Page 56 of The Ragpicker King
He bent his fair head, grimacing as he added a drop of the vial mixture to a jar of yellow liquid. “I hate the fact that Artal Gremontis in Castellane and still alive. He squats like a toad on the Hill, and my hands—my hands are tied.” Nothing had happened with the yellow liquid; Merren moved on to the next jar. “I hate to ask, but have you learned anything? About the amulet?”
Lin frowned. She had spent some hours in the Shulamat, studying spidery old illustrations of amulets and protective medallions from times past. It was not enough for her to feel like an expert, though. “It is a very old and powerful thing that he bears,” she said. “The sort of object that would have been gifted to an emperor or king before the Sundering. A few such objects have survived the ages, but surely if the Gremont family had such a thing in their possession for generations, someone would have known it before now.”
“Interesting.” Lin wasn’t sure if Merren was talking about what she’d said, or about the blue substance he’d just dripped liquid into. It seemed to be fizzing a bit. “So how did Gremont get his hands on it? It doesn’t seem the sort of thing he would have picked up in his travels.”
“I imagine it was given to him,” Lin said. “But by who, and why?”
“And more important, how do we get it away from him?”
“I don’t know yet. And Merren, Andreyen is right. Trying to take such a thing from its owner can be dangerous.”
Merren looked grim. “It is bad enough for me, this waiting,” he said. “I know Kel hates it, too. It tortures him. And it is even worse for my sister, having Gremont in the city—patronizing the Caravel, even.”
Lin thought of Silla, of the fear and disgust on her face when she spoke of Gremont.
“I cannot decide whether he has forgotten Alys altogether,” Merren said slowly, “or whether causing her discomfort gives him pleasure. But she cannot throw him out—not without alienating her other patrons from the Hill.”
Other patrons from the Hill.Lin could not stop herself from wondering if Conor knew all of what Gremont had done years ago. Kelhad not known either until Joss Falconet had filled in the details for him. She could not help hoping Conor did not know, and wished she didn’t.
Nor did she really wish to think of Conor at the Caravel. Kel said he had changed. But would someone who had changed really have given her a royal order?
She pressed her fingers to her temples, feeling a headache beginning to start. “Where is Jerrod, by the way?”
Merren, adding a dropper of liquid to a jar of what looked like blue water, started a bit. “I... don’t know. Off on some errand, I suppose. Why?”
“Because he seems to like to be wherever you are,” Lin said with a little smile. “You could break his heart, you know.”
Merren’s cheeks had gone pink. Staring at the watery substance in the jar, he said, “Jerrod doesn’t think of me that way. I don’t think he even has feelings like... like that for anyone.”
There was a noise at the door. Lin looked over, but there was no one there. Probably the mansion settling, she thought, but before she could say anything, Merren gave a shout.
The blue watery substance had turned an oily, opaque black. “Blackroot,” Merren said. “The main ingredient in this concoction is blackroot.”
Lin frowned. “I haven’t heard of it.”
“It’s very strange.” Merren seemed to have forgotten talk of Jerrod entirely. He was a pure alchemist now. “You are a physician; you know the old saying. The only difference between poison and cure is dosage.”
Lin nodded.
“But that is not true for blackroot. A few grains of it will sicken. A dram of it would be enough to kill an ox.”
Puzzled, Lin said, “And how much would you say is in this medicine?”
“A killing dose.” Merren regarded the jar, which continued to boil away. “This is pure poison.”
Kel was lacing up his boots when Conor came into their apartment, carrying a worn copy ofThe Cold Heart of the Lonely King. (He’d previously complained to Kel that the book had gotten none of the details about the true responsibilities of royalty remotely correct, but he hadn’t stopped reading it.) Kel nearly leaped into the air, leaving the boots behind; he’d thought Conor had a meeting today. He’d been counting on it, in fact.
“Marvelous news,” said Conor, flopping down on a divan and tossing his book aside. He proceeded to recount the tale of breakfast, during which Anjelica had horrified Lilibet by announcing that she was removing all the draperies from the Castel Pichon and replacing them with fabrics of her own choosing. “Every curtain, every bedspread,” Conor reported with glee. When Lilibet had asked what Anjelica planned to do with the old fabrics, Anjelica had said she would either store them or have them distributed charitably to poor families in the city.
“Mamanis livid,” added Conor. “I’m sure she regrets ever agreeing to this marriage.”
“I’m sure she never expected to have to sacrifice her draperies for the good of the kingdom,” Kel said, but Conor wasn’t paying attention; he had just noticed Kel’s boots.
“Are you going riding?” he asked.
Kel briefly considered lying, then discarded the idea. “No, I thought I’d visit the Arena this afternoon. You know how dusty it gets.” He indicated the boots. “You have that Dial Chamber meeting today; you won’t need me. You were going to introduce Anjelica to the families. I’d just be in the way.”
“You would,” Conor agreed, “ifthe meeting were happening. But it’s off. Cazalet has the lurgy or the dropsy or something like that.” He sat up straight, tossing his hair out of his eyes. “What’s on at the Arena?”
