The elixir of inheritanc.., p.5
The Elixir of Inheritance, page 5
“Which is why I know my infusions best,” Zorion said, and grinned. He peered about the open courtyard with a polite interest. “The university there always has a great need for something a little out of the reach of ordinary folk.”
“Then maybe you could answer a question for me,” Ibram said, and flicked his thumbnail against the basket handle.
Zorion laughed. “Yes? About infusions? Or killing a man?”
“How easy would it be to poison a cup of shay?” Ibram asked.
Attendant Zorion looked forward and then down at his feet; his smile turned thin. They walked onward down the narrow, winding cobblestone pathway that led through the main administrative courtyards towards the practice fields and laboratories. The mountain air was crisper than down at the base in Lityen and stung the back of Ibram’s nose when he breathed. He cleared his throat.
“I don’t—why would you want to know that?” Zorion asked.
Ibram shrugged. “I’m only a simple agent,” he said. “They taught me how to bow correctly, not recognize when a man’s been poisoned. I’m not what you call a man of violence.”
Zorion turned his face just enough for Ibram to be certain he was staring pointedly at the wickedly curved knife belted at Ibram’s hip. Ibram resettled his basket and continued walking. It wasn’t his fault the world sometimes required a poke or two in order to run smoothly in the proper direction.
That direction, of course, being towards whatever spot Lady Azadiya desired. Ibram’s employer was the fourth mentor of the Preceptory of Yseult, after all. They had to wrangle with all manner of unpleasantness from the outside world that the other six preceptories of the Sect of Seven Fires cheerfully ignored. Still, Ibram wasn’t a murderer.
“Attendant?” Ibram prompted.
Zorion looked up sharply and chewed his lower lip. “Yes, yes,” he said, and then took off his spectacles to give them a cleansing swipe along his sleeve. “Well, it would depend on how you took your shay, wouldn’t it? There are all sorts of nasty concoctions you can dump into someone’s breakfast, but they’d change the taste or the texture immediately.”
“And people do tend to notice that sort of thing,” Ibram said. “If your soup is runny one morning and like cold honey the next, no one’s waiting around for a second bowl.”
“You eat soup for breakfast?” Zorion asked.
Yet another delightful askance look from his most recent charge, as if Ibram had upended a bowl over his head, rather than used an example. Ibram opened his eyes wide. He felt his mouth twitch dangerously upwards, and controlled his smirk.
“Why? Don’t you?”
Zorion blinked at him and then shook his. “The kitchen in the dormitory just serves quash.”
If Ama had been by his elbow, Ibram would have been forced to offer the Attendant a seat at their dinner table. She might no longer be a working member of Lady Azadiya’s coterie of sect agents, but her opinions on the sect’s kitchens were more than well-known, they were infamous. As it was, Ibram nodded and hummed something politely, and together they walked down the tree-lined road that lead to Lady Azadiya’s tower.
Around them, business was continuing as usual. The Learners were excused from morning classes due to the festival, but by now they were out in the field practicing for their evening exhibitions. They weren’t to be judged, of course, but every alchemist worth their salt was born with the innate desire to show off. Already, he saw huge wobbling pink bubbles drifting away from large glimmering portable pools, and just past that, at least six Learners attempted to remove—through a variety of means—a series of rings from atop a course of elevated poles. The training grounds themselves were already showing heavy scorch marks.
Ibram nodded to a charred fence post; the acrid stench of a burnt substance overpowered the lingering hint of woodsmoke. “It appears we missed something lively,” he said.
“What?” Zorion looked up and then over. “Oh, yes. I think there was to be a sticky fire demonstration today.”
Ibram raised his eyebrows. “Sticky fire?”
“No need to worry,” Zorion said. “You won’t be allowed access to it for some time.”
Ibram inclined his upper body shortly and straightened immediately. “I’m grateful for such restoration of my courage, to be sure.”
“To return to your question,” Zorion began and tucked both arms behind his back. “There are several ingredients you could put into someone’s shay without them noticing. Most of them would make you sicken immediately, if not kill you outright. Are you wishing to murder anyone in particular?”
