Crowchanger (Changers of Chandris) (22 page)

“I can’t change, but I swear to you I am her apprentice. My name is Sylas. Please, you have to tell her I’m here.”

The man spat between the bars. “Don’t have to do nothing. Just take you to the king’s justice when I’m called to, and with a bit of luck get to help with the stringing up too. You had a bit of sympathy up to now. Stoned the king and his boys, and you lost it. Who uses stones, unless children pelting rats and dogs in the street?”

“At least bring me water and bandages, and untie my hands so I can tend him. If one of us dies then that’s one fewer trapdoor for you to open beneath our feet.” It made Sylas sick to his stomach to think of the five of them hanging from ropes, but the fellow needed convincing.

It worked. The bandages the guard passed through the door soon after had been used and washed many times, but at least they were clean. The water smelled of the taint of the Lady’s breath, so it had come from the common well, not been filtered through sand, but it was better than nothing. For a moment, while the door was open, Sylas was tempted to run. If he took the man by surprise, landed a lucky blow or two, he might make it—to the next locked door at least. He didn’t want to think what would happen if his way was barred. The man didn’t seem the type to laugh off an escape attempt. And that would leave the wounded man with no caregiver. Sylas sighed. He had to do his duty.

“Please send word to Mistress Ayriene. I’m telling you the truth.”

The man grunted (or it might have been a short laugh—Sylas wasn’t sure) and turned the key in the lock. His footsteps faded along the corridor, and Sylas dampened one of the cloths and wrung it out. If he was lucky, he might keep the man alive long enough to be hanged. The thought gave him no comfort.

Chapter 22

S
ylas did what he could for the injured man, washing and binding the wound and using what water was left to sponge his face to make him more comfortable. Soon after, it became clear that Neffan was also sick. Sylas could not understand how or why. He was uninjured, apart from the scratch from the flint. The conditions were bad, certainly, but the stale air and stench would take several days to make any of them unwell. Neffan had not been here long enough for the watch bell to sound, far less sicken with anything.

His words ran through Sylas’s head.

Four hours, maybe five. But a death of my choosing, not of the king’s.

Sylas took Neffan’s hand and turned it wrist up. Around the scratch the skin had bruised, a livid red-blue clearly visible on the golden-brown of the man’s skin. He felt Neffan’s forehead. The man was feverish, but how had he become ill so quickly?

“What have you done?” Sylas grabbed Neffan’s shoulders and shook him. “The princes—two of them were hit. Will they be sick now, too?”

Neffan said nothing, but a smile curled the corners of his mouth and his eyes took on a satisfied gleam.

Deygan would have called for Ayriene as soon as he and his sons reached the safety of the castle, of that much Sylas was sure. Even sick herself, Ayriene would heal the boys’ wounds. Sylas wondered how long it would take before someone noticed that the princes were not recovering as they ought. They were probably getting worse by the minute, if Neffan’s symptoms were anything to go by. Ayriene would have sent for Sylas by now, particularly if she was no better than she had been in the morning. But when he was nowhere to be found, she would assume that he had stayed in the city. Celebrations would go on well into the night, and the taverns and brothels did a roaring trade on feast days. She probably thought he was out drinking or whoring; there were men as well as women to be had, if you knew who to ask. The castle dungeons would be the last place she would think to look.

Think, Sylas, think! He sat where floor and wall met, knees drawn up to his chest, hands in fists on either side of his forehead. He was missing something. They had chosen slings over daggers or swords or bows. He would bet that Chesammos entering the city for the feast had been searched at the main gates, so they could not have brought in anything larger. That made slings the obvious weapon choice for the would-be assassins. But over those distances, through a crowd, a man would have to be inhumanly accurate or have the Lady’s own luck to land a killing blow. And Neffan was dying from a scratch.

He rolled to hands and knees and crawled across to Neffan, whose cut arm was now covered with bruises. Despite the man’s protestations Sylas investigated further, finding the first pale purple splotches oozing into the skin of his chest.

“It’s poison, isn’t it?” he said, his face close to Neffan’s. “You coated the stones with poison. That’s why you threw stones, hoping to break their skin.” The image of Jaevan with blood running from a wound on his forehead haunted him. “What did you use, damn you?”

Neffan refused to speak—or could not.

