Poison (13 page)

Poison dragged in a breath.

“
I want an audience,” she croaked. “Under Amrae's Law.”

Asinastra shrieked in anger, springing backwards off Poison as if she had been stung. Poison felt the weakness fall away from her as she was released from the Lady's paralysing glare, and she slowly levered herself upright and got to her feet while Asinastra prowled and hissed around the room.

“
And you cannot harm me,” Poison reminded her, recalling the words of Scriddle. “On your honour as a Lady.”

But Poison did not intend to be there by the time the audience was done. She still held the dagger in one hand, and with the other she reached into her pocket and drew out the orb: the cold, black orb given to her by Aelthar.

Bram's voice came back to her with the force of a prophecy:
the orb could kill you as fast as that spider would! The phaeries are tricksters, Poison! And you're placing your life in their hands.

Asinastra rasped, peering through the tangle of her hair.

No choice. Poison raised it above her head; then, in a capricious act of spite, she decided that she owed Aelthar an ill for what he had put her through this far. Marshalling her courage, she said: “Lady Asinastra, I am the Phaerie Lord's thief.”

the Lady howled.

But Poison heard no more, for she had already flung the orb down on to the hard stone floor of the chamber, and as it smashed its blackness flooded out and Poison was engulfed, with the echoing shrieks of the Lady of Cobwebs fading after her.

 

When Poison next opened her eyes, she was staring at the inside of a beautifully ornate waiting-room.

She blinked. It took a few instants for surprise to set in, then a few more for her to reassert herself. She recognized the finery by now. They were in the Phaerie Lord's palace.

Andersen mewed at her feet.

“Oh, you're all right!” Peppercorn cried, throwing her arms around Poison.

Poison hugged her automatically in return, still a little bewildered. The orb had brought them back; and what was more, it brought them back together. Bram was there too, clearly unhappy at having his world turned inside-out and fiddling with his moustache while he tried to get over the shock of being magicked into another Realm.

Poison felt a flood of relief wash over her; until this moment, she had dreaded a trick from Aelthar. But it appeared that, against all odds, he had not let her down. Though he had tormented her with uncertainty by refusing to tell her what the orb did – something which Poison would not soon forget – the orb had saved her. No wonder he had forbidden her to use it until after she had the dagger. He didn't care anything about her. He simply wanted to be sure that she got out with his prize.

The door of the waiting-room burst open and Scriddle hurried in, attended by his usual gaggle of imps who were wittering reports and requests at him in a seemingly incomprehensible frenzy. As before, he fired commands at each of them in turn, and then waved them away when he reached the humans. He grinned a sharp-toothed grin, slicked his hair back afresh and then held out his hand.

“I believe you have something for the Lord Aelthar?” he said to Poison.

She looked down at the dagger in her grip. “Where is he?” she asked.

Scriddle's grin became strained at the edges. “Preparing for an extremely important conference,” he replied.

“Well, tell him I want my sister back before he gets this,” she said.

“Human, you don't seem to understand,” Scriddle said through gritted teeth. “I have three Lords just arrived in the palace, representing three Realms, each with their own retinue, their own likes and dislikes and their own personal needs, and the person responsible for coordinating everything to everybody's taste is me. That makes me
very busy
!”

“In that case, I'd hate to hurry you,” Poison replied, asserting herself admirably. “Do tell Aelthar that we'll wait until he's ready, and then we can talk about trading this dagger for my sister.”

Scriddle tutted. “Ridiculous girl. You humans really do have bloated egos. This is the Phaerie Realm, the land of my master. You have no leverage to bargain with.”

He held up his hand, and in it was the forked dagger. Poison's hand closed on empty air, and she looked down in puzzlement to see that the dagger had disappeared from her grip.

Scriddle turned on his heel and stalked out. “You will wait here until my Lord decides how to deal with you,” he said over his shoulder. And with that he shut the door and a key turned in the lock.

“Well,” said Peppercorn in the silence that followed. “That was rude.”

“‘Deal with us'?” Bram quoted. “I don't much like the sound of that. Doesn't sound like someone interested in a fair swap.”

