A Little Taste of Poison (27 page)

There was no point in lingering, so Isaveth hurried through her business and turned to wash her hands. As she reached for the tap, she noticed the raw marks the ropes had left around her wrists. They didn't hurt much more than a scraped knee, or the burns she'd given herself spell-baking. But they
looked
painful, and maybe . . .

Isaveth grabbed a corner of her woolen overcoat, gritted her teeth, and scrubbed her wrists until they bled. Then she limped out into the corridor, where the workman was waiting. She made no resistance as he steered
her back to the room—but when he pointed to the chair again, she held up her hands so he could see them.

“Please,” she said in her most pathetic-sounding voice, “could you tie the ropes over my sleeves this time? My wrists hurt.”

The man started, then tipped back Isaveth's hat and gazed into her face. “Sages, you're just a kid! What you go snatching the missus's purse for? You oughta be in school.”

No wonder no one had come to help her. “I didn't,” Isaveth protested. “They kidnapped me—” But a big hand clapped over her mouth before she could finish.

“They said you'd try to talk your way out,” the workman muttered. “But I'm not listening. You sit here nice and quiet until the Lawkeepers come to get you, and you can tell them all the stories you like.” He covered her mouth until she stopped squealing, then pushed her into the chair and pulled her arms behind her back. Isaveth wilted, feeling more hopeless than ever—but then she felt her coat-sleeves bunch against her wrists and knew she'd gotten through to him after all.

Heart pattering, she sat meekly while he bound her ankles, and waited until he left and shut the door behind him. Then she began to wriggle, trying to pull her arms out of the sleeves.

He'd tied the ropes snug, so it took several minutes
of twisting and flexing to find the right angle. But she managed to slip one hand out, and after that it was easy to release the other. Her ankles came next, and Isaveth was free.

Now for the door,
she told herself, and set to work.

*  *  *

“Well, this is an honor.” With a gesture Wregget invited Esmond to sit as his secretary retreated, stooped to adjust the carpet, and shut the door. “How can I help you, milord?”

“I'm looking for Isaveth Breck,” said Esmond. “Have you seen her?”

The older man blinked. “As a matter of fact, yes. She came to my office this morning.”

“At your invitation?”

“Well, that's the odd thing.” Wregget scratched his chin. “I hadn't sent for her, but she thought I had. She offered to show me the message, but when Tambor brought her coat it wasn't there.”

That was odd. Suspicious, even. “What did you talk about? If I may ask.”

Wregget sat down behind the desk, swiveling to face him. “Well, I don't know how much you've heard, but Miss Breck's not the only one who's been having some troubles of late. . . .”

As the president explained about Power-Up's attempt to take over Glow-Mor, Esmond grew restless. Motioning to the other man to keep talking, he rose and strolled about the office. When he reached the entrance he paused, frowning at the carpet, then seized the door and flung it open.

Wregget's secretary leaped up, but Esmond grabbed the man's wrist and pushed his sleeve back, baring the charm-band he wore beneath it. A slender wire ran from the bracelet to the floor, where it ended in a tiny shard of sound-crystal.

“I never wanted to,” the man gabbled, poise disintegrating as Esmond dangled the magical listening device in front of him. “They said they'd tell my wife about the money if I didn't—”

“Oh, Tambor,” Wregget groaned. “And I thought you were the one man I could trust.”

*  *  *

Once Isaveth had her hands free, unlocking the door proved simple: The trick was getting out of the building. The crates were stacked up against the wall, so she couldn't slip behind them, and once she left the shelter of the corridor there was only one way out—straight up the aisle of the warehouse, where a gang of brawny laborers hauled boxes, loaded wheely carts, and wrapped up
pallets of freight for transport. She was crouching by the mouth of the hallway, wondering if she could hide somewhere and creep out after everyone had gone home, when a shadow fell over her and a big, hairy hand seized her by the collar.

“Must have forgot your knots, Lanzy,” her captor crowed, dragging Isaveth out into the light. “Our little sneak-thief's broke out.”

Isaveth stomped on the man's feet, but her boots were no match for his stout ones. He gave her a shake that set her head spinning and shoved her across the floor toward Lanzy.

