Allies & Assassins Read online

  “I’ve seen you before,” Silva said, as she turned once more to face her.

  Asta nodded, feeling pleased that Silva had, after all, remembered her. “I live with my uncle. We haven’t met properly but—”

  “No, I mean today.” Silva cut her off sharply. “I saw you earlier today, in my husband’s chamber.” She sighed. “Before they led me away.”

  Asta nodded again. “That’s right. I was helping Uncle Elias.”

  Silva’s eyes widened. “Examining my husband’s body?”

  “Yes, my lady,” Asta conceded, knowing that this admission was bound to lead to further questions. Most of which she was not permitted to answer.

  “Do you know what killed him?”

  Asta paused. “It’s too soon to say for sure,” she replied, quite truthfully. “Though it seems the Prince was poisoned.” She knew her uncle had his suspicions as to which poison had been used, but he wanted more time to consider both the physical evidence and the useful testimony Silva herself had provided. The specificity of Prince Anders’s hallucinations had excited Uncle Elias in that they had considerably narrowed down the range of possible toxins. But this was not the moment to inform Silva of these facts, nor was Asta the appropriate person to do so. Aware of Silva’s gaze now burning into her, Asta scanned the room for a distraction. Her eyes alighted on a tea tray on a low table close by the chair she had been sitting in before.

  “Shall I pour you some tea?” she asked Silva now, moving toward it to gauge the temperature of the cast-iron teapot. She put out her hand “It’s still warm. And there’s honey, from the palace hives.”

  “The hives are all closed up now,” Silva mused, as if to herself. “The colonies won’t produce again until the spring.” Her eyes met Asta’s once more, brimming with sadness. “The seasons are so important, don’t you agree? She glanced momentarily out of the window, then back to Asta again. “Outside the trees are all aflame for autumn. But, in spite of the rich colors, this is the season of decline and death.

  Asta felt the full burden of her companion’s grief. Perhaps in time, Silva would take comfort in the fact that Anders’s baby was growing inside her; but for now the commingling of life and death must seem unsettling. She lifted the teapot and began pouring it into a china cup. It did not escape her notice that the china was patterned with the crest of Archenfield. Fragrant steam spiraled up; the tea smelled delicious. She added a good measure of honey, watching the amber liquid cascade down from the ridged olive-wood spoon into the brew.

  “I know it’s only tea,” she said, holding out the cup and saucer to Silva. “But it’s hot and sweet and it might soothe your nerves just a little.”

  Her companion did not answer directly. Instead, her eyes became agitated as she glanced from the cup back to Asta. “How do I know you’re not going to poison me? I don’t know you. I don’t know who you are.”

  Asta was keenly aware how wildly Silva’s emotions vacillated from one moment to the next. It was understandable but she knew she needed to tread carefully for fear of further unsettling her companion.

  “You do know who I am,” Asta said, gently. “I told you before. I’m the Physician’s apprentice. My name is Asta Peck.”

  Silva seemed to receive this as if it were new information. “Are you trying to poison me, Asta Peck?”

  “No!” Asta protested, her voice returning more forcefully than she had intended. But it was not unreasonable that Silva should feel such paranoia. Frankly, after everything she had endured in the past few hours, she had no cause to trust anyone. “Look, why don’t I pour a cup for myself and we’ll both drink?”

  Silva now lifted the china cup to her lips and took a sip. “To die today wouldn’t be the worst option.”

  Asta found her hand trembling as she took her own cup and saucer in her hand. “Please don’t talk like that. I know how bleak things must seem to you now. But perhaps, in time, you will come to see that you still have everything to live for.”

  “How can you say that?” Silva asked, her eyes darting hungrily to Asta’s face for any trace of hope, however faint, to be found there.

  “You’re going to be a mother,” Asta said. “You’re going to bring your husband’s child into the world.” She noticed that, as she said the words, Silva’s hand moved instinctively to her belly—though, in truth, there was no visible sign of her pregnancy. Nonetheless, the contact she made seemed to soothe her for a moment. Then her eyes filled with panic once again.

