Darkburn Book 3: The Gates of Kelvha by Tayin Machrie - HTML preview

Chapter 26

A day later, she was still annoyed with him, although she knew it was unfair. She could have chosen to ignore that look of appeal across the banquet table. And it was entirely her own fault that she had overdone the slip and tumble. The next morning, the bruises were coming up, blue and tender: Meya winced as she crossed the east courtyard on her way to the servants’ hall.

It is my pride that is hurt more than my limbs, she thought. But I don’t really understand why I did it at all. It is not as if I am beholden to Huldarion, not yet: I am faithful to Kelvha.

And this theory of Huldarion’s is truly shocking. Somebody poisoning the Prince through wine? It would have to be a very slow poison… Or an ingredient that is not toxic, yet acts on the Prince’s will? No, the whole idea is unthinkable. Perhaps I can prove it wrong.

As Meya marched into the servants’ hall, her annoyance abated a little on seeing the flustered curtseys and deferential bows. None of the servants would have laughed at her tumble: they would have been too anxious not to be blamed for any spillage on the floor.

But of course none of them had been at fault. The floor had in fact been spotless. I have trained them well, thought Meya, as she requested to see Greshal, the chief steward. He was the quiet, efficient man whom she had made sure was appointed as head of the servants’ hall several years ago.

An errand-boy hurried away, and soon brought Greshal to her – even the servants having servants inside Kelvha, an arrangement which it occurred to her might seem doubly strange to those Riders of the Vonn, who apparently had no servants at all. Or not bonded ones, at least. Surely there must be servants in Caervonn? A city could not thrive without them. It could not function.

Hence she valued the castle’s servants although certain lords did not. She knew Greshal to be discreet: and after leading the way into the second pantry, where there were no spyholes, she asked him about Prince Faldron’s special vintage and the man who served it.

“He’s called Kavaul,” said Greshal readily enough. “Weldish wine is rare in quantity but nothing special in itself, although Kavaul behaves as if it is. And he acts as if he’s special too. The prince has any number of equerries of much higher rank. But Kavaul seems to think he’s the most important man in the servants’ hall. Of course, he is a westerner.” This obviously implied untrustworthiness in Greshal’s eyes; he was himself a southerner.

“Why did you employ him?” Meya asked.

“He came through The Lord Nerogun’s recommendation. I cannot be rid of him unless the Lord Post-Regent commands it.”

“I see. And could the Prince’s rare and not-so-special wine be tampered with in any way? I do not accuse you, Greshal, you understand.”

Greshal did not seem to take it amiss. “It arrives here in small casks, which would be hard to tamper with unnoticed. They are kept with the others in the cellars, and both I and the butlers keep a strict watch on everything in there, my lady.”

“I am sure you do.”

“So if anything is added to the wine, it must be in the flagon, by Kavaul.” And then he paused before he added, “I admit, my lady, I am glad you came to find me. I have had certain suspicions about Kavaul and did not know what to do about them.”

She nodded. Greshal could not have mentioned this to either Nerogun or the Keeper of the Keys without fear of retribution.

“Where are Kavaul’s quarters?”

“I’ll show you. But first, let me send him on an errand; I’ll make sure he is out of the castle for a while.”

“What sort of errand?”

“I have a contact – another steward of a great house. He has a collection of fine spices. They can be borrowed at need.”

Meya nodded, again. Greshal had his own network, she was well aware: his own discreet sources of information, and means of getting messages in and out of the castle unnoticed. She knew better than to ask him which great house he meant.

Greshal disappeared. Alone in the dark storeroom, Meya reflected that she still needed to do something about getting the troublesome footman Lorolo removed. And that pregnant girl in the kitchen... Greshal’s sources might be able to assist with both of those. However, one thing at a time.

When the steward returned he was carrying a heavy bunch of keys. He led her across the hall, up the servants’ narrow spiral stairs and along the corridors of stone that burrowed like huge worm-holes through the heavy walls. This area was not somewhere that she normally had any reason to explore; and the few servants that they came across quickly slipped away. There was nobody about when Greshal finally unlocked a door and let her in.

She looked around the chamber with distaste. Like many of the servants’ quarters, it was windowless; the small room smelt of sweat, and when Greshal lit the lamp she saw that dirty clothes had been left piled on the floor. But evidently Kavaul had it to himself: for there was only one bed, on which more clothes and shoes were thrown.

And on a shelf next to a tangle of grubby hose were three stoppered flasks. Meya eyed them with distaste before gingerly picking up the nearest flask to sniff at the contents.

“Brandy,” she said dismissively, and replacing it, she tried the second container before recoiling. “Dear stars. What is that?” She offered it to Greshal, who sniffed tentatively and then grimaced.

“Ollish water,” he said. “Kavaul wears it on his nights out. Supposed to be irresistible to ladies.”

“He must know some strange ladies,” murmured Meya.

“Indeed, Ma’am.”

She took the third and smallest flask down from the shelf. Unstoppering it, she sniffed it cautiously. No scent was discernible. She swirled it in the flask. It was a thin liquid, looking much like water, although it seemed to cling to the flask’s sides a little more than water would.

Pouring a few drops out into her palm, she sniffed again; and then she touched her finger to it and put it to her mouth. If it had caused no obvious illness in Faldron, a single droplet was unlikely to harm her. Indeed the whole idea was ridiculous… but not entirely so.

Colourless, odourless, almost tasteless. Yet not quite. There was a faint, sour oiliness to it.

