Gate to Kandrith (The Kandrith Series) (35 page)

“Where’s the messenger?” Evina sounded cross, but not intoxicated. She must have been losing. Her fan slapped her palm in impatience.

Sara stepped forward. “Here I am.”

Aunt Evina stilled. “Sarathena!” Her shock only lasted for a moment. She gave Sara a quick hug, then looked her up and down. “You don’t look pregnant,” she said bluntly, “or dead.”

Dead? The word took Sara aback, but, of course, her father must have declared her dead. “No, I’m quite alive. What rumors have reached you?”

“Why, that the Slavelanders had cowardly assassinated you in the middle of the night.” Her aunt’s eyes watched her shrewdly from the holes in the mask.

“That’s even worse than I thought,” Sara said lightly. “Praise Loma, I came to see you instead of riding straight up to the Primary Residence’s doorstep! The guards might not have believed who I am, especially dressed like this.” Sara plucked at the ill-fitting gown General Pallax had provided. Horse sweat and grass stains hadn’t improved it.

“Yes, that is a truly awful gown.” But Evina was only distracted for a moment. “How close are the rumors to the truth?”

“Well, I did almost die,” Sara evaded. With great will, she kept from touching her neck, aware of Lance watching silently two steps back, like a good slave. “I can’t tell you much more. But I possess vital information that must reach my father’s ears. Will you help me?”

“Of course, duckling! You didn’t even need to ask,” Evina said effusively. “I’ll send a message to your father as soon as we reach the villa.” She moved toward the carriage.

Sara’s smile became genuine. This was going to work. “One other thing—it’s probably best if my resurrection be kept secret. It wouldn’t do for rumors to get out before Father has a chance to decide how and when to announce my miraculous return. Vez only knows who reads his mail now that Julen isn’t there.”

“Julen? Did he go with you then?”

Sara paused short of climbing into the carriage. “I suppose gossip had us eloping and him the father of my supposed child?”

“Some versions.” Her aunt’s voice dripped innuendo. “Others had him beheaded for impregnating you.”

“Father sent him as my adviser,” Sara said firmly.

Evina’s voice dropped low. “I’d like to ask Julen for some…private advice myself.” She pouted when she saw only Lance standing by. “Where is the delicious Julen?”

“He had to remain behind in Kah—Slaveland.” Sara took the opportunity to distract her aunt with some gossip. As she and her aunt settled into the carriage and the coachman closed the door, she launched into an exaggerated account of Julen’s wedding day, minus the magic bits. “It all started with a horse—”

* * *

Uneasiness skittered along Lance’s nerves like a spider. At the coachman’s offended glare, he’d taken a position standing on the small step at the back of the purple carriage, holding to the leather strap provided. As the horses trotted down the flag-stoned street, he tried to pinpoint what was wrong.

He could dimly hear Sara and her aunt talking inside and snatches of laughter. He felt separate from Sara and didn’t like it. Was that all? A sense of possessiveness?

He approved of her reasons for not inviting him inside the carriage. Slaves were all but invisible to nobles, which might be useful later.

So what was it? He didn’t trust this aunt of hers, though she’d seemed willing enough to help Sara so far.

And then the aunt laughed loudly—and the hair stood up on the back of Lance’s neck.

His airway constricted. Sweet Goddess—this wasn’t hay fever. This was asthma. Lance had healed children of the affliction, but never experienced it himself. His chest felt as tight as a barrel wrapped with iron bands. Only a thin trickle of air reached his lungs, and he could barely draw breath.

The carriage swung around another fast turn, and Lance almost lost his grip on the strap. He hunched over, struggling to breathe in enough air to stay conscious. Horror saturated his thoughts. If he fell off, Sara would be all alone with her aunt. She didn’t know—she’d spoken of her aunt with wry affection—she trusted the woman.

But Lance knew. The feathered mask had prevented him from recognizing her, but her laugh had conjured up dark memories from his slave days.

Lance wheezed desperately. He had to stay conscious to protect Sara from her aunt—whom Lance knew as Madam Lust.

The moment the carriage door opened, Lance took Sara’s hand and pulled her aside—something no slave would do.

Sara tried to signal him to let go, but he bent his head near her ear. “We need to get out of here.” His voice was oddly hoarse. “I don’t trust your aunt. She—”

Just then a barefoot cuoreon rushed out of the pillared villa and down the marble steps. “Mistress!” He seemed both relieved and frightened to see her aunt. “Mistress, you must come.”