  “Is there a sedative in this tea?”

  Asta shook her head. “No. Sedatives aren’t a good idea for women in your condition.”

  “I’m so tired,” Silva said. “I’m fairly certain they gave me a sedative before.”

  Asta nodded. “Yes, you’re right. That was unfortunate—but it was before they knew.” Seeing the alarm in Silva’s eyes, she added, “It’s nothing to worry about. One dose wouldn’t be enough to do any real harm.”

  Silva looked at her curiously. “You seem to be something of an expert in medical matters.”

  Asta felt her cheeks flush red with embarrassment. “Goodness, no, my lady. But I am studying with my uncle. I’m his apprentice. It’s why I came here.”

  “Came here?” Silva raised an eyebrow.

  “From the settlements,” Asta said. “My uncle needed an apprentice and my parents thought I’d have better prospects here than at home.”

  Silva did not respond to this directly, but something Asta had said had clearly gotten her thinking. “You’re an exile,” she said now. “Like me.”

  “I suppose I am, my lady. But a happy exile.” Her eyes met Silva’s, realizing that they had more in common than she had initially thought. “I do miss my parents and our friends and neighbors but I love it here. The court is such a beautiful place to live.”

  Silva sipped her tea, then smiled wistfully. “You’ve never visited Woodlark, have you?”

  Asta shook her head. “Not yet, no. One day, I hope…”

  “It’s far more beautiful than Archenfield,” Silva said. “I miss it… very much sometimes.”

  “Do you go back often?” Asta inquired.

  Silva shook her head. “I haven’t been back since my marriage to Anders.”

  “Why not?” Asta enquired.

  “A good question,” Silva said. “Perhaps because if I had gone back, I might have been sorely tempted to stay. And, to be honest with you, I’m not sure my husband would have liked me to have left Archenfield. Not that he’d ever say such a thing, not in so many words.”

  Asta was disconcerted by Silva’s confidences. Of course, Anders’s widow was in an intense state of grief and it was easy to attach too much importance to random information. Nonetheless, there was an edge to her voice that made Asta think that perhaps the Prince’s marriage had not been quite the fairy tale it had always been painted as being.

  “Did Prince Anders know you were going to have a baby?” she found herself asking.

  This question brought a sudden smile to Silva’s face. “Oh yes!” she said. “He knew. It was to be our secret, we decided—for as long as possible.” Her eyes met Asta’s once again. “It wasn’t easy for us to have a secret, not in this court. Like I said before, we were hardly ever alone.”

  Asta nodded encouragingly.

  Silva took another sip of tea, then put down her cup. “I can’t remember ever feeling so tired as this. Do you think it’s the baby?”

  “It might just as likely be the impact of your grief,” Asta observed, as she put down her own cup. She had noticed such things before, back in the settlements, where death had been an all-too-frequent visitor. A fresh thought occurred to her. “Tell me, when did you last have something to eat?”

  Silva shook her head. “I really can’t say. The past few days, I’ve felt so sick, I’ve not been able to keep anything down. At dinner, last night, I couldn’t even put the food in my mouth.” She smiled, her face brightening. “Anders ate my food, as well as his own. I didn’t
want anyone to know of my sickness so he covered for me, whenever he could. He was very kind to me after he discovered I was pregnant. It wasn’t only last night he ate my dinner…” Her voice trailed off. Then her beautiful face turned paler than ever. “Oh God, no…”

  Asta knew what Silva was going to say before she next opened her mouth.

  “Do you think someone was trying to poison me and Anders died instead?”

  Asta shook her head, then reached out her hand and laid it on Silva’s arm. “I don’t think that’s what happened, my lady.” Unwittingly her hand had pressed against the pulse in Silva’s wrist and she could feel her heart’s wild thrumming. “Lady Silva,”—it was the first time she had spoken her companion’s name and it seemed to make an impact—“no one had any reason to wish you ill.”