Sylas settled back against the wall once more. Ayriene had taught him about the poisons which were toxic at a high level but had healing properties in smaller quantities. He thought he could ignore those. Poison on a flint would deliver too small a dose to be effective. That left three that he knew of, none of which Mistress Ayriene had ever mentioned. She might know of them, but two were from plants found largely in the desert, and which had no medicinal uses.

He could eliminate the one that killed in minutes—Neffan had already survived longer than that—which left kaba sap and esteia. They had similar symptoms, both starting with a fever. Kaba sap caused bleeding from the eyes and nose and mouth in its later stages, but by then the patient was too far gone to save. He could not afford to wait that long. Esteia was eaten by people tempted by the nut-like seeds. Then another thought occurred to him. Irenthi were immune to the effects of kaba sap. Well, not immune, exactly. It would give an Irenthi an unpleasant stomach upset, but not kill him. So if it was kaba sap, then Jaevan was safe, but he couldn’t imagine that Neffan and his gang would have made such an elementary mistake.

Most cases of esteia poisoning were by ingestion of the seeds, but Neffan had not eaten anything—just scratched himself. Unless they had found a way to extract the poison from the nuts. Could they be ground up, maybe boiled to make a liquid poison with which to coat the flints? He had never heard of it being done, but that didn’t mean it was impossible. Skin contusions were a symptom of esteia poisoning, and as far as he remembered, kaba sap left no marks. A better death than the rope? Maybe. Neffan had chosen his own way to die, but Sylas did not intend for him to choose Jaevan’s. How long had it been since the parade? How long did Jaevan have before the antidote would be futile?

Sylas went to the door, banging with his fists, yelling as hard as he could manage. He heard grumbling. The guard who had brought the bandages shambled his way to the window and scowled through.

“What’s the matter? Your friend died, has he? Can’t say I’m sorry.”

“He’s not dead, but another is sick. Very sick. And Prince Jaevan will be soon, if he isn’t already. The stones were poisoned. You must get word to Mistress Ayriene.”

The guard scratched at his scalp. His hair was close cropped, a precaution against the lice that were surely rampant in the cells. He didn’t look to Sylas as if he was very bright, and Sylas fretted at any delay.

“We don’t have any time. They have used a Chesammos poison and Mistress Ayriene may not know of it. Let me out so I can help her. Or at least tell her what I’ve said.”

“Poisoned, you say? Your stories are getting better, I’ll give you that. First you’re a changer and now Prince Jaevan is poisoned. Very creative. Maybe I’ll give you another couple of hours—see what you come up with then.”

Sylas shouted in frustration. “The Lady burn you for a fool! I am a changer, and the prince is in danger of his life. If he dies, I’ll tell the king you ignored my warnings if I have to scream it out to him with a noose around my neck.” He pounded on the door with his fists again. “Listen to me, flames blind you! You must tell the healer it is esteia. Esteia!” He slammed his shoulder to the door in sheer desperation, never expecting it to give.

The jailer looked as if Sylas’s sudden passion had almost convinced him. “Why should I stick my neck out for you? I go to this healer and you’re not who you say you are, I don’t just look stupid, I likely lose my job as well. You going to make it worth my while?”

Sylas had little money, certainly not enough to make this man step out of line. He felt a pang of regret at pies eaten, ale drunk, and coins casually tossed to street performers. But he did have one thing that might win the man’s attention. He pulled out his pouch and opened the drawstring. The little package was safe inside. He drew it out and untied the thread, linen draping his palm, the linandra bead sitting in the centre. He held the bead up to the bars between finger and thumb. It was a poor stone, and if the man looked closely he would see the flaw running through it, but it might be enough to appeal to his greed.

“This for you, if you take my message.”

The guard’s eyes glittered. “Say now, is that linandra?” He licked his lips, glancing over his shoulder down the corridor. “What’s to stop me coming in there and taking it?”

“You try and I’ll swallow it. You can check the slop bucket for the next couple of days, if you’re that desperate. Now go and tell the healer.” He surprised himself with how firm his voice remained when inside he was quaking with fear. Jaevan had already lost so much time.

And then he heard it, faint as if far away, almost beyond hearing.

We fly, changer?

Had he truly heard it or was his mind playing tricks? The linandra between his fingers took on the same faint glow as when he was tested for sensitivity. He could hear the other kye too, but this one was stronger than the others—clearer. His heart thumped like a punch behind his ribs. There was a moment where it seemed to stop beating altogether, and then it raced with excitement. Was it here, now? Had his true kye shown itself in the king’s dungeons? He wanted to laugh with relief, with despair. Even if he changed here he could not escape—the bars were too close to let all but the smallest of birds through.