“Truss her up properly this time,” he ordered. “And gag her, too. I'll get a crate ready.”

Isaveth yelped as the bigger man seized her sore wrists and started lashing them together. “Let me go, I'm innocent! I haven't stolen anything!”

“If that's so,” Lanzy said gruffly, “you've nothing to be afraid of. The Lawkeepers'll sort you out.” He lifted Isaveth onto a stack of boxes and tied her ankles.

“Then where are they? The Paskins locked me in that room ages ago, but I don't see any Keepers coming. Do you?”

Lanzy hesitated.

“Ask the clerk at the city records office—that's where I
was when the Paskins kidnapped me. They want to hold me for ransom so they can force the president of Glow-Mor to resign.”

The workman snorted. “That's a big story. Who are you supposed to be, then? Old Glow-Britches' darling daughter?”

“No, I'm Isaveth Breck.” She was about to explain further, but Lanzy shoved a rag into her mouth.

“Right now, miss, I don't care if you're the Little Queen herself. I've got work to do, and a mug of stout waiting at the end of it.” He heaved her over his shoulder and marched out into the aisle. “Got that crate ready, Barto?”

*  *  *

“Esmond?” Civilla stopped halfway across the lobby as he strode in, carrying his bulging school bag over one shoulder and two satchels of Isaveth's on the other. “What's all that for? You look like you're going on an expedition.”

She wasn't far wrong, but Esmond had no intention of telling her about it. He had to find Isaveth right away. He started past her, but Civilla caught his arm.

“We need to talk,” she said, low and earnest. “I know you don't think I understand, but—”

“Yes, fine, lecture me later!” He shook her off and sprinted up the stairs.

“Esmond, wait!”

Her distress sounded genuine, but he ignored it. Slamming his bedroom door, he dropped the bags onto the carpet, flipped open his knapsack, and started pulling out the clothes he'd bought from a relief shop on the way home.

His father had made him charm-swear that he would never dress up as a street-boy again. But magical oaths only lasted six months at the best of times, and Lord Arvis's death had ended it even sooner. Until Eryx found a new way to compel his obedience, Esmond was free.

He kicked off his school slacks and tugged on the musty-smelling trousers, then traded his linen shirt and waistcoat for a fraying pullover and grease-stained navvy's jacket. The leather eye patch Quiz had worn was long gone, so he combed his hair over his scarred eye with his fingers and tugged on a knitted cap to keep it in place. A handful of soot from the hearth, liberally applied to clothes and skin, and Esmond's disguise was complete.

He was halfway out the window, a float-charm gripped in one hand, when the bedroom door swung open. Blue eyes blazing, Civilla crossed the carpet in three strides and seized him by the collar.

“Not this time, little brother,” she said tightly. “I need you to listen to me
now
.”

T
HEY DUMPED ISAVETH
into the wooden crate, where she landed on a heap of filthy sacking. She screeched against her gag in protest, but Barto, the shorter and hairier of the two men, only grinned at her before hammering the lid shut.

There was no point in fighting any longer. All the workers knew she was here, but if it troubled them they showed no sign of it. Isaveth gave one last kick at the crate and collapsed, spent.

As she lay there, she caught snatches of what sounded like an argument between Lanzy and his companion. But Barto must have won, because it was his voice she heard giving orders to the other men: “Ziyan! Poyle! Take our little friend down to the
Raider
, and make sure she's loaded before you go. Boss's orders.”

The workers tramped over to Isaveth's crate and hefted
it up. They lugged her across the warehouse, arguing good-naturedly about whether the Harbortown Sharks or the Lockland Gaters had the better chances of winning the Cup this year, then shoved Isaveth's crate into the back of a wagon and drove away.

The journey only lasted a few minutes, but by the time they stopped Isaveth had lost all sense of direction. The wagon opened and a chill breeze swirled around her crate. More painful jostles and thumps followed, a rasp and a metallic click, and finally a hoarse shout:
“Take 'er up!”

