Red Seas Under Red Skies: The Gentleman Bastard Sequence, Book Two (Gentleman Bastards 2)

‘Master Kosta, please be reasonable. Why would I be holding anything back from you? If I had a treatment to suggest, it would mean a fair bit more gold in my pocket, now wouldn’t it?’

Pale Therese, the Consulting Poisoner, kept a rather comfortable parlour in which to discuss confidential business with her clients. Locke and Jean were seated cross-legged on soft, wide cushions, holding (but not sipping from) little porcelain cups of thick Jereshti coffee. Pale Therese, a serious, ice-eyed Vadran of about thirty, had hair the colour of new sail-canvas that bobbed against the collar of her black velvet coat as she paced the room across from her guests. Her bodyguard, a well-dressed Verrari woman with a basket-hilted rapier and a lacquered wooden club hanging from her belt, lounged against the wall beside the room’s single locked door, silent and watchful.

‘Of course,’ said Locke. ‘I beg your pardon, madam, if I’m a bit out of sorts. I hope you can appreciate our situation . . . possibly poisoned, with no means to tell in the first place, let alone begin securing an antidote.’

‘Yes, Master Kosta. It’s certainly an anxious position you’re in.’

‘This is the second time I’ve been poisoned for coercive purposes. I was lucky enough to escape the first.’

‘Pity it’s such an effective means of keeping someone on a chain, isn’t it?’

‘You needn’t sound so satisfied, madam.’

‘Oh, come now, Master Kosta. You mustn’t think me unsympathetic.’ Pale Therese held up her left hand, showing off a collection of rings and alchemical scars, and Locke was surprised to see that the fourth finger of that hand was missing. ‘A careless accident, when I was an apprentice, working with something unforgiving. I had ten heartbeats to choose - my finger or my life. Fortunately there was a heavy knife very close at hand. I know what it means to taste the fruits of my art, gentlemen. I know what it is to feel sickly and anxious and desperate, waiting to see what happens next.’

‘Of course,’ said Jean. ‘Forgive my partner. It’s just . . . well, the artistry of our apparent poisoning surely left us hoping for some equally miraculous solution.’

‘As a rule of thumb, it’s always easier to poison than it is to cure.’ Therese idly rubbed the stump of her missing finger, a gesture that looked like an old, familiar tic. ‘Antidotes are delicate things; in many cases, they’re poisons in their own right. There is no panacea, no cure-all, no cleansing draught that can blunt every venom known to my trade. And since the substance you describe does indeed appear to be proprietary, I’d sooner just cut your throats than attempt random antidote treatments. They could prolong your misery, or even enhance the effect of the substance already within you.’

Jean cupped his chin in one hand and gazed around the parlour. Therese had decorated one wall with a shrine to fat, sly Gandolo, Lord of Coin and Commerce, heavenly father of business transactions. On the opposite wall was a shrine to veiled Aza Guilla, Lady of the Long Silence, Goddess of Death. ‘But you said there are known substances that linger on like the one we’re supposed to be afflicted with. Might they not narrow the field of worthwhile treatments?’

‘There are such substances, yes. Twilight Rose essence sleeps in the body for several months and deadens the nerves if the subject doesn’t take a regular antidote. Witherwhite steals the nourishment from all food and drink; the victim can gorge themselves all they like and still waste away to nothing. Anuella dust makes the victim bleed out through their skin weeks after they inhale it . . . but don’t you see the problem? Three lingering poisons, three very different means of causing harm. An antidote for, say, a poison of the blood might well kill you if your poison works by some other means.’

‘Damn,’ said Locke. ‘All right, then. I feel silly bringing this up, but . . . Jerome, you said there was one more possibility—’

‘Bezoars,’ said Jean. ‘I read a great deal about them as a child.’

‘Bezoars are, sadly, a myth.’ Therese folded her hands in front of her and sighed. ‘Just a fairy story, like the Ten Honest Turncoats, the Heart-Eating Sword, the Clarion Horn of Therim Pel and all that wonderful nonsense. I’m sure I read the same books, Master de Ferra. I’m sorry. In order to extract magic stones from the stomachs of dragons, we’d have to have living dragons somewhere, wouldn’t we?’

‘They do seem to be in short supply.’

‘If it’s miraculous and expensive you’re looking for,’ said Therese, ‘there is one more course of action I could suggest.’

‘Anything . . .’ said Locke.

‘The Bondsmagi of Karthain. I have credible reports that they do have means to halt poisonings that we alchemists cannot. For those who can afford their fees, of course.’

‘. . . Except that,’ muttered Locke.

‘Well,’ said Therese with a certain resigned finality. ‘Though it aids neither my purse nor my conscience to set you back on the street without a solution, I fear I can do little else, given how thin our information is. You are absolutely confident the poisoning happened but recently?’

‘Last night, madam, was the very first opportunity our . . . tormentor ever had.’

‘Then take what little comfort I can give. Stay useful to this individual and you probably have weeks or months of safety ahead. In that time, some lucky stroke may bring you more information on the substance in question. Watch and listen keenly for whatever clues you may. Return with more solid information for me and I will instruct my people to take you in at any hour, night or day, to see what I might do.’

‘That’s quite gracious of you, madam,’ said Locke.

‘Poor gentlemen! I offer you my best prayers for good fortune. I know you shall live for some time with a weight on your shoulders . . . and should you eventually find no solution forthcoming, I can always offer you my other services. Turnabout, as they say, is fair play.’

‘You’re our kind of businesswoman,’ said Jean, rising to his feet. He set down his little cup of coffee and beside it placed a gold solari coin. ‘We appreciate your time and hospitality.’

‘No trouble, Master de Ferra. Are you ready to go out, then?’ Locke stood up and adjusted his long coat. He and Jean nodded in unison.

‘Very well, then. Valista will see you back out the way you came. Apologies once again for the blindfolds, but . . . some precautions are for your benefit as well as mine.’

The actual location of Pale Therese’s parlour was a secret, tucked away somewhere among the hundreds of respectable businesses, coffee houses, taverns and homes in the wooden warrens of the Emerald Galleries, where sunlight and moonlight alike filtered down a soothing sea-green through the mushrooming, intersecting Elderglass domes that roofed the district. Therese’s guards led prospective clients to her, blindfolded, along a lengthy series of passageways. The armed young woman stood away from the door, a pair of blindfolds in hand.

‘We understand completely,’ said Locke. ‘And never fear. We’re becoming quite accustomed to being led around by our noses in the dark.’