  Silva was trembling more than ever now and tears had begun to course down her face. When she managed to speak again, her words were staccato. “How. Can. You. Know. That?”

  Asta gripped her companion’s wrist tightly. “I’m sure it’s true. You have enough to contend with today. You mustn’t torture yourself with additional needless worries. You have to look after yourself and your baby. That’s what Prince Anders would want, don’t you think?”

  Tears streaming down her face, Silva nodded. “You’re right,” she said. “But I’m so alone here. I just need someone to help…”

  “I’ll help,” Asta said, instinctively.

  There was a knock on the door but before Silva could answer, it opened and Elin appeared in her chamber. Her face was flushed—though whether from exertion or an argument, it was hard to tell.

  Asta rose swiftly to her feet and curtsied before her. “Your highness.”

  Elin acknowledged her with practiced formality. “Thank you for taking care of the Prince’s Consort in my absence,” she said. “You may go now.”

  Asta glanced back at Silva. Their eyes met for the briefest of instants. Asta saw many things in Silva’s eyes at that moment. Grief. Fear. Loneliness. But, to her surprise, the thing she saw above all else was the desire for friendship.

  “Your uncle will be grateful for your safe return,” she heard Elin say. Asta nodded and, head down, slipped out of the chamber. As she departed, she heard the Prince’s mother address her daughter-in-law.

  “You look desperately tired, my dear. We must get you back into bed. Sleep is the best thing for you. Best for that precious cargo inside you too.”

  NINE

  The Physician’s Ice

  Chamber, the Village

  ASTA STOOD NEXT TO HER MOTIONLESS UNCLE in the small frigid chamber below his main surgery, gazing at the exposed and naked corpse of Prince Anders. She felt an involuntary shudder—not because of her close proximity to the corpse but because of the bone-numbing cold. Clutching her notebook in one hand, she brought her arms across her chest, intent on retaining what body heat she might. The room’s sub-zero temperature was regulated by blocks of ice, harvested from the fjord during the winter months—and, if supplies ran low, from the mountains beyond—during the winter months and insulated with straw. The exact same system was employed in the kitchens to keep Vera Webb’s food stores cool and comestible.

  Asta was no stranger to the Ice Chamber. Since arriving in court to study at her uncle’s side, she had accompanied him down there on several occasions. “If you really want to ponder the mysteries of life and death,” he had told her, the first time he had led her down the narrow stone staircase, “you will only learn so much upstairs in my surgery. The deeper secrets of our existence are to be found down here.”

  Up above, the Physician’s surgery was crowded with objects—ranging from medical and surgical implements to human and animal skeletons and diverse organs stored in jars of preserving liquid. On her first few nights in her uncle’s house, Asta’s tortured dreams had taken her back to the surgery and its collection of macabre curiosities. In contrast, though it was permeated by death, the Ice Chamber had not yet caused her a single sleepless night.

  It had been Asta’s job earlier to light a sufficiency of candles so that Elias Peck might proceed with his work: the chamber was a conical structure with no natural light—hardly surprising, as the majority of its wall area was underground. As she had lit each candle in turn, a fresh patch of the sparse domed room had come into view. In stark contrast to the Physician’s surgery, this chamber was almost entirely devoid of furniture or decoration. It was a confined space and, for this reason, Elias kept there only the bare minimum needed to perform his work—whether it was simply preparing a body for the funeral rites or, as in this case, proceeding with a thorough examination of it.

  With its minimal furnishings, there was nothing here to distract attention from the table in the center of the room, nor from the marble-pale body, that lay sprawled upon it, as if in the depths of slumber.

  Asta had seen several other bodies laid out on the Physician’s slab—men and women, young and old. The dead and naked body of Prince Anders was both strikingly familiar and yet profoundly different. Asta had not had many direct interactions with the Prince in life but she had certainly had good opportunities to observe him, as she had accompanied Uncle Elias on his rounds of duty in court.

