A Little Taste of Poison Page 17

  Guilt pricked Isaveth at the thought of keeping more secrets from Papa, but it made sense. As far as her family knew, she was under Esmond’s protection, had a loyal friend in Eulalie, and even the scandal of Su’s article had soon been forgotten in the buzz of fresh gossip after the ball. Would it really hurt to let them go on believing all was well, at least until she knew for certain that it wasn’t?

  Isaveth lifted the spoon and let the liquid ooze back into the pot, testing its thickness. Then she dribbled it over the warding-charm and the sealing-charm Esmond had made for her. Holding her breath, she took out her charm-glass to inspect them. . . .

  They still glowed just as brightly. The decoction had made no difference at all.

  The dull pain in Isaveth’s chest pushed up into her throat, and her eyes blurred. But she told herself it was too soon to despair. Since she couldn’t go to school on Mendday, there’d be plenty of time to try the remaining spell; all she had to do was sell the beautiful new coat Esmond had given her and buy the ingredients she needed.

  Yes, things looked hopeless right now. But Lord Arvis hadn’t died yet, and Eryx couldn’t bring his plan to council without the Sagelord’s permission, so there was still time.

  Her next experiment would work. It had to.

  * * *

  The next day was Templeday, so none of the shops were open. The snow lay thick over the sidewalks, and Isaveth and her sisters had to wade through several drifts to get to Wisdom Hall. But the sanctum was warm again, and Mister Yeltavan’s announcement that sales of Glow-Mor tablets had risen across the city cheered her a little. It would be a bad blow for Mister Wregget if she was expelled from the college, but at least there was still hope of keeping her scholarship if she wasn’t.

  Mendday morning was the usual flurry of activity as Isaveth and her sisters scrambled to get ready and Papa shoveled the front step, clearing away the snow that had blown over it last night. Mimmi and Lilet were first out the door, hats pulled low and scarves high to keep out the bitter wind, while Isaveth filled a flask with tea and packed up her book bag as though she meant to use it.

  “Have a nice day at school,” she said to Annagail as the two of them put on their coats.

  Anna flicked a glance at her. “And you,” she said colorlessly.

  Something was troubling her, and as a good sister Isaveth ought to ask about it. But if she’d been going to school as usual, she wouldn’t have time. She gave Anna an apologetic smile, tugged on her mittens and went out.

  Last night she’d wrapped up her new coat, not without a pang of regret, and hidden it under the back step. Isaveth waited until Papa left the house—without his shovel, oddly enough, so he must have some special business to attend to—then slipped back to fetch it. She caught a westbound tram into the heart of the city, and by the time the town clock tolled noon she had sold the coat at the Relief Shop, used the money to buy the ingredients she needed, and returned home to start her next experiment.

  She’d ground the bitternuts to a paste and was chopping the dried scorch-pepper when a firm rap sounded at the door. A visitor at this time of day? Isaveth put the knife down and sidled up the front hallway, craning her neck to see who it could be.

  “I can see you, Miss Breck.” An amused female voice floated through the mail slot, and gloved fingers waggled at her from beneath the flap. “It’s Su Amaraq from the Trumpeter, and I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  AS ALWAYS, SU AMARAQ sounded like the perfect reporter: friendly, competent, and interested only in the truth. But after the last couple of articles she’d written, Isaveth had no faith that the woman would treat her fairly.

  “I have nothing to say to you,” she replied, one hand pressed to her thumping heart. “Please go.”

  Silence followed, then a sigh and a crunch of footsteps, growing fainter until they faded away. Cautiously Isaveth crept to the door and raised herself on tiptoe to look out.

  Su’s face popped up in the window, and Isaveth jumped back with a shriek. “You look familiar,” the woman said, her voice muffled by the glass. “Have we met before?”

  They had, once, when Isaveth was looking for information on her father’s case. But she’d pretended she only wanted to become a journalist, and they’d parted without Su even asking her name. Isaveth swallowed, fingers curling into her sweaty palms. “Does it matter?”

  “Maybe,” said Su. “Look, I understand why you don’t trust me. I wouldn’t either. But I’m not the villain here, I just want to know what’s going on.”

