in paradise by the good angels of God,” Talbot replied. “If properly construed, it reveals the language of the universe itself. But man has made little use of it, for though he possessed comprehension of its purpose, the knowledge has been lost.”

  “Lost?”

  “Others have taken the high road to the stars, traveling through the small spaces of the universe across vast distances. I see them: dark-eyed men, with sallow complexions. The angel says that they came from the east, from Araby and Egypt. They have founded colonies and learned much.”

  “What does the language do?” Dee asked in a whisper.

  “It opens a way between the worlds. Here, we are upon Malkuth—the Earth itself. The language will grant you passage to the other worlds: to Yesod, Hod, Netzach, and beyond. It does so by means of mathematical incantations—they are not mere spells, as a cunning witch might summon some spirit to run errands. The language of angels is the language of the universe; its words have the power to make or unmake reality.”

  “Do not all spells do this?”

  “Spells are an imperfect copy of this fundamental tongue. The language of the universe enables those who understand it to unpick the fabric of reality, to weave and stitch the universe in a different way and travel between the cracks. Such a language will be given to you.”

  “You spoke of the spheres depicted by the Cabala. Is my Meta Incognita such a world?”