King of Poisons

Boss?” came Day’s high voice. “You awake?”

Morveer exhaled a racking sigh. “Merciful slumber has indeed released me from her soft bosom… and back into the frigid embrace of an uncaring world.”

“What?”

He waved it bitterly away. “Never mind. My words fall like seeds… on stony ground.”

“You said to wake you at dawn.”

“Dawn? Oh, harsh mistress!” He threw back his one thin blanket and struggled up from the prickling straw, truly a humble repose for a man of his matchless talents, stretched his aching back and clambered stiffly down the ladder to the floor of the barn. He was forced to concede that he had long been too advanced in years, not to mention too refined in tastes, for haylofts.

Day had assembled the apparatus during the hours of darkness and now, as the first anaemic flicker of dawn niggled at the narrow windows, the burners were alight. Reagents happily simmered, steam carelessly condensed, distillations merrily dripped into the collecting flasks. Morveer processed around the makeshift table, rapping his knuckles against the wood as he passed, making the glassware clink and tinkle. Everything appeared to be entirely in order. Day had learned her business from a master, after all, perhaps the greatest poisoner in all the wide Circle of the World, who would say nay? But even the sight of the good work well done could not coax Morveer from his maudlin mood.

He puffed out his cheeks and gave vent to a weary sigh. “No one understands me. I am doomed to be misunderstood.”

“You’re a complex person,” said Day.

“Exactly! Exactly so! You see it!” Perhaps she alone appreciated that beneath his stern and masterful exterior there were reservoirs of feeling deep as mountain lakes.

“I’ve made tea.” She held a battered metal mug out to him, steam curling from within. His stomach grumbled unpleasantly.

“No. I am grateful for your kind attentions, of course, but no. My digestion is unsettled this morning, terribly unsettled.”

“Our Gurkish visitor making you nervous?”

“Absolutely and entirely not,” he lied, suppressing a shiver at the very remembrance of those midnight eyes. “My dyspepsia is the result of my ongoing difference of opinion with our employer, the notorious Butcher of Caprile, the ever-contrary Murcatto! I simply cannot seem to find the correct approach with that woman! However cordially I behave, however spotless my intentions, she bears it ill!”

“She’s somewhat prickly, true.”

“In my opinion she passes beyond prickly and enters the arena of… sharp,” he finished, lamely.

“Well, the betrayal, the being thrown down the mountain, the dead brother and all—”

“Explanations, not excuses! We all have suffered painful reverses! I declare, I am half-tempted to abandon her to her inevitable fate and seek out fresh employment.” He snorted with laughter at a sudden thought. “With Duke Orso, perhaps!”

Day looked up sharply. “You’re joking.”

It had, in fact, been intended as a witticism, for Castor Morveer was not the man to abandon an employer once he had accepted a contract. Certain standards of behaviour had to be observed, in his business more than any other. But it amused him to explore the notion further, counting off the points one by one upon his outstretched digits. “A man who can undoubtedly afford my services. A man who undoubtedly requires my services. A man who has proved himself unencumbered by the slightest troublesome moral qualm.”