  “So you can print it in your newsrag and turn the whole city against me? No thank you.”

  “The story’s going to break eventually, whether I write it or not. I got a tip that you’d been suspended. Somebody’s out for blood, Miss Breck, and it appears to be yours. I’m starting to wonder why.”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” She knew she sounded bitter, but there was no point in hiding it. “They hate me because I’m—”

  “Moshite. That explains some of it, no doubt. But I get the feeling my ever-so-helpful informant is playing a bigger game.” Su pressed a gloved hand to the window, imploring. “Come on, Miss Breck, help me out. I’ll even keep your name out of it, if that’s what you want. I’ll quote you as an unnamed source at the college.”

  It wasn’t that generous an offer. But if she could get Su to investigate a little further, instead of writing up her article at once . . . Isaveth wiped her hands on her skirt, sent up a silent prayer for courage, and opened the door.

  Su stepped inside, unbuttoning her fur-collared coat—then paused, sharp eyes focusing on Isaveth. “Oho,” she said softly. “It’s my little journalist.”

  It was no use pretending otherwise. Isaveth nodded and led her through to the kitchen.

  “Right, then,” said Su, sitting down and taking off her gloves with practiced elegance. Her gaze swept the room, lingering briefly on the hallow cabinet in the corner, then returned to Isaveth as she flipped her notebook open. “Let’s start at the beginning, shall we? How did you first learn about the Glow-Mor scholarship, and what made you decide to apply?”

  “I didn’t,” said Isaveth. “Mister Wregget liked my . . . work, so he offered it to me.”

  “Your work? Ah, yes. Your homemade fire- and light-tablets. A family recipe?”

  Isaveth smiled faintly, relieved that Su had jumped to such a safe conclusion. “My mother’s.”

  “Your family must have been quite proud when you got the scholarship. Especially after your father’s, ah, recent difficulties. How did you feel, coming to Tarreton College? Excited? Nervous? Anxious to do well?”

  “All of those things.” Su looked up, black brows arched against her coppery skin, and Isaveth felt compelled to say more. “I knew people wouldn’t want me there, and I hoped I could . . . convince them . . .” She looked away, unable to finish the sentence.

  “So you were aware that you were being watched, and that it was important to keep up a good reputation. Did you enjoy learning Sagery? Were you good at it?”

  “I think so.” Actually she knew so, but she didn’t want to sound arrogant. “I liked it very much.”

  “You don’t think there’s anything disrespectful about a Moshite making sage-charms?”

  Heat flooded into Isaveth’s face, but she kept her anger in check. “Some of the greatest sages were Moshite,” she replied. Or at least they had been until the Concord of Abirene, the centuries-old treaty that had stripped Moshites of their lands, destroyed their books of magical lore, and forbidden them to practice Sagery. “I don’t have to worship the sages to respect them, or learn what they taught.”

  Su tapped the end of her lead-point against her lips. “How did you feel when the story appeared naming you as the winner of the Glow-Mor scholarship?”

  “It was horrible,” said Isaveth flatly. “And don’t you mean your story?”

  “My name was on the article, yes. But it was edited before it went to print
.” Her lips pursed with displeasure. “One might even say butchered—and not in your favor.”

  “You mean someone at the Trumpeter was bribed into changing the story?” asked Isaveth, pulse quickening. “Why would anyone care what the newsrags say about me?”

  Su sat back, appraising her. “Good question, Miss Breck. Have you made any powerful enemies lately?”

  If she thought she could trust this woman, Isaveth would have told her everything. But she’d seen Su at the ball only a week ago, flirting with Eryx and defending him to Civilla’s friends. Still, if she could get her to doubt the Lording even a little . . .

  “I’ve never met Lord Arvis,” she replied cautiously, “so I don’t know what he would have against me. And if he didn’t want me at Tarreton College, all he had to do was say so. But I heard that Eryx Lording wants to deny relief to Moshites, so . . . maybe he feels differently.”

  Su went still—but then she smiled, and Isaveth’s hope died out. “Oh, I can’t imagine that. I’m sure you misunderstood. But let’s get back to the point. Why don’t you tell me, in your own words, what happened the other day?”