“No,” said Poison. “No, it doesn't.” She looked around the room. “In fact, I'm beginning to think it would be better if we weren't here when Scriddle gets back.”

“Are you sure?” asked Peppercorn. “What if he really does mean to give you your sister?”

“He'd better, after what I've been through,” said Poison. “But I'd feel better if we weren't locked in here. I think we should go and find
him
. I'm not going to let him think we can be pushed around. He owes me.”

Bram and Peppercorn's misgivings were plain in the glance they exchanged behind Poison's back, but both knew her better than to talk her out of it.

Poison tried the door, more out of lack of any other inspiration than in the hope it would actually open. After that, she looked around the room. Despite the opulence of their surroundings, it was surprisingly secure. The only other way out was an arched window that looked out over the Realm, where Peppercorn was already peering out. Poison knew what Peppercorn would say before she said it.

“It's a long way down,” she commented. Poison sagged. “But there's a ledge.”

“A ledge?” Poison asked, hurrying over to look. Her hopes were soon dashed, however. What Peppercorn had called a ledge was little more than a few inches wide, an ornamental frill that ran around the tower and out of sight. Poison looked out over the achingly beautiful lakeland and tried to think.

“Won't there be other windows further round the building?” Peppercorn suggested.

Poison sighed patiently. Peppercorn had an uncanny talent for missing the point. “Probably,” she said. “But what does it matter if we can't get to them?”

“
We
can't,” Peppercorn said. “But Andersen can.”

All eyes turned to the cat. Having not been listening to the conversation, he suddenly found everybody looking at him expectantly. Feeling hunted, he backed off a few paces towards the corner, uncomfortable at the sudden attention.

“Can you?” Poison asked. “Climb along this ledge?” She had become quite used to talking to Andersen as if he were another person, rather than an animal.

Andersen reassembled his dignity and made a great show of idly licking his paw and drawing it across his furry skull, cleaning himself. Poison gave Peppercorn a look; Peppercorn shrugged as if to say:
that's just how he is.
Eventually, when Andersen had determined that they had waited long enough, he slid up to the window and jumped up on to the sill. He looked out at the ledge, then back at Poison. It was hard to imagine how a cat could express disbelief, but nevertheless that was the impression Poison got, as strongly as if Andersen had opened his mouth and said:
you expect me to climb along that?

“Well, if you can't do it, we'll have to find some other way,” Poison said.

Andersen looked affronted. Reverse psychology appeared to be particularly effective on a creature as proud as a cat. He daintily put one paw down on to the ledge, then after a moment he followed with the rest of his body in a graceful cross between a hop and a lunge. Poison could have sworn she saw him shake his head –
I can't believe I'm doing this
 – before he set off along the ledge at what seemed a recklessly fast trot. Peppercorn chewed her lip anxiously until he was out of sight.

“Oh, I hope he'll be all right,” she said.

Poison tried to think of something genuine and comforting to say, but being nice was not her strong point. She and Peppercorn were complete opposites; where Peppercorn was helpless and sweet and painfully naïve, Poison was hard-edged and suspicious and capable. Yet she felt an almost sisterly protectiveness towards the blonde girl. It pained her to think how she had almost left her behind in Maeb's house. Poison felt responsible for her now, having been the one who dragged her from the darkness of the Bone Witch's domain out into the light; Peppercorn needed looking after, and she found that it was an oddly pleasing role.

But it was not only that. Poison envied Peppercorn's sunny disposition, her innocence. Poison had grown up in the deadly gloom of the Black Marshes, but Peppercorn must have had an equally unpleasant childhood; yet they could not have turned out more different. Poison wished sometimes that she could be like Peppercorn, and not be weighed down by the cares of the world. But it was fancy, and she knew it. Cynicism was a one-way path, and once taken the way back was lost for ever.

They waited. Time passed. Poison, unable to be patient when imprisoned like this, applied herself to searching for alternative ways to escape in case Andersen should fail in getting them out. It was only after he had gone that she began to doubt that Andersen
could
do anything, even if he was free. Who could help them? And what could a cat do?

She was still racking her brains when she heard a scratching on the other side of the door.

“Andersen!” Peppercorn cried, racing over. The others crowded round. A moment later, the scratching stopped, and something rattled.