He felt it. The lurching, twisting, giddying sense of part of himself being left in the Outlands, the awareness that his mind was shared with something other than himself, the stomach-churning sensation of falling as he transformed. Sylas looked at the bottom of the door from scarcely a handspan off the ground. His clothes lay around him, the linandra bead nestled in their folds. Instead of feet he had claws that scraped and clicked on the stone floor. He spread his wings and turned his head to see them move at his command. Shiny, almost oily in appearance, and blue-black. He was a crow, then, as he had thought he might be. Sylas fought down a glimmer of regret. He was a true changer at last; he should be elated at his success, not disappointed at the form he took.

“Hey! Where’d he go?” He heard the jingle of keys, the creak of the door opening, and then he was back, a human, crouching on the floor of a dank prison cell beneath Banunis Castle. The guard stared down at him, mouth open, eyes wide. “By the Creator! You really are a changer. I saw you. Just for a moment, like, but I saw.”

Sylas fell to his knees on the floor. He was naked, his clothes scattered at his feet. Bent double, he retched miserably, bringing up the remains of his pie. Had anyone told him that changing could nauseate him? He didn’t think they had. He spat, wiped his mouth, and plucked the bead from the pile of clothing, making sure it was firmly in his grasp.

“Take a message to Mistress Ayriene. Tell her it is esteia that ails the prince. Take the message for me and the bead is yours.”

The man licked his lips as if considering a juicy steak, then turned and ran. Sylas could hear his booted footsteps thumping up the steps to the castle.

Sylas found the piece of linen and wrapped the bead once more, taking care not to touch it with his bare hands. It had glowed before he transformed. Was linandra the key? If so, why had no other Chesammos needed a bead? Master Cowin had changed at nine years old. He would not have been close to having the piercing at that age. But enough for now that he had done it at last, and without a call to help him.

The other men watched him silently as he dressed himself.

“It is esteia, isn’t it? Tell me now, before I have Mistress Ayriene give the prince the wrong treatment.”

Neffan stared sullenly back at him, but the young man—the one whom Sylas had treated—nodded. “No harm, since you’ve guessed. It was our only hope of getting Deygan or one of the princes. We will hang for it, but I don’t regret trying. I never wanted anyone else mixed up in it, though. I hope your healer can convince Deygan you weren’t involved.”

Sylas was less worried about that than about saving Jaevan. His only knowledge of esteia was of ingesting it, not putting it straight into the blood. If Ayriene did not know of esteia, as seemed possible, then she would not know the antidote. The guard had to get to Ayriene and make her listen. And then she had to make Deygan listen to her. He sat by the wall again, chewing on his thumb knuckle. Even if Ayriene managed to secure his release, they might already be too late.

Ayriene’s mind raced, even as she held the contact with the kye that gave her the healer talent. The king had sent for her as soon as the royal party returned and she quickly assessed the damage. Prince Jaevan’s temple and a gash on Prince Rannon’s forearm were healed in a few moments. Prince Marklin had been pushed into the bottom of the carriage by a guard, and was shaken but unhurt. King Deygan had been struck on the chest but was only bruised, saved from worse injury by the leather tunic he wore under his robes. Ayriene gave Marklin a sedative to help calm his nerves, and as an afterthought made one up for the other two boys as well.

News came that the attackers had been apprehended and were in the castle prisons. Ayriene would not have been surprised if Deygan had ordered them hanged there and then, such a rage gripped him. Five men, all Chesammos, the soldiers said: one injured, but the others fit to stand interrogation, should His Majesty want them put to the question. The rebellion was spreading, then, if they felt confident enough to attack the king in his own city.

It all seemed routine at that stage. The injuries were healed and the boys given a herb tea to settle them; she had no need of Sylas. But when, inexplicably, Jaevan and Rannon showed other symptoms, she had a messenger sent to summon him to the king’s chambers. When the messenger returned to say there was no sign of him in the castle—that he had been seen since leaving for the procession—she was surprised but not concerned. Maybe he had been in the lower part of the city and was unaware of the attack on the king’s party. Or had overcome his usual preference for solitude and found some part of the city where celebrations and carousing were in full swing.