A Little Taste of Poison (10 page)

She sounded curious, but not unfriendly. And judging by her relaxed posture and firm grip on the tweezers, she knew more about Sagery than Isaveth did.

“I think so,”
said Isaveth. “What should I do now?”

“Try it out, of course,” said the girl, as though this were obvious. “What have you got—a floater?”

Isaveth nodded.

“It's simple, then. Toss it on the floor, make the invocation, and step on it.”

“Invocation?” asked Isaveth with a flicker of alarm. She hadn't seen anything about that on the card, and Mistress Corto hadn't mentioned it in her lectures, either. “What do you mean?”

“You have to invoke the Sage who first made the charm.” She turned her palm upward in an inviting gesture. “Or the magic won't work properly. Everyone knows that.”

Isaveth swallowed. To call on a long-dead scholar of magic for help, as though he or she were the All-One—that might be common among Arcans and Unifying folk, but to a Moshite it was blasphemy.

“You aren't scared, are you? It's only a little floater. It won't hurt you.” The girl plucked the charm out of Isaveth's hand and dropped it on the floor between them. “Go on, put your foot on it. And say ‘By Sage Trofim.' ”

Isaveth couldn't explain her hesitation without betraying herself and offending the other girl as well. But there seemed no reason the charm shouldn't work without the
invocation. Taking a deep breath, she raised her foot and stamped as hard as she could.

Power surged into her body. Isaveth shot upward, arms flailing as she hurtled through the air. The ceiling rushed toward her, too fast—

CLANG.

Pain knifed through Isaveth as she crashed into the iron lattice. She hung suspended for a sickening instant, staring helplessly at the astonished faces below. Then the tingling in her foot cut off, and she began to fall.

“Catch her!” snapped Mistress Corto from the doorway, and the students rushed to obey. They tumbled down with Isaveth in a heap of arms, legs, and flying robes, and were still struggling to untangle themselves when the spellmistress seized Isaveth and hauled her aside. “What in the name of the Sages were you playing at?” she demanded.

Lights flashed in front of Isaveth's eyes, and the world blurred around her. She opened her mouth to apologize, and everything went black.

I
SAVETH LAY HALF-CONSCIOUS
on the workshop floor, her head full of lightning and thunder. Yet though she couldn't move or speak, she could hear every word her classmates were saying about her.

“. . . must have been crazy! Why didn't she wait for the spellmistress?”

“Maybe she didn't know better. . . .”

“Or she was showing off. It wouldn't be the first time, I hear.”

Where was Eulalie? She must have heard the crash when Isaveth hit the ceiling, just as Mistress Corto had. Why hadn't she come?

“Seffania said she didn't make the invocation,” a girl piped up. “That must be why it went wrong.”

There was a collective intake of breath, and then Paskin muttered, “Moshite.”

“What? No!
The school would never allow it.”

“Even if she won the Glow-Mor scholarship?”

Another pause, as everyone digested Paskin's words. Then a flat voice spoke. “Well, that was a mistake, obviously. They must have felt sorry for her.”

Anger sparked in Isaveth, filling her clammy skin with heat. She wanted to leap up and defend herself, but her body refused to obey. She was still lying helpless when the door to the workshop creaked open and Mistress Corto's firm tread crossed the floor.

“Out of the way,” she commanded, and the students shuffled back. Then someone who smelled of herbs was kneeling beside Isaveth, slipping a bony arm behind her shoulders and lifting her head up. The darkness behind her eyes whirled dizzily and she began to retch, but the healer tipped something against her lips that tasted like liquid sunshine, and she swallowed instead.

It must have been a magical decoction, because the pounding in Isaveth's head receded. Her strength flooded back, and the healer eased her into a sitting position as she opened her eyes.

“You're a fortunate young woman, Miss Breck,” said Mistress Corto. “You could have done far worse than knock yourself out. Can you get up?”

“I . . . think so,” said Isaveth, and the healer, an
aristocratic-looking master with a wave of snowy hair and an impeccably trimmed beard, helped her to her feet. He guided Isaveth out to the classroom, and the spellmistress followed, shutting the door behind them.