“What was that?” Peppercorn asked.

“The key,” Bram said. “It's still in the other side of the lock.”

The key rattled again as Andersen batted it.

“There's no way he's going to be able to turn it,” Poison said. “We have to knock it through.”

Andersen mewed in agreement.

It took them only a few moments to find something long and thin enough to jab into the lock – a candle-spike from a candelabra – and with a little effort they worked the key out. It fell with a clatter on the other side. Moments later, they heard it being scraped along the floor, and it was slid under the door to them. Peppercorn clapped in delight as Poison picked it up, unlocked the door, and opened it. Andersen was grooming himself smugly on the other side. Peppercorn scooped him up and ruffled his fur, tickling him and cooing over him until Poison felt almost embarrassed for her.

“That cat's not natural,” Bram murmured once again.

“You can't argue with the results, though,” Poison replied.

They looked down the empty corridor, made of the same beautiful jade stone as most of the Phaerie Lord's palace.

“Now where?” Bram said.

Poison looked at the cat. “I don't suppose you might be able to find Aelthar for us?” she ventured. She had learned not to discount any possibility where their odd companion was concerned.

Andersen sprang down from Peppercorn's arms, shook himself, and mewed at them.

“Sounds like a yes,” Peppercorn said.

“Oh, good,” Bram said sarcastically.

 

If she had thought Andersen was strange enough before, the next half hour made Poison realize that she had fallen far short of the mark. The cat's powers of navigation were nothing short of phenomenal. He led them unerringly through a maze of corridors, up and down stairs, taking them along routes that were rarely used and hardly trafficked. They passed a few phaerie folk along the way – at least to begin with – but their presence was treated with disdain and they were ignored, which suited Poison fine.

Eventually, they came to a small, innocuous door, recessed in an alcove in a deserted corridor. Andersen obviously intended them to go inside, so they did – and found themselves in a narrow squeezeway, only wide enough for them to pass through in single file. There was no light but that which filtered through a few distant grilles, rectangles of sun glowing in the blackness.

“What is this place?” Bram asked.

Poison shut the door behind her, plunging them into deeper dark. “At a best guess, I'd say we were between the walls.”

“Between the walls,” Bram repeated flatly, prompting for elaboration.

“A place as big as this needs airways between the rooms,” Poison explained. “For ventilation. Even phaeries need to breathe. Most of them, anyway.”

“How do you
know
all that?” Bram asked, faintly irritated at seeming ignorant.

“Remember I told you about that story, with the prince and the tigers? Later on, he used the ventilation system of the palace to find his way to the princess, by following the scent of her perfume. Then he stole her out from beneath the nose of the Vizier.”

“That's so romantic!” Peppercorn cheeped.

“I'll tell you the whole tale one day,” Poison promised, and was surprised to find that she meant it.

“I think I should hear it as well,” Bram put in dryly. “Seems more like a survival manual than a story.”

Poison didn't reply to that one; it was a little too close to the bone. How could she articulate that strange sense that she had, that ever since Gull she had felt as if pieces of the stories she had read were coming to life around her?

“Are you sure you know where you're going?” she asked Andersen. Andersen gave an offended miaow in response.

“He wandered into Maeb's house from the Phaerie Realm, remember?” Peppercorn said. “He knows his way around.”

“You mean he's been here before?” Poison asked. “In the palace?”

Peppercorn shrugged. “Why not? He seems to have a good idea of where he's going, hmm? He could have lived here for years. He never told me.”

“Is that right?” Poison asked Andersen; but the cat kept its secrets.

Andersen had not done with them yet, however. The squeezeways ran for what seemed like miles, and went through many twists and turns. Soon they were hot and sweaty and covered in scrapes from the walls. The ornately wrought grilles alternated in height as they passed by them, affording glimpses of the palace's rooms. They passed a kitchen swarming with needle-toothed pixies arguing over the preparation of food and swearing like sailors at each other. They saw a room plush with jewels and such a profusion of gold edging that it dazzled the eye. They peered out over a vast library, its aisles stretching away beneath them. But always Andersen hurried them on, hissing at them impatiently when they lagged.