"I thought motives weren't our business," observed Day, "only jobs and the pay."
"Correct, my dear, very correct, every motive is a pure one that necessitates our services. You see straight to the heart of the matter as always, as though the matter were entirely transparent. Whatever would I do without you?" He came smiling around the apparatus. "How are our preparations proceeding?"
"Oh, I know what to do."
"Good. Very good. Of course you do. You learned from a master."
She bowed her head. "And I marked your lessons well."
"Most excellent well." He leaned down to flick at a condenser, watched the Larync essence dripping slowly down into the retort. "It is vital to be exhaustively prepared for any and every eventuality. Caution first, always, of—Ah!" He frowned down at his forearm. A tiny speck of red swelled, became a dot of blood. "What…" Day backed slowly away from him, an expression of the most peculiar intensity on her face. She held a mounted needle in her hand.
"Someone to take the blame?" she snarled at him. "Scapegoat, am I? Fuck yourself, bastard!"
Come on, come on, come on." Faithful was pissing again, stood by his horse, back to Shivers, shaking his knees around. "Come on, come on. Bloody years catching up on me, that's what this is."
"That or your dark deeds," said Swolle.
"I've done nothing black enough to deserve this shit, surely. You feel like you never had to go so bad in your life, then when you finally get your prick out, you end up stood here in the wind for an age of… ah… ah… there's the fucker!" He leaned backwards, showing off his big bald spot. A brief spatter, then another. One more, he worked his shoulders around as he shook the drips off, and started lacing up again.
"That's it?" asked Swolle.
"What's your interest?" snapped the general. "To bottle it? Years catching up on me is all it is." He picked his way up the slope bent over, heavy red cloak held out of the mud in one hand, and squatted down next to Shivers. "Right then. Right then. That's the place?"
"That's the place." The farm sat at the end of an open paddock, in the midst of a sea of grey wheat, under the grey sky, clouds smudged with watery dawn. Faint light flickered at the narrow windows of the barn, but no more signs of life. Shivers rubbed his fingers slowly against his palms. He'd never done much treachery. Nothing so sharply cut as this, leastways, and it was making him nervy.
"Looks peaceful enough." Faithful ran a slow hand over his white stubble. "Swolle, you get a dozen men and take 'em round the side, out of sight, into that stand of trees down there, get on the flank. Then if they see us and make a run for it you can finish up."
"Right y'are, General. Nice and simple, eh?"
"Nothing worse than too much plan. More there is to remember, more there is to make a shit of. Don't need to tell you not to make a shit of it, do I, Swolle?"
"Me? No, sir. Into the trees, then if I see anyone running, charge. Just like at the High Bank."
"Except Murcatto's on the other side now, right?"
"Right. Fucking evil bitch."
"Now, now," said Faithful. "Some respect. You were happy enough to clap for her when she brought you victories, you can clap for her now. Shame things have come to this, is all. Nothing else for it. Don't mean there can't be some respect."
"Right. Sorry." Swolle paused for a moment. "Sure it wouldn't be better to try and creep down there on foot? I mean, we can't ride into that farmhouse, can we?"
Faithful gave him a long look. "Did they pick a new captain general while I was away, and are you it?"
"Well, no, 'course not, just—"
"Creeping up ain't my style, Swolle. Knowing how often you wash, more than likely Murcatto'd fucking smell you before we got within a hundred strides, and be ready. No, we'll ride down there and spare my knees the wear. We can always get down once we've given the place the check over. And if she's got any surprises for us, well, I'd rather be in my saddle." He frowned sideways at Shivers. "You see a problem with that, boy?"
"Not me." From what Shivers had seen he reckoned Faithful was one o' those men make a good second and a poor chief. Lots of bones but no imagination. Looked like he'd got stuck to one way of doing things over the years and had to do it now whether it fit the job or not. But he weren't about to say so. Strong leaders might like it when someone brings 'em a better idea, but weak ones never do. "You reckon I could get my axe back, though?"
Faithful grinned. "'Course you can. Just as soon as I see Murcatto's dead body. Let's go." He nearly tripped on his cloak as he turned for the horses, angrily dragged it up and tossed it over his shoulder. "Bloody thing. Knew I should've got a shorter one."
Shivers took one last look at the farm before he followed, shaking his head. There's nothing worse'n too much plan, that's true. But too little comes in close behind.
Morveer blinked. "But…" He took a slow step towards Day. His ankle wobbled and he slumped sideways against the table, knocking over a flask and making the fizzing contents spill across the wood. He clutched one hand to his throat, his skin flushing, burning. He knew already what she must have done, the realisation spreading out frigid through his veins. He knew already what the consequences would have to be. "The King…" he rasped, "of Poisons?"
"What else? Caution first, always."
He grimaced, at the meagre pain of the tiny prick in his arm, and at the far deeper wound of bitter betrayal besides. He coughed, fell forwards onto his knees, one hand stretching, trembling upwards. "But—"
Day kicked his hand away with the toe of one shoe. "Doomed to be misunderstood?" Her face was twisted with contempt. With hatred, even. The pleasing mask of obedience, of admiration, of innocence too, finally dropped. "What do you think there is to understand about you, you swollen-headed parasite? You're thin as tissue paper!" There was the deepest cut of all—ingratitude, after all he had given her! His knowledge, his money, his… fatherly affection! "The personality of a baby in the body of a murderer! Bully and coward in one. Castor Morveer, greatest poisoner in the world? Greatest bore in the world, maybe, you—"
He sprang forwards with consummate nimbleness, nicked her ankle with his scalpel as he passed, rolled under the table and came up on the other side, grinning at her through the complexity of apparatus, the flickering flames of the burners, the distorting shapes of twisted tubes, the glinting surfaces of glass and metal.
"Ha ha!" He shouted, entirely alert and not dying in the least. "You, poison me? The great Castor Morveer, undone by his assistant? I think not!" She stared down at her bleeding ankle, and then up at him, eyes wide. "There is no King of Poisons, fool!" he cackled. "The method I showed you, that produces a liquid that smells, tastes and looks like water? It makes water! Entirely harmless! Unlike the concoction with which I just now pricked you, which was enough to kill a dozen horses!"
He slipped his hand inside his shirt, deft fingertips unerringly selecting the correct vial and sliding it out into the light. Clear fluid gleamed inside. "The antidote." She winced as she saw it, made to dive one way around the table then came the other, but her feet were clumsy and he evaded her with negligible effort. "Most undignified, my dear! Chasing each other around our apparatus, in a barn, in the middle of rural Styria! Most terribly undignified!"
"Please," she hissed at him. "Please, I'll… I'll—"
"Don't embarrass us both! You have displayed your true nature now, you… you ingrate harpy! You are unmasked, you treacherous cuckoo!"