  * * *

  Su did not ask many questions after that, and stayed only long enough to hear the briefest version of Isaveth’s story. She jotted a few cursory notes, then rose from her seat with a neutral “Thank you, Miss Breck,” before pulling on her gloves and heading for the door.

  “Miss Amaraq!” Isaveth hurried after her. “When will you—I mean, if there’s going to be a—”

  “Governor Buldage expects the investigation will be done by tomorrow,” said Su. “So you can look for my article on Worksday morning.” She strolled out to her waiting taxi, and was gone.

  Isaveth shut the door and went back to chopping ingredients, wondering if she’d made the right decision by talking to Su or whether she’d soon regret it. After all, if the reporter had been telling the truth, anything favorable or even fair to Isaveth wouldn’t make it into the Trumpeter anyway. Eryx Lording would make sure of that.

  Yet if Eryx was behind all of this, it seemed like a strange way to punish her. Why allow her to go to Tarreton College and even study Sagery for half a term, before . . .

  What, exactly? Coaxing Betinda Callender to lose her expensive necklace, and Meggery to plant it in Isaveth’s pocket? How could Eryx do that without risking his reputation, and more importantly, why would he? He had no reason to believe Isaveth posed a threat to him, and his new plan to cut off relief to Moshites would ruin her just as surely.

  Unless he needed to make Isaveth look like a criminal in order to convince the council that Moshites didn’t deserve charity? Could it be that simple?

  The question still nagged at her as she read over the instructions in the country-mage’s journal one last time, making sure she hadn’t missed anything. This spell could be dangerous if she didn’t follow the steps exactly. She unstopped the glass jar she’d washed for the purpose, then began measuring and pouring in the ingredients.

  Once she’d prepared the base mixture, Isaveth set the jar in a pot of water and put it on the stove to simmer. The journal warned that this step could take two bells or more, so she walked to the front room and turned on the crystal set.

  There would be no new episode of Auradia until tomorrow, but she could always listen to one of the daytime talkie-plays, or a comic show like Silly Sailor. She fiddled with the dials, tuning the crystal from one station to another.

  “—not just the flavor, it’s the savor! Try Perram’s Puffers for long-lasting—”

  “That was Janny Mastrocelli and the Tin City Orchestra with ‘That Darling Girl o’ Mine’—”

  “—Sages have mercy, Master Lyle! Can’t you see the poor child is dying?”

  Not in the mood for gloomy stories, Isaveth settled on a station that was playing music and began to wipe up the mess she’d made of the kitchen counter. The bright, brassy tunes proved cheering, and she was scrubbing along to the beat when the melody abruptly cut out.

  “We pause this program to bring you a special report. Shortly after eleven bells this morning, Sagelord Arvis was pronounced dead by the Healer-General. . . .”

  The cloth crumpled between Isaveth’s nerveless fingers. She stared blindly at the wall, cold spreading beneath her ribs.

  “. . . sources report the cause of death as liver failure, though the Healer-General has declined to issue a statement until a full investigation has been made. Lady Nessa, now Dowager Sagelady, accompanied the body to Sage Johram’s Hospital along with the new Sagelord Eryx and the other members of the family. . . .”

  The ice inside Isaveth cracked, and a pang of grief burst through. “Oh,” she whispered. “Oh, Esmond.”

  * * *

  Right up to the end, Esmond had hoped for a miracle. Not that his father would get well: He knew it was too late for that. Whether it was poison or merely drink that had done it, Lord Arvis’s liver was too damaged for medicine or even magic to repair.

  Yet two nights ago he’d dreamed that the Sagelord had woken from his delirious sleep and sent for him. He’d called Esmond to his bedside and told him he was sorry for not being a better father, but he loved him and was proud of him . . . all that stupid, sentimental nonsense that dying men said to their sons in the talkie-plays.

  It was only a dream, of course. Before he died, the last person his father had spoken to—really spoken, in a wheezing murmur too low for anyone else to hear—was Eryx.

  All at once Esmond’s neck-cloth felt like it was strangling him. He clawed the knot loose and dropped his head into his hands, breathing hard.

