The Poison Throne (25 page)

Wynter purposely started with the one who had first spoken to her, the foul-mouthed, shock-haired boy. She looked pointedly into his face, down to the guild mark on his tunic and then to the black laces in his boots. When she got to his laces, she allowed her eyebrows to lift a little as if to say,
oh, is that all?

Then she did the same to his companion, a raw-boned, freckle-faced lad with striking blue eyes and crooked front teeth. He frowned at her scrutiny and glanced at the fourth year boy for support. Wynter had already realised that the older boy was the one she’d need to deal with, but first she made a show of glancing at the third year’s laces and dismissing him with a tut. Only then did she turn her attention to the important fourth year lad.

He was of medium height, a stooping fellow of about seventeen, with a round good-natured face and a head of silky brown hair, clubbed, as was befitting his status, at the nape of his neck. He had stayed watchfully in the background as his companions had jostled and pucked and leered, and now he was regarding her with careful interest. She took in his face, the guild mark, his boots. She allowed her eyebrows to rise approvingly at the yellow colour of his laces, and let herself nod. A good grade, only one level down from the green. She let her eyes meet his, and caught him flicking a glance down to her guild approval pendant. His lips twitched and he met her eyes, his face guarded.

“I’ve no doubt your master has left you excellent instructions, and that you are hard at work on his behalf,” Wynter said, speaking directly to him and only him. “I’m sorry to have interrupted you. Please, I beg you, continue with whatever tasks he charged you to perform. My master is most eager that we make progress.”

This put a large burden on the boys. If their master had not left any instructions, then it implied that he was lazy and incompetent and that his early absence from the workplace was a great dereliction of duty. Wynter knew that apprentices were unruly and insubordinate to a boy, but loyal beyond belief to their master. For these boys to continue their larking now would be a bad reflection on the man who supplied them with their bed and board, and on whom their futures depended. It would also shame him in front of another master’s apprentice.

The fourth year sucked his teeth for a minute and examined her face, a small frown growing between his eyebrows. “Why ain’t yer master here himseln?” he asked.

The shock-haired fellow leapt in, his tone suddenly earnest and inquiring. “I heard Lord Moorehawke don’t support this
mortuus in vita
thing! I heard he ain’t even been to no banquet or nothin’ since that pagan Arab bastard been taken to the throne! That’s why he ain’t here, ain’t it?”

Wynter opened her mouth to reply, but the other third year interrupted her. He had a surprisingly cultured voice and he looked her up and down when he said, “My mother said the Lord Razi has put a spell on the King. That he has bewitched his way to the throne…”

“Sure his ma did bewitch her way to Jonathon’s bed when the King were but a lad!” squeaked one of the first years.

“He shook her off quick enough,” sneered the shock-haired lad, “Black-eyed bitch! Didn’t take long for the King to come to his right mind and get himseln a decent Christian woman ’afore ’twas too late.”

“Not ’afore that brown bitch pushed out a bastard, though! And she murst have cast another spell on him now, for harn’t he tossed out his golden boy for that black devil?”

“Bloody brown heathen.”

Wynter felt her head spinning. Their voices were all blending into one great rush of hate, and she felt her control of the situation draining away. It was like listening to Northlanders talk!
Decent Christian woman? Pagan Arab bastard?
When had religion and race ever been an issue in this kingdom? When had they started talking about spells and bewitchings as though they were something to be reckoned with?

The fourth year was speaking to her, and she forced herself to concentrate on his wary, thoughtful voice as he said, “I suppose we have ter replace his Royal Highness, the Prince Alberon, with the Arab bastard, do we? Scrape out the true heir and carve in the pretender?”

Wynter blinked at him, her heart scurrying in her chest. Her eyes felt dry and hot. She moved her tongue around in her mouth to try and get it wet enough to speak. When she did finally get something out, she was shocked at how even her voice was, how reasonable her words.

“My master is detained with business of state,” she said. “That is why he cannot attend us today.” She drew a note from her jacket, making sure that the crowding boys could see Lorcan’s crest on the wax seal. “I have a note from him for your master.” The fourth year looked from it to her, his face neutral. “And if you examine the carvings on these walls,” she continued, “You will see that there will be no need to replace the prince with his brother. Lord Razi is, in fact in all of these pictures already. He is in more of them than even the Royal Prince Alberon, as Lord Razi was born first and was here longer.”