“Must I?” Aunt Evina raised an eyebrow.

The cuoreon threw himself to his knees and bent his head. Sara realized that despite his height, he was just a youth. “Mistress, Ottavio sent me to find you. To tell you Master Paulin has…taken ill.”

Ottavio was the name of Evina’s steward, Sara remembered. A sanguon who’d stayed with the family after he’d earned off the links of his slave chain.

Aunt Evina ran her hands through the cuoreon’s curly brown hair as if he were a dog. “And why should I care if my husband has eaten too much boar’s tripe again?”

“He—Ottavio says he’s been poisoned.” The cuoreon kept his eyes fastened on her feet.

Evina slapped him. “Why didn’t you say so instead of wasting my time? Take me to him now!”

With the imprint of her hand on his cheek, the cuoreon lurched to his feet and led the way inside. Evina hurried after.

Sara bit her lip and followed too. Had her aunt always treated her slaves so, and Sara hadn’t noticed? Or had her days in Kandrith just sensitized her?

Lance tugged on her sleeve. “Let’s slip away,” he wheezed.

But her aunt had paused at the top of the steps. “Come on, Sara. What are you waiting for?”

As the moment spun out, Sara felt caught between two tides. She wished Lance had explained what he meant by “I don’t trust her.” Sara didn’t precisely trust her aunt either—Evina’s basic nature was selfish. But that didn’t mean Evina wasn’t fond of Sara or that the plan wouldn’t work.

It was the lack of another alternative that decided Sara. There was no one in the Republic that Sara trusted more than Evina. They would have to take the chance.

Sara mounted the steps and felt a flood of relief when Lance shadowed her. She dropped back a step. “I’ll try to distract my aunt while you heal my uncle. It would be a bad idea to trumpet your gift here.”

Lance tried to speak, coughed, and nodded instead.

After a short walk down the hall, they entered the dining room. Although tiny in comparison with the Primary Residence, the room could hold a hundred people, and it took Sara a moment to locate her uncle. He reclined on a lavender couch along one wall, supported by three servants. One held a linen napkin, the other a silver urn, while the third tucked a blanket around his legs.

Uncle Paulin’s broad forehead was wrinkled, his skin-tone verging on purple. His eyes protruded, and he was panting like a dog. His lips and tongue were flecked with black. As they approached, he clutched his stomach and writhed.

Sara had never known Uncle Paulin as more than a vague presence, someone more interested in eating honey-figs than in conversing, but it disturbed her to see him suffer.

“How’s he been treated?” Aunt Evina snapped. “Has he vomited yet?”

“No, Mistress.” The third man straightened, and Sara recognized Ottavio’s bald countenance. “He won’t take the purge.”

“His tongue’s probably too swollen to swallow,” Aunt Evina said off-handedly.

Sara stared at her aunt. She’d known there was no love lost between Aunt Evina and her husband, but her aunt sounded like she was discussing an animal.

Uncle Paulin’s expression was one of terror. He knew he was dying.

“Who did this?” Evina demanded.

No one said a word, but every eye suddenly went to the cuorelle pacing ten feet away.

Sara drew in a sharp breath. It was Rochelle. But a very different Rochelle from the one Sara had last seen. The modest gray dress had been replaced by a lurid yellow one with a deep decolletage. Her ash-blond hair hung loose to her waist instead of being secured in a roll and straggled as if she had not combed it in days. Worst of all were her eyes. They twitched in her blank face. She looked mad. She looked like a poisoner, but Sara refused to believe it of gentle Rochelle.

Sara squeezed Lance’s hand. “You’ve got to heal him,” she whispered urgently. If Paulin died, Rochelle would be arrested and put to death.

“No,” Lance said hoarsely.

“What do you mean, no?” Sara whispered furiously. “You wear the Brown. Doesn’t your goddess require you to heal the dying?”

“It’s my choice.”

“So choose to heal him!”

While they argued, Ottavio waved forward two cuoreons.

“Easy now.” One of them gently took hold of Rochelle’s arm. She flinched, but didn’t fight.

Lance stepped in front of Rochelle. “Why did you poison him? Does he deserve to live?”

Hatred wiped away the blankness on her face. “No. He got what he deserves. I hope he suffers.”

