A Little Taste of Poison (15 page)

His voice caressed the last phrase, and his gaze lingered on someone in the crowd. All around Isaveth, necks craned as people tried to see where he was looking—but then Eryx cleared his throat and stepped back. “Honored guests, I present to you my sister, Civilla Ladyship!”

With that, he bowed and walked off the stage, taking the sound-crystal with him. So when Civilla climbed up onto the dais, she had to raise a hand and wait for the applause to die down before she could speak.

“Good evening,” she said, each syllable clear and precise. Isaveth could only admire her poise—after all those back-handed compliments, she must be furious. “Thank you all for rising so magnificently to the theme of tonight's party—celebrating the flora and fauna of our beautiful country. My brother Esmond Lilord will be helping me judge the best mask of the evening, and when the unmasking takes place at midnight, our winner will receive a prize. Now enjoy the music of Syl Simms and his Royal Colonians, and let the party begin!”

The orchestra struck up a lively tune as Civilla stepped off the platform—not vanishing through a side door as her parents and Eryx had done, but walking down to take the hand of a slim young man in white who waited for her below. As he whirled her onto the dance floor, the light caught the glint of his half glass, and Isaveth realized with a start that it was Esmond.

“Er, miss?”

The voice sounded so polite, she would never have recognized it if she hadn't already known he was there. Paskin, eyes wide and hopeful behind the dark stripe of
his redcoon mask, was holding out his hand to ask her to dance.

It was tempting to toss her head and turn her back on him, but while Isaveth had every reason to resent Paskin, the noble girl she was pretending to be had none. She swallowed her revulsion and let him lead her onto the floor.

“I see you're going to make me do all the talking,” he teased a few moments later as they whirled through the old-fashioned dance. “The masks are just for fun, you know. You won't get a prize for being the most mysterious girl at the ball.”

Isaveth smiled thinly and kept counting steps in her head, trying not to shudder at the spidery touch of Paskin's fingers against her spine. He wasn't unpleasant to look at, if a little bland and over-groomed for her taste, and no doubt another girl would have been pleased with his attentions. But nothing could erase the memory of how cruel he'd been to her, and as soon as the song ended, Isaveth dropped his hand and scuttled away.

“Was that as horrible as it looked?” muttered Eulalie as she wandered past.

“Worse,” Isaveth whispered, “but thanks for the lessons.” She was about to ask Eulalie where her mother was when the next set of dancers took the floor—including Eryx Lording, who came strolling up from the
main entrance looking more smug than ever. He walked straight to Mander Ghataj's dove-masked sister, took her hand, and pulled her into the dance.

They made a handsome couple—though the possessive way Eryx steered Miss Ghataj about the floor, and her willingness to let him, made Isaveth feel nauseated. Especially since she'd once dreamed of dancing with Eryx like that herself. . . .

“Delicia Ghataj,” breathed Eulalie. “So that's who he had his eye on.”

The name jolted Isaveth: No wonder the older girl seemed familiar. A few months ago Isaveth had sneaked into a fancy garden party and overheard Delicia chatting with two other girls about politics. Her admiration for Eryx Lording had been obvious, as was her desire to see the poor folk of Tarreton treated fairly—and Isaveth had liked her for it, since at the time she'd been just as unaware of Eryx's true motives as Delicia.

She knew better now, of course, but Delicia didn't, and when Eryx drew the young woman closer and murmured in her ear, her smile was so dazzling it hurt. Isaveth shuddered and turned away.

*  *  *

Nine bells, Esmond had told her. That was when he'd give Isaveth the signal, and she'd slip out to hunt for the
documents. But the clock had scarcely rung eight yet, so Isaveth was left to drift about the room, unable to sit in case one of her other schoolmates tried to strike up a conversation or asked her to dance. She also had to keep her distance from Eryx, who had left the dance floor and was greeting one group of guests after another, shaking hands and smiling as though he were the host of the party.

Fortunately, Civilla was doing her own socializing on the other side of the ballroom, and the crowd that had gathered around her was mostly women and a few middle-aged men—people with no reason to notice Isaveth, let alone speak to her. Edging over, she tucked herself behind a portly couple in matching beaver masks and did her best to look inconspicuous.