The boys frowned and glanced around them. Wynter realised suddenly that none of them knew what either Alberon or Razi looked like. To these boys, her two friends were just names, one representing a brown bastard, one representing a golden boy. That was all, just names, just icons. And with this revelation she understood the true depth of what Jonathon was going to achieve here.

By erasing Alberon from history, by destroying every reference to him, every picture of him, every carving, Jonathon could make whatever he wished of Alberon’s memory. Alberon could become anything – a gibbering imbecile, a lunatic, a murderous lout, a dangerous tyrant. Jonathon could make
anything
of Alberon, because most of his people had never even seen him, had never known his face or the truth of his character. Poor Albi. Soon he would be nothing, or worse, he would be remade into a monster.

Jusef Marcos’s last words came back to her in a rush:
His Highness the Royal Prince Alberon! It was Prince Alberon! He sent the word, my Lord! He sent the word that I kill you
. She could not reconcile herself to that. Could not impose her image of the wild, grinning, impulsively affectionate Alberon, bounding and sunny, with that of an evil, scheming man, hidden in the shadows, dispatching assassins intent on the murder of his own beloved brother. She felt tears threatening and bit her tongue and looked again at the group of boys who were still staring about them, trying to figure out who was who in the numerous carvings that filled the room.

Wynter took a deep breath and said harshly, “So, what work did your master leave you?”

The shock-haired boy sneered at her, “What business be it of yourn, wench?”

The fourth year slapped him suddenly on the back of the head, “Tat it, Jerome. Get yer roll to the back stacks and start on that frieze, as what yer were told.”

Jerome gaped at his companion for a second. The fourth year held his eye, and eventually the other boy blushed deep and moved off to the large stacks. The other third year drifted away, and the two small first years dithered, hopping from foot to foot as if they needed to piss.

“What are we meant to do, Gary?” whined one of them.

The fourth year rolled his eyes to heaven. “Why doesn’t yer ever listen, yer little maggots? Get yer to them little shelves over there and lay out yer tools and I’ll be with yer now.” The two boys scampered off, and Wynter heard them pushing and giggling as they made their way to the smaller book cases.

The fourth year, Gary, looked at her, his face solemn. He spoke to her in a low voice, and Wynter thought she heard a heavy measure of sympathy in his voice. “It pains me ter do this work,” he said honestly. “Yer master has done some right excellent beauty here. ’Tis a sin ter wipe it.”

She looked into his gentle eyes and said nothing. He grinned at her with a mouth full of rotten teeth. “You done well with them lads,” he said and she let a little smile touch her eyes. “I’ll take yer ter my master, eh?”

Wynter nodded and Gary led her through the stacks to where Pascal Huette had been biding his time. He was a small man, wiry and grey, his face angular, his pale eyes gleaming from a complex nest of wrinkles. During the course of the day, Wynter would come to realise that his apprentices adored him and that Gary was, in fact, his son.

They spend most of the next few hours walking through the friezes and picture panels, as Wynter described what it was her father wanted done. Pascal had at first assumed that they were replacing Alberon and Oliver with some object – a tree, a horse, something to fill in the gaps. When Wynter explained that Lorcan just wanted the figures planed down to the blank wood and left as a gaping hole in the picture, an obvious and glaring absence, Pascal looked at her thoughtfully.

“He wants no additions?”

“No, Master Huette.”

“Naught to disguise the gaps?”

“No.”

She produced the letter and handed it to him, waiting patiently while he read it, which he did slowly and with difficulty.

When he’d finished, Pascal folded the paper and looked around the room. “God help us,” he sighed. “’Tis a bloody crime I’m partaking in. But it will be done, lass, and done well. Your master can trust us.”

“He fully expects to join you tomorrow, Master Huette, and we will work by your side.”

Pascal looked at the floor, sucked his teeth in a gesture he shared with his son, then glanced at her again. “Lorcan don’t really support this here travesty, do he, lass? He can’t possibly believe it right that the Arab take the throne?”