Ibram shook his head. “I wouldn’t even know where to find a murderous impulse, Attendant. Ladyship keeps me far too busy.”
Zorion laughed, suddenly, as if he’d been startled into it. “Well, for future reference then, an animal toxin might do—fish from the deep seas and the like—or a plant such as nightshade. Mentor Hobon has fragrant Myristica in her stores, as I recall.”
Ibram tilted his head and tugged his hair back behind his ear. “And would those sorts of things show up? If you could, perhaps, test for them?”
“Of course, I could test for them!” Zorion scoffed. “It’s simply a matter of isolating the substances. If something is present in the liquid, then it will be present once searched for.”
“That’s very reassuring,” Ibram said.
They continued down the rest of the way in silence. Ibram noticed the branches of a tree shaking as they passed. He made note of it; the wind was up this high on the mountain, of course, but trees didn’t shake like that when buffeted by a stiff breeze, nor did they do so alone. He resettled his basket by switching arms; his biceps was beginning to ache. Sometimes the servants avoided the main pathway in favor of a footpath just behind the trees, but he hadn’t seen anyone, and the underbrush wasn’t that dense. Still, Attendant Zorion hadn’t noticed. It was no doubt better for Ibram if he took this moment to plan out what he was going to say to Amota Viran.
3
When they arrived at Ladyship’s tower, the grounds surrounding its great squatting bulk were covered in canopies and tents that buzzed with the same kind of startled agitation as a beehive following a strong kick. Agents, servants, and alchemists dove in and out of the makeshift structures. A small flock of older Learners on the cleared ground to the left, those who might be the Attendants under examination next year, were being dutifully led through their paces with practice gars by sect agents. Those few of Ibram’s amitai—his uncles and aunts—who had no pressing duties had taken up residence around an open fire, and lounged on low benches.
Ibram sighed. “I don’t believe your potion has worn off yet, Attendant.”
“No, I don’t think it has,” Zorion replied with a zest that Ibram hoped was merely professional pride.
Ibram gestured in the direction of the main tent. “We should inform Master Kalmar of your arrival,” he said.
Amota Viran would want to know they’d returned. And he’d probably have someone available to pass Attendant Zorion off to, most likely a ranking Attendant who could help him work on Ladyship’s eyesight problem. Ibram looked over the assorted crowd of displaced persons. Plenty of Attendants hung about the open tents, but they were all attached to Lady Azadiya’s division. Ibram suspected he would be in need of the ones from Afsoun quite soon.
He guided Zorion down the road towards one of the half-circles of low benches where some of the other sect agents sat around the blue and red fire. They were passing a flask amongst the group, and seemed quite tense. As he approached, he smelled roasted meat and fresh bread.
“Can anyone tell me where Amota Viran is?” Ibram asked as he came to a stop with Zorion at the end of a bench. “Attendant Zorion needs a new date for his examination, and I’ve got a package to deliver.”
He waved the basket at the group, and then winced. One of the women closest to him was Amita Sarrha, who was not usually found caught in the act of sitting down. Her leg must have been hurting again, though she never admitted to pain.
Amita Sarrha slung her arm over the back of the bench and leaned far over to her right. She peered up at him, wrinkling her broad face, and idly scratched the side of her head, just behind the tightly wrapped braid of her hair. The other women and two men sitting around the fire looked at him, blank-faced. Well, Amota Berac looked encouraging, but then, he nearly always did. A short, but expectant silence developed.
Ibram sighed. “Hello, Aunt Sarrha,” he said. “How are you today?”
“Why Ib-la,” Amita Sarrha exclaimed. “How kind of you to ask.”
Ibram felt his right eye twitch. He didn’t mind the existence of an affectionate name in the Western tongue, but his entire soul rebelled at the thought of one that made him sound like some kind of sickly dessert wine. His objections never carried much weight with his elders or his betters, sadly. It was his own fault for growing up amongst them.
“We’re all doing very well,” Amita Sarrha continued. “Waiting on Viran to stop his hand wringing and put us to work. Berac’s got an order in for a brace of duck’s eggs to burn for Kivan the Red; might get Lady Azadiya’s sight back in time for the rain tomorrow.”