“Undermistress Kif admits that she did not give you proper instructions,” said Mistress Corto. “She was not expecting you to make such a powerful float-charm on your first effort, let alone behave so recklessly with it.”

She
had
been reckless; Isaveth saw that now. She should have guessed that energetic charms were similar to spell-tablets: if you used sudden force to break them, they released sudden power in return. “I'm sorry, Mistress,” she began miserably, but the older woman held up a hand.

“I have talked to Seffania,” she said. “She admits that she encouraged you to test the charm, but she insists she told you to step gently, not stamp with your full weight. Is that so?”

She hadn't actually said “gently,” but the rest was true enough. Isaveth nodded.

Mistress Corto glanced at the healer. “Master Fetheridge, does Miss Breck require any further treatment?”

“At present, no. If she avoids strenuous activity for the rest of the day and gets plenty of rest this evening, she should be fine.” He patted Isaveth's shoulder. “Take care, young lady.”

As the outer door closed behind him, Isaveth braced herself for a tongue-lashing. But Mistress Corto only studied her thoughtfully. “Well,” she said after a moment, “I think you have learned your lesson. You will not test any charms in my class without permission again.”

Isaveth's heart leaped as she realized the woman was giving her a second chance. If she'd caused a commotion like that in Master Valstead's class, he'd have marched her straight to the governor's office. “No, Mistress,” she said fervently.

“Then we will say no more about it,” said Mistress Corto. “Rest here until class ends, and then you may go.” She strode past Isaveth, heading for the workshop.

“Mistress?” asked Isaveth, and the older woman glanced back. “What happened to Eulalie?”

“Miss Fairpont asked to be excused after the test, as she was feeling poorly. I told her she could make up the exercise tomorrow.”

Strange, Eulalie had seemed well enough when class started. But perhaps she'd been putting on a brave face. Isaveth nodded and laid her head on the desk as Mistress Corto walked away.

*  *  *

Esmond sat through his classes that day with barely contained impatience, longing to dash home and try Isaveth's
tracking spell. Surely by now Eryx had read the letter he'd written and added it to his secret file.

Mind, that was assuming he hadn't merely torn up the letter, or handed it over to their parents just for the pleasure of watching Esmond squirm—or worse yet, discovered the tracking-spell on the paper, which would tell him at once that Isaveth and Esmond were working together. . . .

No, that was unthinkable. They couldn't have failed so badly, so soon. Eryx was clever, but he also had a blind side: He was so accustomed to being the smartest person in any room he entered that he assumed other people were stupider than they actually were. He would believe the letter because it fit his view of Esmond as a boy whose impulses were stronger than his judgment, and he'd never guess Isaveth had made its pages traceable, because like most nobles, he had little understanding of what Common Magic could do.

The weekly bid committee meeting at Council House should keep Eryx occupied until half past four at least, but Esmond was taking no chances. When the last bell rang, he dashed out the gate and hailed a carriage home at once.

The butler assured him that Eryx was indeed at the meeting, and Lord Arvis had recovered enough to go
with him. Civilla was at the seamstress being fitted for her ball gown, while Lady Nessa had retired to her beloved indoor garden. The house was Esmond's, so he raced to his bedroom, retrieved the bottle of tracking decoction, and set to work.

According to Isaveth, all he had to do was lift the bottle, swirl it, then wait for the floating specks inside to point the way. Mouth dry and skin tingling, Esmond did so.

Oddly, it was pointing toward Civilla's bedroom. It was hard to imagine Eryx would hide anything there, but Esmond had learned not to assume anything where his brother was concerned. He knocked, listened, and cautiously opened the door.

Inside lay a serene, rose-tinted space with mirrors on every wall, presumably so his sister could view her fashionable self from all angles. A dressing table stood in one corner, with a padded stool in front of it and a matching lounge chair stretched out beside. The only pictures were still life paintings, modern in style but utterly devoid of personality. If not for the feathery toe of a slipper peeking from under the bed, he might have taken it for a forgotten guest chamber or a display in Simkin's Category Store—anything but the bedroom of a living girl.