Wynter looked at his kind eyes and pondered his oblique manner.
Who can you trust?
she thought,
who but yourself?
Pascal Huette may well have been kind, but he could also be foolish. He may seem versed in the subtleties of court, but what if he was incapable of keeping a secret? It was obvious that Lorcan respected this man, but still, she noted, he had not trusted him enough to tell him of his illness. Her reply was quiet and bland, “My father will do his duty to the King, Master Huette.”

Pascal nodded, looked her up and down, and flicked his gaze to where Gary was bent over a shallow frieze. It was a long, flowing, exuberant panel, Alberon running his hounds after a fox, the carving as full of life and joy as the boy himself had been. Gary was carefully shaving Alberon’s figure from the wood, his sweeps slow and meticulous so as to preserve the beautiful work her father had done on the hounds and the surrounding foliage. Pascal Huette watched his son for a moment, his face sad.

“Aye,” he murmured, “I can well unnerstarnd your father’s mind.”

“My Lord Razi does not want this either, Master Huette. He is loyal to the Prince.”

Pascal’s face creased into a knowing grimace and he glanced at Wynter indulgently, as if educating her in her innocence. “Oh aye,” he snorted, “I’m sure they had to beat him to the throne. I’m sure they had to drag him kicking and screaming to that level of power.”

The unwitting accuracy of the man’s words brought Razi vividly to Wynter’s mind. The way he’d resisted the guards at that terrible first banquet, his father’s plan only freshly revealed to him. The look on his face as they had pressed him down into his brother’s throne. She ground her teeth and had to press her nails into her palms to stop from yelling the truth into Pascal’s knowing face. She recalled staring helplessly as Christopher, bloody and screaming, was dragged away to the keep, the very real threat of his death by torture hanging over Razi’s head ever since.

“I assure you,” she whispered, “My Lord Razi wants no part of his brother’s inheritance. He
is
loyal.”

Huette tilted his head kindly and patted her shoulder. She pulled away, cursing the tears that she couldn’t seem to banish from her eyes. “Sure didn’t he sit all last night long in his brother’s chair, lass? Making merry and eating his brother’s portions? Next yer know he’ll be wearing the purple and tending at the council as if he had every right to rule.” He seemed to misinterpret her shining eyes as fear, and his face became even kinder and he rubbed her arm comfortingly. “Yer carn’t blame him, really. It’s in their blood, yer see. A pagan like him, they don’t have the same fealty, do they? They just don’t unnerstarnd.”

He shook his head sadly and looked around at his boys, “I can’t stand to think what this place’ll be like oncet he takes power. Mebbe they have the right idear up North,” he said thoughtfully, watching his son as he concentrated on his work. “Mebbe we ort ter just send the lot of ’em packing. After all, iffin they can’t be bothered ter e’en worship proper…” he trailed off, deep in thought, while Wynter stood rigid with horror and speechless fear.

Any further conversation was interrupted by Jerome’s high voice at the door. “There ain’t no bloody ladies here, you fool. Piss off!”

“WAIT!” Wynter shouted, “Wait!” She sprinted to the front of the library, swiping at her eyes and biting hard down on her lips to get some control. Her wild arrival surprised Jerome into stillness and shocked the little page that he was trying to bully out the door.

“Who do you seek, child?” she asked unsteadily.

“Why you, Protector Lady.”

At the use of her title, Jerome’s eyes popped open like heated chestnuts and all the apprentices shot up like rabbits to look at her anew.

“Good Christ!” murmured Gary, looking her up and down. “A lady, no less!”

The little page held a letter out for her, the King’s crest evident on the seal. He was mortally terrified of the five apprentices, and the paper trembled in his fingers.

“His Majesty, the good King Jonathon, expects a reply, my Lady.”

“Good Christ!” repeated Gary, and Jerome paled at the sudden revelation of her powerful standing in court life.

Wynter snapped open the note, sniffing deeply to clear her nose and blinking the script into focus. Her heart dropped at the curt message.

You are required to attend tonight’s banquet in place of your father. Be ready by the tenth quarter.

Wynter groaned and looked to the heavens.

“His Majesty requires a reply,” squeaked the little boy. Wynter gritted her teeth, knowing what she’d
like
to say to his Majesty. But she swallowed her anger and took a deep breath instead. The page must have seen the black fury in her face, because his eyes slid to the wall and he stood waiting, his face carefully blank.