“It’s not going to rain,” Attendant Zorion pointed out. “The meter-pool in Afsoun is lower than expected.”
Amita Sarrha’s entire face smoothed into polite incredulity. “The pool does what it does, young Attendant,” she said, “but my knee says otherwise, and if an agent cannot trust her own body, then what can she trust?”
“Your knee predicts the weather?”
She grinned, gap-toothed, and it highlighted the thin scar down the right side of her cheek. “Only the part the Isconian pirate didn’t slice!” she declared and slapped the side of her leather and steel leg brace. “Kivan the Red sent me the gift in way of compensation.”
Ibram blew out his breath. It had seemed odd that Amita Sarrha was sitting down, usually she was out on the hills shouting folk out of their wits. He ducked his head low, but brought it up again when Amota Berac snorted loudly. “What are you all still doing here?” Ibram asked quickly. “Did Ladyship roust out the kitchens as well?”
“Lady Azadiya’s ordered everyone out of the tower,” Amota Berac said, in his deep bell-like voice. You could hear the man across two fields and down a hillside; Ibram knew that for a fact. “She started talking about restructuring her foundations, and said we needed to go be useful elsewhere.”
“After she melted a glowbulb,” Amita Sarrha said.
“Ladyship melted a glowbulb?” Ibram asked.
“It’s merely a touch disfigured,” Amota Berac said, elbowing Amota Tono when he laughed. “It still functions well enough, to be sure.”
“We’re to await further instructions while Viran gets the house in order,” Amita Dervla said while holding her pale hands to the fire.
Amita Sarrha tsked. “How can a potion for sight cause this much upset?”
“It’s possible,” Attendant Zorion sighed, “I used too much dilli.”
A short pause ensued, and then as one Ibram’s amitai swiveled their faces to eye Attendant Zorion much as a pack of manor hounds evaluated their feast day’s treat. Ibram widened his eyes at Amita Sarrha. She was in charge of corralling the newly appointed Attendants before the sect allowed them out to wander. Surely, she could understand that Attendants made mistakes and Ibram didn’t deserve the extra trouble of hauling Zorion out of danger at home as well as down the mountain. Amita Sarrha blinked innocently back at him.
“The dilli?” she repeated, while Ibram began to count backwards from seven. “Didn’t you measure, Attendant? This is an important examination after all, and a smart young man such as yourself is expected to know the difference between a handful and a pinch.”
Ibram tugged on the back of Attendant Zorion’s jacket. The standards of hierarchy being what they were, an Attendant flatly outranked a mere agent, but Aunt Sarrha was a training agent, who taught Yseult’s alchemists survival when all their clever tricks failed. The torch brooch pinned to her green woolen tunic was bronze, where Ibram still had his silver buckle. Her authority over anyone below the rank of Attendant was absolute, and above that, a body had to eclipse her in age by a score of years before she would admit they deserved more than a correctly performed bow.
“It doesn’t really matter, in regards to a concentrated infusion, I don’t think. It’s stabilizing properties for hearing might have interfered with the wimberry tincture,” Zorion continued in the face of all good sense.
“Doesn’t really matter,” Amita Sarrha echoed.
“Well, I know it matters,” Zorion said, “I measured exactly, but—”
“Which is what we shall tell Amota Viran, just as soon as we can be brought to him,” Ibram jumped into the conversation. “He’ll want to know about our progress in regards to the, uh, the current problem. I also have this delivery to make. To him. I need Attendant Zorion’s help with that.”
Amita Sarrha raised an eyebrow. Ibram held his basket in front of him and lifted it high. From the corner of his eye, Ibram saw Attendant Zorion open his mouth. He calmly, and without looking, stepped on the man’s toe, and Zorion’s lips sealed themselves shut.
“Viran’s out in the main tent,” Amota Berac took pity on him. He grinned and stroked his dense black beard. “Blue canopy, yellow sides. We used it last when Ladyship went on tour in the lowland north. You can’t miss it, it’s got a big patch on the front, repairing the damage from the bonfire.”
“What bon—I mean, thank you, Amota Berac,” Ibram said, already walking backwards. “Come along, Attendant!”