“So enjoyed your visit to our society meeting last week,” the woman was saying effusively. “I went home and told Mister Gullinger all about it. . . .”

Civilla made some reply, but Isaveth had already lost interest in the conversation. She had drifted into a daydream where Auradia Champion marched into the ballroom with a squad of Lawkeepers and arrested Eryx, when the man in front of her spoke: “Where's Lord Arvis got to? I haven't seen him since the start of the ball.”

Civilla gave a light, not quite convincing laugh. “Oh,
you know my father. He's got no patience for small talk, and he hasn't danced in years. He's probably gone off to talk business somewhere, but I'm sure my mother will coax him back eventually . . . oh!” She turned as a slick-haired boy touched her elbow, his teeth bared in a hopeful, crooked smile. “Yes, of course. Please excuse me.” She followed him to the dance floor, leaving her crowd of admirers to scatter.

“Such a charming young lady,” gushed Missus Gullinger as she and her husband ambled away. “She really makes quite an impression. Not like her mother, the poor darling;
she
looks like a fairweather breeze could blow her over. . . .”

Left alone, Isaveth glanced at the open door. The ballroom was growing stuffy, and she longed for fresh air. Perhaps it wouldn't hurt to step outside for a little while? She glanced at Esmond, who was still dancing, then set down her flute of berry squash and slipped out.

She knew the layout of this floor from her previous visits to the house—the library to one side of the entrance hall, a spacious lounge on the other. Both were full of noisy, puffer-smoking guests, so she passed them by, heading for the quiet of the east wing.

First came the gaming room, but when she put an ear to the door, the murmurs coming from inside told her it
was already occupied by at least two people—and one of them was Lord Arvis. She couldn't make out any of the conversation, so Isaveth moved on.

She was hovering by the next door, debating whether to chance it, when a glimmer at the end of the hallway caught her eye. There stood a pair of glass doors with moonlight slanting through them, and no signs of movement within. Cautiously Isaveth sidled up, pressed down the latch. . .

And stepped forward into paradise.

The air breathed fragrance, the sweet aroma of a hundred flowers. Ferns arched from a pot beside her, while an exotic tree covered with scales of overlapping bark filtered the moonlight above. Pots dangled from the ceiling, overflowing with vines and blossoms, and beds full of dwarf shrubs and other ornamental plants lined the walls. Isaveth had never seen such a beautifully kept garden—there was scarcely a wilted leaf to be seen anywhere, and the blooming plants were spaced so expertly that there would be flowers all year around. She strolled down the aisle, gazing up at the stars through the glass ceiling, and did a little twirl for sheer happiness.

She had eased back her berrybird mask and was sniffing a cluster of heart-lilies, wondering whether the tiny yellow-capped mushrooms she could see growing
nearby were edible, when the doorknob rattled. Isaveth dived behind a planter, peering wide-eyed through the foliage as the double doors opened and a woman stalked in.

Not just any woman, either. It was Civilla Ladyship, and she was furious.

“Shut the door, Eryx,” she snapped. “I knew I'd regret letting you introduce me tonight, but this is unbelievable.”

“What have I done that's so upsetting?” asked the Lording. “Really, Cilla, I don't see—”

“Cutting me down to make yourself look clever—that didn't surprise me. But practically proposing to Delicia in front of everyone, so they'll be talking of nothing but you and her for the rest of the night? How
dare
you.”

“There's no reason to get emotional,” said Eryx. “I didn't propose; I merely confessed my admiration. Surely you don't disagree? I thought you liked Delicia.”

Civilla folded her arms. “I do. And that is why I never want to see you flattering her, dancing with her, or showing her any kind of special attention again.”

“You can't be serious.”

“I am deadly serious. Delicia Ghataj isn't just one of the brightest young noblewomen in the city, she cares deeply about making Tarreton a better place—in short,
she would make an excellent Sagelady. And I will
not
stand by and watch you do to her what Father did to Mother.”

“I haven't the least idea what you mean,” said Eryx, but his tone was too bland, too indifferent. It was the same way Lilet talked when someone caught her misbehaving and she was trying to bluff it out.