Acid ate at Sara’s stomach. She’d only heard Rochelle ever speak of Nir with that degree of loathing. “He raped you.” A statement, not a question. She rounded on her aunt in fury. “How could you let this happen?”

Evina cocked an eyebrow. “You said to give her light work. There are plenty of cuorelles who prefer work on their backs to scrubbing floors.”

“I trusted you to keep her safe.” Sara felt like she was bleeding inside. She should have taken more care, should have brought Rochelle and her son with her. They’d be safe in Kandrith now.

Now Evina looked irritated. “I offered her jazoria. It’s not my fault she wouldn’t take it.”

“Mistress!” the cuoreon with the napkin cried. “He’s failing!”

More of Paulin’s tongue stuck out of his mouth now, swollen and black. His body shook as if palsied, and a death rattle issued from his throat.

Sara turned back to Rochelle—and was jolted to see that Lance was whispering to her. No time to ask why. “Rochelle, ask him to heal Paulin,” Sara pleaded. She took her cuorelle’s cold hands in her own. “Think of Tulio!” Though the boy had been born free, with no family and patrons he would be at risk.

But Rochelle shook her head. “No. Let him die. Tulio will be taken care of. I’ve been promised so.”

Promised. As if greased, Sara’s gaze slid over to her aunt. When Paulin gave a last gargle and died, Sara saw the tiny smug smile, the satisfaction. Her aunt had planned this. She’d put Rochelle up to it, probably even given her the poison.

Why? Her aunt had loathed her uncle for years, so why act now? It couldn’t be infidelity; both of them had taken other lovers. Evina had an eye for handsome men like Julen, but Sara had often suspected she had a more long-term lover—a married man. Was that it? Did Evina want to marry again? Perhaps her lover’s wife had suddenly died, or, a darker thought, been murdered too?

A tall, spare man rushed into the room, breathless. “I was called?” From the clanking rack of bottles he carried, Sara identified him as a physicker.

Evina moved back to let him examine the body, wringing her hands as if in anguish. “Please, is there anything you can do?”

Sara turned away from the false drama, sickened. Lance had stepped back and the two burly cuoreon guards were looming over Rochelle again. She glared at them. “I wish to speak to my—my maid.” At the last moment she couldn’t bring herself to say cuorelle. Heart slave.

The cuoreons drew back.

Sara spoke to Rochelle in a low voice. “I’m so sorry. For what happened to you in this house. I meant for you to be safe!” she bit out.

But Rochelle didn’t look angry. She shook her head wearily. “It’s my punishment for betraying you.”

Sara went cold. “What do you mean?”

“The night of the feast, the night before your journey. I let him take you.” Rochelle looked away, ashamed.

Let who? Sara almost asked. But the answer was obvious. “My father?” That was the night the blue devil had been attached to her soul.

“He came with two men and carried you away while you were drugged asleep.” Rochelle began to shake. “He threatened to give Tulio to Nir. So I did nothing.”

“No.” Sara laid her hand over Rochelle’s. “You couldn’t have stopped him—he’d have killed you if you’d tried. You were right to keep Tulio safe.”

Rochelle wasn’t comforted. “I should have at least told Felicia or you the next morning. But I was too afraid. You saved me from Nir, and I let you down. This is my punishment.”

“No,” Sara said again, almost in tears. “Evil was done to you. You are not punished. Nothing you’ve done could ever have rated that kind of punishment. And if you had told me the next morning, I wouldn’t have believed you. I thought my father loved me,” she added painfully.

The pity in Rochelle’s eyes said it all.

“Sara,” Lance said, a warning in his tone.

She looked up and saw Evina’s steward hovering nearby. “Yes, Ottavio?”

“Are you ready to retire?” he asked. “Mistress Evina asked that a room be prepared for you.”

Sara didn’t want to leave, but there was little she could do for Rochelle right now. “In a moment.” She turned to the guards. “Rochelle is legally my responsibility. You will treat her gently.”

They bowed their heads in acquiescence, though Sara knew that if her aunt overruled her they would likely do nothing.

“This way,” Ottavio murmured. They followed.

The physicker was pulling a blanket over Paulin’s purple face as they passed. Evina clung to his elbow. “What—what do I do now?”