With a sickening lurch, Isaveth's crate swung airborne. They were loading her onto a ship—but what kind? If it was one of the short-haul freighters that carried goods across Lake Colonia, Isaveth would have an unpleasant night ahead of her, but at least there'd be a chance of escaping in the morning. If it was one of the great ocean-bound cargoes, though, she'd die of cold and thirst long before they reached port. Even if the Paskins knew she'd lied about her recipe, would they really be as cruel as that?

Two bells later, shivering in the darkness of the ship's hold, Isaveth still had no answer. Every part of her ached, the gag in her mouth was sodden with spit and tears, and she wished with all her heart that she'd told someone
where she was going this morning. She'd heard a dock bell clanging a few minutes ago, echoing the peals from the great clock tower at the top of Council House: It was past six now, and Papa and her sisters must be getting anxious. But Tarreton was a huge city, and even if the Lawkeepers cared enough to search for an insignificant Moshite girl whose father was too poor to bribe them, they'd never find Isaveth here.

It was so cold. She still had her coat and boots, but her hat had tumbled off when Lanzy dumped her into the crate, and her gloves were stuffed uselessly into her pocket. She'd curled up as tight as the crate allowed her, but the slats that let her breathe also let in the dank air of the hold, and no matter how she squirmed, she couldn't get warm.

She'd pushed the gag with her tongue, trying to dislodge it. She'd kicked at the crate until every bone in her legs felt bruised. She'd reminded herself of all the stories she knew about Auradia and other brave women like her, and prayed to the All-One to give her courage like theirs. But she hadn't eaten since breakfast, her wrists stung like they'd been wrapped in thorn-wire, and Isaveth was too exhausted to fight any more.

“I'm sorry, Papa,” she mumbled, and closed her eyes.

Half dozing, she'd lost track of time when she heard
footsteps above her, and the groan of rusty hinges as a hatch opened and shut. It sounded like a dockhand making the rounds, so Isaveth thought little of it until something thumped into the hold beside her and a voice spoke out of the darkness: “Isaveth?”

Hope blazed up in her like a trodden fire-tablet, and she snapped awake. “Help!” she screamed, though the handkerchief choked it to a feeble moan, surely too weak to carry. She thrashed inside the crate, kicking and pounding the walls with all her might, until with a splintering noise the lid popped open and the blue glow of a light-charm flooded in. Esmond—no,
Quiz
—stooped over her, pry-bar in hand and his blond hair falling over one eye.

“It's all right,” he said huskily, pulling Isaveth's gag out and cupping a hand against her cheek. “I'm here, you're safe now. Well, saf
er,
anyway.”

“How?” gasped Isaveth. “How did you find me?”

“It's a long story. I'll tell you later.” Pulling a knife from his belt, he sawed through Isaveth's bonds, then lifted her from the crate. Her legs wobbled as he set her down, but he kept an arm around her waist, holding her steady until the pins and needles began to fade. “Can you walk? We need to get out of here.”

Isaveth nodded, and Esmond helped her across the
near-empty hold to a metal ladder. It was closer than she'd expected; it must be quite a small freighter after all. But her muscles felt watery, her wrists too raw and stiff to bend. How could she climb all the way up to the deck?

“Here,” said Esmond, dropping into a crouch. “Get on my back. I'll carry you.”

*  *  *

It was even colder on the deck of the freighter, but Isaveth was so glad to be free she didn't care. As they huddled together in the lee of the ship's wheelhouse, waiting for her strength to return, Esmond explained how he'd found her.

“Tambor told us everything he knew about the Paskins, but he wasn't sure where they'd taken you. I wasted a bell or so snooping around the Power-Up factory with a fake parcel under my arm, pretending to be a message-boy, before I realized the warehouse made more sense. It was getting late, so I hitched a ride over on the last delivery wagon and started asking people outright if they'd seen you.”

“You're lucky they didn't toss you into the lake.” Or rather, onto the ice. What a gobblewit she'd been to worry that the ship might sail away with her: The harbor had been frozen for weeks.

“They almost did,” Esmond said. “One big workman
dragged me out of the warehouse with a zeal that was—er—quite convincing.” He rubbed his throat ruefully. “I thought I was done for. But once we were out of sight he let go and asked why I wanted you. I told him you were a schoolmate of mine who'd been kidnapped, and that was all it took to win him over.”