  He’d sat there for some unknowable time, when someone touched his shoulder. He dragged his sleeve across his face, furious at the interruption—to see Civilla standing beside him, looking as wrung out as he felt.

  “You should eat,” she said.

  Esmond shook his head, anger fading. He’d thought it was Eryx come to gloat, but he should have known better. Eryx would be in his study by now, pouring himself a drink and making plans for his glorious reign as Sagelord, and likely hadn’t spared a thought for anyone else at all.

  Part of him envied his brother for that. If only the footman hadn’t rushed out to stop Esmond getting into the carriage this morning, he could be at Tarreton College right now, too distracted by facts and formulas to think of his father dying.

  No, not dying anymore. Dead.

  “Esmond, please,” Civilla urged. She’d lost the remote, haughty expression she’d been cultivating for the last year or so; there were blue shadows beneath her eyes, and her lips were trembling. “We need to talk. I can’t do this alone.”

  “Do what?” Esmond said, but it came out harsh. “If you want help with something, ask Eryx. You know, the one who poisoned our father, and you let him get away with it?”

  Civilla stiffened, and Esmond braced himself for a slap. But instead she whirled and stalked from the library, slamming the door behind her.

  It didn’t matter, Esmond thought dully as the click of her footsteps faded. He had nothing to say to her anyway. The only person he wanted to talk to was surely at the college right now, dark head bent over her workbook, nibbling the end of her lead-point as she thought.

  Isaveth had worked hard these past few weeks. He hoped she’d do well on her midterms and be happy for a while. She’d hear the news about his father’s death eventually, but they could talk about it when Esmond got back to school.

  After all, Eryx was Sagelord now, and all their plans to stop him had failed. There was no hurry anymore.

  * * *

  It wasn’t too late, Isaveth told herself, though dread clawed her stomach and she felt weak in every limb. Even as ruler of the city, Eryx needed the council’s support to carry out his reform plan, and they wouldn’t meet until after Lord Arvis’s memorial. If the potion she’d just made could dissolve charm-silver, there was still a chance to get hold of Eryx’s documents and show them to someone with the courage, integrity, and power to do
something about it. Like Eulalie’s father, the Deputy Justice . . .

  She’d removed the jar of potion from its hot-water bath a few minutes ago, and strained its contents through a piece of gauze-cloth until only a thin pinkish liquid remained. Licking her lips nervously, Isaveth tweezed up one of her test charms from the table and dropped it in.

  It slid to the bottom, tiny bubbles escaping from all four corners, and landed with a clink. Isaveth was squinting through the glass when the front door creaked and she heard boots stamping on the mat.

  Too light for Papa. “Anna?” called Isaveth, resisting the impulse to hide. School was almost over anyway, and she could always claim that her last class had been cancelled. “Is that you?”

  There was no answer. Reluctantly she tore her eyes from the still-bubbling charm—and there was Annagail in the hallway, taking off her coat.

  Perhaps Isaveth had been wrong not to confide in her, the one person who’d always listened when she needed to talk. If she could share her worries, it would take a huge weight off her mind . . . and maybe then Anna would feel free to do the same.

  Yet it had been weeks since they’d had a proper conversation, and Isaveth hardly knew where to start. “So . . . how was your day?”

  Anna straightened up slowly, staring at the wall. Then she whirled on Isaveth. “Stop it,” she snapped. “Just stop.”

  Isaveth’s chest fluttered. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, stop pretending to care about anything but your precious college and your noble friends. You’ve changed so much since you got that scholarship, I hardly know you anymore.” Annagail snatched off her scarf and threw it onto the hook. “Don’t you care that Lilet’s been getting into fights at school because of you?”

  “Me?” Isaveth was aghast. “Why?”

  “Because she can’t bear to hear anyone speak ill of you, and the other children know it. If she keeps on like this she’s going to get expelled.” Anna tugged up her stockings and stepped into their mother’s old house slippers. “But you’re so taken up with your Sagery and your fancy balls and everyone making a fuss over you at temple, you can’t spare a thought for anyone else.”