He patted her elbow, either fooled by her act or willing to accept it for gold. “You need do nothing, Lady Evina. I will notify the high priest of Mek. His acolytes will come and prepare the body. It’s late. I advise you to rest. There’s a potion I can give you.”

“Will the priests take her away too?” Evina waved a hand in Rochelle’s direction. “The poisoner?”

“No, Hana’s priests will deal with her in the morning. Just detain her for now.”

Sara stiffened, but made herself keep walking. Later, she promised herself. She was not going to leave Rochelle to her fate. If they could rescue Wenda, they could rescue Rochelle and Tulio too.

Ottavio showed Sara to a lovely yellow bedroom, one of the few in the house that had escaped Evina’s mania for shades of purple. It also had a small dressing room with a cot for a maid. Ottavio looked at it dubiously—Lance’s arms would hang off the sides, and he was at least a foot too long—but Sara said firmly, “It’s fine.” She would not tolerate having Lance down the hall.

“Shall I order a late supper?” Ottavio asked.

Sara’s belly rumbled. “Yes, thank you.”

Ottavio went to the door and beckoned. A middle-aged cuorelle brought in two plates of roast chicken and hot rolls and set them on a small table. He’d obviously ordered it as soon as she and Evina arrived.

A second cuorelle brought an even more welcome gift: clothes. The silk gown was gauzy by Kandrithan standards, but it was
clean
. Sara could hardly wait to wash up and change.

The cuorelles left in silence, but Ottavio lingered as she sat down in front of the meal. When she started to take a bite Lance trod on her toe, a clear warning in his expression.

He was right. Eating in the house of someone who’d recently been poisoned was unwise. Pretending not to understand, Sara smiled at Ottavio. Had he been the one to procure the poison for Rochelle? “It looks delicious.” She took a big bite, chewed and swallowed.

A look of faint satisfaction came over Ottavio’s face before he bowed and left.

The moment he was gone, Sara spit the portion she hadn’t swallowed into her napkin. “Well, that should convince him,” she said to Lance.

“Did you swallow any?” Lance demanded, his face pale.

“A small amount.” Sara grew worried. “It doesn’t matter though. You can heal poison. Can’t you?”

“Yes,” Lance said tersely, to her relief. “But I can do nothing if she’s given you a sleep potion or jazoria.” He seemed to be swallowing a host of other words.

She’d been reckless again. Unhappily, Sara realized she’d come to rely on Lance’s magic. “I can understand a sleep potion,” Sara said after a moment. Such would keep her quiet and out of the way while Evina sent for Hana’s priests to arrest Rochelle. “But why would my aunt give me jazoria?” There was something going on here that she didn’t understand. Lance had been frantic to get away since the carriage stopped—before Uncle Paulin’s murder.

A muscle ticked in Lance’s jaw. “Jazoria is a favorite trick of Madam Lust’s,” he said after a moment.

Sara’s eyes narrowed. She’d heard Lance mention Madam Lust before, during one of his bouts of delirium. “Who is Madam Lust?”

“Your aunt.” Lance’s words were blunt, his gaze absolutely level.

Sara wanted to ask if Lance could somehow be mistaken, but she would not insult him in such a way. “Tell me.”

“Madam Lust is the vulgar name that the slaves called the noblewoman who bought my family. She picked out my father from the slave block—inspected him like a horse.” Lance’s fists clenched.

Sara had never been to the slave market—it was unfitting for an unmarried woman—but she’d heard stories…

“But she bought the whole family,” Lance continued, “including my uncle, so we were grateful at first. We were sent to a country estate. We heard rumors, but Madam Lust spent most of her time in the city. For the first six months we didn’t see her at all. We settled in. Father and my uncle worked the smithy, and I helped them. Mother washed laundry, and Wenda ran errands. If she’d left us alone, we’d probably all still wear slave chains.” Lance stopped.

He seemed to have trouble getting started again so Sara prompted him, “But she didn’t leave you alone.”

“Working the forge is hot labor. Uncle and Father often stripped off their shirts. One day she came by and saw Father. It was like he was a piece of candy, and she couldn’t resist,” Lance said bitterly. “She had him brought to her in chains that night. When Father came back, he couldn’t look Mother in the eye. She was upset—but she forgave him when Uncle explained about jazoria.”

Upset was far too mild a word, Sara suspected. To have one’s loved one taken away and used for another’s pleasure… Unfortunately, the tale was a common one, though usually the victim was a woman.