He took hold of Zorion’s elbow lightly, but firmly, and didn’t let go until they had stepped back onto the road and were firmly ensconced in the safety of its light traffic. Together, they moved on towards the tower at a distinct pace. Ibram glanced left and right, and saw a fair crowd of the usual folk who worked and lived in the tower. He also spotted Attendants with collar tags embroidered with scrub-jays, phantom cats, rachtbears, and far more sun eagles than he really thought necessary. Did the Preceptory of Mariae have so little to do this Festival of Sangrin?
“Is she really your aunt?” Zorion asked, and Ibram’s attention was shattered.
He turned his head. “I’m sorry?”
Attendant Zorion shrugged and pulled his arm out of Ibram’s grasp. “You called the agent back there ‘Aunt Sarrha’.”
“Ah, well,” Ibram shrugged. “She’s a close friend of my mother’s. In Western terms, it makes her a sort of kin.”
“I’ve heard of a lot of Western terms since I arrived here.”
“We’re close enough to the border. There are many here.”
Zorion nodded. “She was about to be angry with me, wasn’t she? My training agent had the same look around the eyes whenever I made a mistake.”
Ibram weighed his words. “I believe she was about to point out some flaws in your research,” he said, finally.
Zorion resettled his glasses on his face and squinted ahead of him. “Sangrin has been very exciting this year.”
Ibram chuckled. “Festivals are never boring, to be sure,” he said. “Ah, here we are.”
By chance, a hole opened in the crowd, and Ibram and Zorion ducked through it without treading on anyone’s toes. The blue and yellow tent was the closest to the tower, only a short walk’s distance, really, and it did indeed have a large panel of fabric that was clearly more recently sewn than the rest. The front panels were tied open, and within, Ibram could see a large rectangular table. At its head sat Amota Viran, his dark head bent over a double stack of loose papers. At his elbow, lay a travel writing set. Next to him on Viran’s right, a runner was just straightening up from a bow with a small box carried in both of his hands.
Ibram walked straight into the tent, and Zorion followed him. Zorion sat down in a chair near the middle of the table, and Mila, one of Ladyship’s maids, darted towards him with a pitcher and cup. Ibram bowed quickly, and held out his basket. Amota Viran waved him to one side of the tent, and then turned back to the runner.
“You may inform the First Mentor, that Fourth Mentor Hobon is grateful for her concern while she is indisposed,” Viran said, “but she is not insensible and we expect her return to her duties shortly.”
The young man held out the box in his hands. He was very neatly put together, not a blond hair out of place, and his green tunic sleeves were slashed to show a yellow blouse beneath. “First Mentor E’garcid would also like to remind the Fourth Mentor that her reports on the examinations she held before the… unfortunate experiment are still outstanding. While Mentor—”
Amota Viran smiled as he interrupted the runner. “Ladyship’s duties are of the utmost importance to her, as they are to all who serve in her division. You may return to the manor.” He turned back to the stack of papers in front of him, and picked up the stylus from his writing kit. He paused, and then pointed to the wooden table. “Leave the box.”
The runner looked about himself with a faintly awkward air. He glanced towards the top of Amota Viran’s bent head, and then to Ibram. Ibram shrugged and sat back on his heels. The runner’s mouth pursed. He blinked at Attendant Zorion, and then straightened his thin shoulders.
“I should think,” he began.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Attendant Zorion said. He turned a cup of wine in both hands. “But I do need Master Kalmar’s attention right now.”
The runner flushed a lovely shade of strawberry. He set the box down on the table stiffly, and then bowed with both hands precisely over his stomach, and a sense of dignity denied.
“Good day, Attendant. Master Kalmar,” the boy said, and then marched himself out of the tent.
Ibram blew out his breath. Amota Viran gave him an exasperated look as he raised his head, and tossed his greying braid over his shoulder. The buckle on the inside of his right leather bracer caught the light for a moment. Ibram stood up straighter, and held the basket down by his side.
“What can I do for you, Attendant?” Viran asked. “Has your trip down the mountain given you fresh eyes on Mentor Hobon’s dilemma?”