“I don’t think that is water,” she remarked. “Can you find me a clean, empty bottle, Greshal? And a jug of clean water, if you please?”

Greshal nodded, departed and returned a couple of minutes later with both. The bottle was a plain grey stoneware one, a common bottle. Into this she emptied three-quarters of the contents of Kavaul’s flask. She topped the flask up with the water, tasted it again, and nodded. It still had sufficient of the acrid taint for the substitution not to be immediately obvious.

“Thank you,” she said, and Greshal bowed. “I know I can trust you to say nothing of this. I will have these contents checked. If anything detrimental to the High Prince should be revealed, Kavaul will be appropriately dealt with. No blame will be attached to you.”

He bowed again. Neither of them mentioned Nerogun, although, she thought, the probability of his involvement must be strong in both their minds. If Nerogun were found to have been poisoning the Prince, that would be high treason. And a very dangerous thing to have discovered. Meya covered the stoneware bottle with her cloak, and checked the corridor was still empty, before carrying it away.

She left Greshal and went straight to the still room, to which she had a key. Nobody followed her that she could detect; and she was skilled at detecting followers. If anyone had spied her in the corridor, she thought, they could hardly complain of her unusual movements; for she was often in the still room looking out remedies for sick servants, with the help of the Herb-Master’s assistant, the dutiful Boral.

Today the place was empty. She listened to the echo of her own feet as she walked slowly along the line of shelves, studying the vials and flasks and tubs. After some thought she placed her bottle at the back of a row near the top, amongst a dozen similar bottles. Similar but not identical to her own. Although she would know it again, she marked it with a dead moth at its base to be quite sure.

Then she went to look for Boral, whom she intended to ask to identify the ingredients – or to attempt to, at least. Naturally she would not tell Boral where the liquid had come from. She would say she’d found it in an obscure corner of the still-room. Boral would know that was not true; but it would cover her.

She found Boral downstairs in the servants’ sick-room. It was a tiny chamber with a mere two beds, for it was in reality no more than a holding room for any ill servants, until they could be moved out of the castle without risk of infection or offence to any nobles.

There were two other women there with Boral: both Riders of the Vonn. Meya swiftly brought their names to mind and said,

“My lady Shebel. My lady Durba. You are welcome here. I hope Boral has been able to supply you with the medicine you need?”

She expected no reply from Durba, and received none but a smile. Durba wore riding breeches, unlike the more attractive Shebel who looked most womanly in a long dress. Meya approved of her: a gentle woman, she thought, not as rough and ready as some of the female Riders. She had not disliked the female Riders – in fact, she admired some aspects of their straightforward manners – but she had found their forthrightness disconcerting. That woman called Delgeb in particular. While forthrightness was a quality that Meya valued, it was not often prudent within the castle walls.

“My Lady Meya,” said Shebel with a graceful curtsey. Her voice was low and musical. “I need no medicine for myself, although the knowledge I seek might perhaps be useful in developing remedies for pain. Recently, just after you first introduced us, I brought Boral a sample of the drug the stonemen use – a paste that they call Athelid – in the hope that she could tell me what is in it.”

“Ah, I think I have heard that mentioned at the dinner table. A painkiller, I understand. Have you been able to identify it, Boral?”

Her herb-mistress curtseyed lower and less gracefully than Shebel had, and addressed her with her head down. Even in private Boral would never speak to her with familiarity. Sometimes Meya wearied of it.

That is why I like the Riders’ forthrightness, she thought in some surprise, because they talk to me as if I were an ordinary woman. As long as they do not carry it too far.

“The main component is ethlon, which Lady Shebel had suggested it might be,” said Boral, almost whispering. “I was able to do a test for that. But the tests I have done for other ingredients have brought no results. I think the paste may contain zalephony, but whether that is merely for flavouring or because it reacts with another unknown component, I cannot say.”

“I tried a bit myself,” said Shebel. “The tiniest amount. A grain. It knocked me out for three hours.”

Durba rolled her eyes theatrically, and shook her head.

“Was that wise?” asked Meya, thinking of her own sampling of an unknown potion only half an hour ago.

“Well, we knew that it isn’t actually poisonous,” said Shebel. “The stonemen take it daily, after all.”

“I have made a tincture of it, highly diluted, to try out on my, my animals,” said Boral. She would not say the word rats in front of any ladies. But Meya was well aware of the creatures kept in the stables and carefully nurtured by the herb-mistress. The happiest rats in Kelvha, for Boral would not give them anything she thought might kill them.

Boral held out a glass vial of faintly cloudy liquid. “This is Athelid diluted one part to forty of water.”

All these potions, Meya thought as she took the vial and sniffed at it. She noted the sweet familiar scent of zalephony, often used to mask less pleasant ingredients. With a half-formed idea she dabbed her index finger into the vial, withdrew and licked it.

“My lady! Please! Oh, rinse your mouth, I beg you!”

The terrified Boral darted to the basin to fetch her a cup of water. Meya rinsed her mouth obediently, but she felt no alarm.

What she felt was recognition. That faint, sour, slightly oily taste: that was not zalephony. It was the same as that she had just sampled in Kavaul’s room. The memory was recent enough for her to be quite certain.

Should she tell Boral, or the Riders?

No. First she had to think about the implications. Say nothing yet.

So she was still sipping water from Boral’s cup, working out some innocuous remark to make, when any words were forestalled by an abrupt metallic clamour somewhere in the castle: a repeated, heavy clang.