“Very well, let me put it this way.” Civilla's voice dropped lower, but its coldness was no less intense. “If I catch you slithering around Delicia or any of my friends again, I will
ruin
you.”

“Oh, come now, you can't mean—”

“Don't test me, Eryx. You need me on your side.”

Isaveth gripped the edge of the planter, trying desperately to ignore the cramp in her leg. If she moved even a little, they'd spot her.

“Very well,” said the Lording at last. “But jealousy doesn't become you, Cilla. Just because Delicia doesn't despise me doesn't make her any less your friend.”

He really was a snake, thought Isaveth. How could she ever have admired him? Anyone who could twist words like that . . .

“No, it doesn't,” retorted Civilla. “But neither does it make me any less hers. Charm-swear it, Eryx. I won't let you off until you do.”

Eryx gave a long-suffering sigh. He drew a silver case from his pocket, opened it with a practiced flick of the thumb, and tweezed out a charm, holding it up before his lips as he spoke.

“I, Eryx Lording, pledge to show no more attention to Delicia Ghataj after this night than I did before, until and unless my sister, Civilla Ladyship, approves. I also vow not to court any other friends of my sister, Civilla Ladyship, without her consent.” He arched one dark brow at her. “Does that suffice?”

Isaveth wanted to shout a warning—there had to be a loophole in that promise, a cunning trick that would enable Eryx to get his way. But even if she'd dared to reveal herself, it was too late. Civilla nodded, and the charm flared green as Eryx murmured the invocation and snapped it in two.

“For your keeping,” he said, handing Civilla one of the broken halves. “Now, if we're quite done here, it's time we were getting back to the ball.”

Heart thumping, Isaveth forced herself to stay hidden until the door closed and the sound of their footsteps had faded. Then she rose stiffly and crept toward the exit.

W
HEN ISAVETH RETURNED
to the ballroom, she found more couples dancing than ever. Eulalie was skipping about with Mander Ghataj, whose reluctant manner made Isaveth suspect that she'd asked him to dance instead of the other way around. J. J. Wregget guided the Sagelady about the floor, holding her so lightly she might have been a soap bubble, while Eryx seemed to be waging a silent battle with Su Amaraq over which one of them should lead. And judging by the way Betinda Callender kept tossing her curls and giggling, Paskin had found a willing partner at last. . . .

“There you are,” said Esmond in her ear, and Isaveth jumped. “Good. Now turn around and try to look surprised. I'm going to ask you to dance.”

She didn't need to try: Her startled reaction was genuine. “What?”

Esmond made her a half bow and held out his hand. “We need to talk,” he muttered, “so will you please cooperate before people start staring?”

He had a point. If she refused to dance with the Sagelord's son, everyone would wonder. So as the musicians struck up a slower tune, Isaveth put her hand into Esmond's and let him walk her out onto the floor.

“Try to relax,” said Esmond as they turned to face each other. “I know this is awkward, but it was the only way I could think of to get a proper conversation. Is everything all right? I saw you go out a few minutes ago.”

“It's fine. I only wanted some fresh air.” She was silent a moment, wondering how to tell him about Eryx and Civilla's conversation, then asked, “Esmond . . . what's charm-swearing?”

He made a face. “It's a way of holding someone to a promise they don't really want to make. Like when my father made me charm-swear to always wear my half glass in public, and never dress like a street-boy again.” His fingers tightened on Isaveth's waist, swinging her away from the other dancers. “If you break your word, both halves of the charm start flashing and blaring the words you said when you made the promise. So everybody knows you're a liar.”

His gaze slid to Eryx, who stood listening gravely
to a woman in a wolf mask and her matching escort, both of whom seemed upset for some reason. Betinda Callender hovered behind them, simpering and batting her eyelashes—hoping Eryx would dance with her, no doubt.

“My brother loves charm-swearing,” said Esmond distractedly, “because it makes people think they can trust him. What nobody seems to realize is that Eryx never vows to do anything he didn't mean to do in the first place . . . but anyway.” He drew Isaveth closer, lowering his tone. “I left the bottle of tracking potion behind the mantle clock in the dining room—go out the side door and you'll find it. Just try not to bump into any of the servants.”