Page 60 of The Ragpicker King
“Danger? No, not at all,” she said, and to her surprise, his posture relaxed. “But the message. About the patient you introduced me to. I didn’t want to risk it falling into any hands but yours.”
“Then you’d better tell me what it is,” he said, and gestured for her to take Kel’s vacated place beside him.
Lin hesitated—but she could hardly refuse, and besides, this was all in the service of distracting the Prince. She settled beside him on the bench. It was a comfortable seat, padded withthick-napped velvet, the arms cushioned. The view over the Arena was sweeping; Lin felt she could see every bit of it spread out before her as a green flood of crocodiles, who had been marching on display, were led one by one back into the darkness of the pens below.
The sense of being pinned in the sky, looking down on the world below, was inescapable. The old Emperors had thought themselves Gods; it was easy to see why.
“An excellent view of a shabby place,” said the Prince, and Lin realized he had been watching her take it in; she could see her fascination reflected in his face.
“Shabby now,” she said. “But you can see that it was glorious once.”
“I never thought of you as being particularly interested in the architecture of the Empire.”
It was odd, Lin thought. Despite the clear urgency of her message, he didn’t seem interested in hearing it, at least not immediately. “Everyone is interested in beautiful things,” she said.
After a moment, he said, “Yes,” in an odd sort of tone that made her look over at him. He was turned away from her, though, reaching to take a bottle out of the ice chest by his seat.
He placed it on the low table between them. The bottle glass was bright red, condensation already beginning to run down its sides. When he poured the liquid into two crystal glasses, it was nearly the same color, bright and deep as blood.
“Would you care for somerabarbaro?” the Prince inquired, sliding a glass full of the bright-scarlet stuff toward her. She took it automatically. The crystal was cold as ice against her fingers, a pleasant chill. “It is made from the roots of Shenzan rhubarb, to which the Sarthians add cardamom and lemon to lessen the bitterness.”
Lin hesitated a moment. She rarely drank spirits; sweet wine at festivals and weddings was the extent of it. She took a sip and nearly choked; the tang of the rhubarb was almost eclipsed by the fire of the alcohol.
“It tastes of medicine,” she said before she could stop herself.
To her surprise, the Prince laughed. He was holding his own glass between his fingers, the red of the liquid bright against his white linen clothes. She did not think she’d seen him in all white before. He looked like a dissipated priest. “I suppose it does. I hated the taste of it when I was younger—notrabarbaro,all liquor—but one gets used to it. And the effect is worth it.”
Lin stared dubiously into her glass. She was about to set it down when, below in the Arena, she glimpsed Kel approaching Magali. Quickly, she took another sip, spluttered, and turned to the Prince, who was watching her with amusement.
“Your fa—” she began, stopped and licked her lips, tasting rhubarb. “The patient in whom we both have an interest,” she corrected herself. “I tested his medicine. More than once. I wanted to be sure.”
“Sure of what?” The Prince had drained his glass. It appeared to have no effect on him that she could see. He poured himself another, his movements casual, careless. Lin watched the splash of the red liquid in the crystal and wondered briefly if Ji-An and Merren were watching. Would they be wondering what on earth she was doing?
“The drug has a sedative base, but that is not all it is. There is within it blackroot. Which is a poison. And there is not just a small amount of it present. There is more than enough to kill.”
The Prince went still. He sat back slowly, glass in hand. His gaze was on the Arena.
“But he has been taking this medicine for years,” said Conor, finally. “If Fausten had meant to kill him, would he not have died long ago?”
“I cannot say what Fausten was trying to do. Or why the patient is still alive. I only know he is. And clearly it has affected him, though whether because it has harmed him or because he has developed a dependence on it, I cannot guess yet.”
“A dependence? As if this stuff were poppy-juice? But addicts become desperate for the drug they take. They will do anything to get it. That hardly describes our patient.”
“It does not,” she said. “But not much is known about blackroot, since usually any dose kills. If one survives taking it, it is hard to say what might happen then.”
Conor was silent, his gaze inward and thoughtful. Lin took another sip of therabarbaro;this time she did not choke. A warmth had started to spread out from her stomach, making her skin prickle. The sun, too, was strong on her skin, and Prince Conor’s. It illuminated his face, making the white scar at his temple stand out like a twist of silver thread. His circlet seemed to glow among the shadowy locks of his hair; it was the sort of hair that was so dark, it would absorb the sun’s heat. If one stroked one’s hand through it, one would feel the sun-warmed threads against one’s palm, hot and soft as black silk.
“Could the patient, perhaps, have built up a resistance to the poison over the years?” said the Prince at last. “Perhaps Fausten started with small doses and increased them over time?”
Lin blinked and set her glass down on the table. To her horror, it was empty. Somehow, she had drunk all therabarbaro.
“It’s possible. It’s a common mountain plant in Malgasi; perhaps Fausten heard about it there, and uses for it beyond the ones we are aware of in Castellane. Unfortunately, there are few books on florticulture in the Shulamat—”
The Prince raised an eyebrow. “Did you sayflorticulture?”
“Floriculture,” said Lin haughtily. “I said floriculture. The study of—”
“Flowering plants. I’m aware.” The Prince looked at her closely. “Are you drunk?”
