Page 30 of To Touch A Silent Fury
His nose wrinkled at the question, and he shook his head. “I do not think it wise to linger on it, sweet lady.”
“I must know,” I said, touching his gloved hand. “If I am to stay safe, I must know what the threat was.”
His eyes went to my fingers, and I retracted them immediately. But he only smiled at me. “I understand. I smelt dreadspores in the wine.”
“You smelt that?” I asked, as my stomach flipped. Dreadspores were native to the Sightlands, a fungus from the marshes of Manniston.
“I take my rituals very seriously.”
I nodded, the shock of the moment making me forget the Scentlands practice. Every morning, and sometimes again in the evenings, Scentlanders would take time to hone their sense of smell, by breathing in different distinct scents. Seth had often complained about the dormitory gardens being full of sniffing teenagers every morning. This man’s rituals, though, had gone beyond rosehilt, lemon, and berries, and into the scents of poisons. “You’re certain it was dreadspores?”
He frowned. “Yes. I’m afraid you would have been dead in minutes.”
“Please escort me to Medrilla at once, Your Grace. I must discuss this with my mentor.”
He nodded, his shoulders straightening and his expression grave. Once more we wound through the market, with the prince mercifully taking a less populated path. With his focuson navigating us around the various stalls, I had a moment to collect my thoughts.
Prince Brascillan was almost right. Dreadspores would have killed me, but I would have died in seconds, not minutes. And there was more. For I had read something else in the merchant’s touch. Overpowering greed: enough to suppress the edges of his guilt.
Yes, he wanted me dead, but this was no vengeful grudge against the Brothers at large. Someone wantedmedead badly enough to pay him to do it. Nothing subtle, nothing left to chance. I would have fallen dead right there and then if the merchant had not brushed my hand.
I needed to find out who paid him, and soon, before the next person they sent succeeded.
9
Tani
Thread Ersimmon held my arm in an iron grip as we took our first step from the ferry onto the jetty of the Isle de Courvin, though I knew it was more for his own benefit.
The moonlight dappled on the waves from the multitude of lanterns, distorting as the water lapped with a slapping noise against the wooden posts. We had shared our boat with a handful of other passengers; the Thread was disinclined to pay for a private crossing. The others had disembarked before us and were already nearly onto the island proper, yet we stood still as the Thread regained his pallor. The journey hadn’t taken twenty minutes, and somehow he already looked green. Seth gave Ersimmon’s other arm a reassuring pat as the older man held onto me for dear life.
The island didn’t look like much from the pier. It was smaller than I had realised, much of its breadth taken up by untraversable rocky outcrops and coves. Its habitation was marked by the many lanterns on its shore and the wide rocky path curling intoits depth, but other than the small harbour, there wasn’t much to examine.
When the Thread felt well enough to walk, we made our way over to a portly foreman. I didn’t begrudge our pace, largely out of relief that my mentor hadn’t thrown up this time.
The foreman stood at a wooden plinth lit by two candles and raised his glasses to peer at them. “Spectators, I presume.”
I could see him gazing over my shoulder, and I wondered who he was waiting for at this hour. All the important people must have arrived much earlier in the day.
“Names?”
Thread Ersimmon cleared his throat. “Ersimmon Callanry and Tanidwen Treleftir.”
His voice wobbled, his face still white as he gestured to me. For a man who lived on an island, it was poor fortune to have such a seasick stomach.
We had arrived late by the Thread’s own direction. I didn’t quite understand why, since there was to be a welcome dinner which we would miss in its entirety. He said something about not understanding his artistry, and I hadn’t the will to argue.
The foreman inspected his ledger. “Yes, your fare has been paid.” Then he looked at Seth. “And what of you, boy?”
Seth smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Septillis of Droundhaven.”
The foreman swallowed and closed the ledger. He ducked his head in apology. “Of course, Prince Septillis. Forgive my impertinence. Her Highness, Princess Derynallis, sent word of your attendance.”
Seth gave the man an awkward nod at the mention of his mother.
The foreman snapped his fingers, and a young lad appeared. “My boy will see you to your rooms personally.”
Seth raised a hand. “Please. There is no need.”