  Prince Anders had always seemed to her a dazzling, larger than life presence in the court and its environs. In this way, he was quite different from Jared, though perhaps that would change now the younger brother had assumed his place as Prince. Even so, there was something fundamentally human about Jared. Whereas Anders had never seemed so much mortal but rather a demigod on temporary loan to Archenfield and its people, there was something fundamentally human about Jared. Now, she thought ruefully, the loan had suddenly expired. She gazed at Ander’s inert forearm, studying the lines of his veins and muscle as if she were preparing to commence a sketch. Here was Anders brought down—literally—to the same level as his subjects. The exposed parts of his body—and almost all of it was exposed—revealed a young man at the pinnacle of physical fitness. She could see the lean, worked muscles in his chest, shoulders, arms and legs. The taut flesh spoke of days dominated by outdoor pursuits—riding, hunting and, when necessary, combat. In life, this body had given him a cloak of invincibility. But here, as Elias had promised her, the truth was revealed. And the truth was that, however impressive his physique, Prince Anders’s body had not been strong enough to fight the poison administered by his assassin. Do you know why you were killed? The voice in her head asked him. What secrets were you keeping, perfect Prince?

  “Look here,” Elias suddenly said, addressing her for the first time. It was as if he had emerged from a trance. He was pointing toward Anders’s right foot.

  Unwrapping her arms from her body, Asta stepped closer to the table and followed the line of her uncle’s pointing finger. She was shocked by the pure horror of what he was showing her. The flesh of Anders’s big toe and the next two toes beside it was shriveled and blackened. The toes reminded her of morsels of meat left cooking too long over a fire. The toenails ranged in color from rust to a greenish yellow.

  “Is that gangrene?” Asta asked.

  Her uncle nodded. “It’s surprising that it’s already quite so developed,” he observed.

  “And is it the same on his other foot?” Asta inquired.

  In answer, Elias stepped to the corpse’s other side and encouraged Asta to follow. The equivalent three toes on Anders’s left foot were similarly desiccated and discolored.

  “The poison would have caused this necrosis,” Elias confirmed. “You remember, of course, what necrosis is?’

  “Yes.” Asta nodded, rising to the challenge. “The death of the tissue cells, due to injury, disease or failure of blood supply.”

  Elias, never quick to offer compliments, nodded with satisfaction. “Necrosis is indeed caused by lack of blood supply. The poison would have interfered fatally with Prince Anders’s circulation. That’s one certain cause of death.” He paused, looking at her for a moment with a certain irritati
on.

  “Oh sorry!” she said. “Would you like me to make a note of that?”

  “Yes, that would be most helpful,” he replied, unable or unwilling to keep the note of sarcasm from his voice. Suitably chastised, Asta made the note in her book.

  When she had done so, she glanced up to find her uncle had moved to Anders’s midsection. He appeared lost in thought once again.

  “Does the gangrene, and how far advanced it is, help you to narrow down which poison was used?” Asta inquired.

  For a moment, her uncle was silent, his hand reaching out to adjust the sheet, which already seemed to her like a shroud. Then he drew back to his full height and his keen eyes sought out hers. “Yes,” he said, “I believe there are two possibilities.”

  Asta felt her heart begin to race at this news. Her pen was poised on the notebook, ready to take down her uncle’s findings.

  “The first possibility is ergot.”

  Asta made a note, then glanced back up at her uncle. It seemed to her that he was waiting for her to say something.

  “Ergot,” she said. “A fungal parasite that infests cereal grains, especially rye.”

  Elias smiled softly. When he spoke, there was a rare note of tenderness in his voice. “Sometimes I worry if my brother would really be happy with the things I am filling your hungry brain with.”

  She was both surprised and pleased at the compliment but was anxious to move it on. “Does ergot also cause gangrene?”

  “Yes,” he confirmed. “The poison exerts a paralyzing effect on the sympathetic nervous system, leading to this and other circulatory problems. So one class of symptoms would begin with itchiness and lead on to burning sensations and ultimately, as we have seen, necrosis.”