The last time he'd come here, he'd been eight and Civilla thirteen. Her walls had been crammed with maps
and botanical sketches, her bed heaped with cloth animals, and they'd thumped each other with pillows until they could barely breathe for laughing. But then she'd started at Tarreton College and Lady Nessa began taking her out in society, and his sister had changed.

First she'd grown self-conscious, always on her dignity and determined to do everything right. She'd won academic awards for dull subjects like sociology, religious studies, and civics, and started a gardening club to help beautify the uglier parts of the city. She'd even nagged their father to stop drinking, and corrected Esmond's posture so many times that he'd started slumping just to annoy her. In short, she'd become a towering bore.

Yet even that dreary, self-righteous Civilla had been better than the sister he had now. Perhaps she'd grown tired of trying to live up to her own standards, or perhaps Eryx's gentle reminders of her inferior taste, judgment, and social skills had finally worn her down. But soon after she graduated, she'd lost interest in being respectable and set out to become popular instead. She'd cut her hair, started wearing dramatic shades of lip tint, and found a new set of friends to whisk her from one party to another. If she didn't nag Esmond or quarrel with Eryx anymore, it was only because she'd stopped caring about anyone's life but her own.

Still, he was surprised by how modest Civilla's wardrobe was. She had only one armoire, and the closet wasn't half as stuffed with dresses as he'd expected—though she did own plenty of hats and a mind-boggling assortment of shoes.

What she didn't have was a case with Eryx's documents in it. Esmond swirled the bottle again, frowning as the particles drifted back the way he had come. Had he read it wrong the first time?

Esmond spent nearly half a bell following the potion all over the house before he realized there was no point in trying further. The tracking spell kept leading him into solid walls, and changed direction every few minutes. Either it didn't work for him the same way it had for Isaveth . . .

Or Eryx had destroyed the letter, and there was nothing left for the potion to find.

*  *  *

After the incident in the charmery, Isaveth felt vulnerable as a newborn kit. Surely the news that she was Moshite was spreading far and wide by now. But none of her classmates troubled her, not even Paskin, and she made her way home at the end of the day in peace. Perhaps it was only the hush before the storm broke, but even so Isaveth was glad for it.

Her head still throbbed where she'd hit the ceiling, but there were no obvious bumps or cuts for her family to notice, so she did her best to smile and act as though all was well. That evening she helped Lilet wash the laundry and hang it outside to freeze dry, while the next morning she went to temple with her sisters and spent the afternoon writing a new
Auradia
story. She hadn't heard from Esmond since she gave him the potion, and she could only hope that he'd have good news for her on Mendday.

When she returned to school the next morning (not without a wistful thought of how nice it would be to have a two-day weekend), Eulalie rushed to meet her. “Did you really jump on a floater last Fastday?” she asked. “I heard Seffania telling her friends about it. Are you all right?”

“I'm fine,” said Isaveth. Her head felt only a little sore now, and no one ever died of embarrassment, as Papa would say. “But what about you? Mistress Corto said—”

“Seffania actually asked me if you were Moshite, because she hadn't heard you say the invocation. Can you believe it? Anyway, I told her you must have whispered it, and she just didn't hear. After all, the spell could hardly have worked if you hadn't!” Eulalie giggled. “She didn't know what to say to that one.”

Ice formed in Isaveth's stomach. She hadn't wanted to
make a show of being Moshite, but she didn't want to deny it either—especially not after what had happened with Meggery. “But what happens next time I test a sage-charm? They'll all be waiting to see if I make the invocation.”

“Well, couldn't you? It's only an old superstition, you know. It doesn't really mean anything . . .” Eulalie stopped. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

She didn't understand. How could she? Isaveth hardly knew how to explain it herself. All she knew was that she couldn't do what Eulalie was suggesting. “Don't,” she said hoarsely. “Please.”

Eulalie blinked, then swallowed. “Oh. Sorry.” She took a step back, one hand creeping to her middle. “I've—er—just remembered something. See you in class, all right?”