The dinner was simple, not lavish as Rillor had expected, but he was impressed with the quality. It included a dinner wine, and a brandy custard for dessert. Meanwhile Cyncaidh had favored Rillor with more than one meaningful glance, as if inviting him to leave.
Afterward they returned to the parlor. The previous glasses and wine bottle were gone, replaced on the buffet by an after-dinner wine and clean glasses. Meanwhile the sun was low enough that the room had begun to dim.
It seemed to Rillor he had only one more chance. He got to his feet. "Excuse me, my lord, my lady. But sometimes rich food troubles my stomach. May I try just a swallow of that wine? Then I really must return to the embassy and write my report."
"Of course," Cyncaidh said. "We quite understand. If the message you brought requires a reply, we'll send for you. Meanwhile we'd appreciate your allowing these two young men to spend the night, if they'd care to."
"Thank you, my lord. They're free to if they wish." The twins accepted the invitation, definitely but warily.
Not daring to look back, Rillor walked to the buffet while the others conversed, dipping into his right-hand pocket as he went. He moved casually enough, but anxiety clutched his gut. If Varia, and perhaps Cyncaidh or even Macurdy focused on his aura, surely they'd know something was wrong, and not just with his stomach.
As before, the glasses were on a tray. The same move that picked up the bottle dropped powder into every glass but one. He poured a splash of wine in it, drank, then left quietly. In the hall, his knees nearly buckled with relief.
He fidgeted in the waiting room while a servant got his horse. The stableboy had to saddle it, of course, and Rillor expected at any moment to hear a commotion upstairs. If only one of them died, he hoped it was Macurdy. The man's anger had frozen his blood, and he feared being hunted by him.
It seemed to him his horse would never arrive. Actually he'd waited barely five minutes before Talrie handed him his cap and jacket, and wished him good night.
Once in the saddle, Rillor fought the impulse to gallop away. There were traffic laws in Duinarog, and it could be fatal, on that evening, to be detained by the police.
No one else went to the wine tray. They were all more or less sated from supper, and the twins were ill at ease, not knowing the protocol there. Varia began to question them, first about the Cloister, then about themselves. Their answers were mostly short, and she decided they weren't ready to open up.
"Well," she said, "I should see what Captain Rillor's envelope holds." She took it from the mantle, opened it, and silently scanned the enclosure. The handwriting was clear and firm, definitely not Sarkia's, but she might well have dictated it. When Varia had finished, she looked at the others.
"The dynast," she said, "would like me to return. With Marshal Macurdy. I to serve as dynast, he as my deputy, and commander of the Sisterhood's military forces. This would reunite us with our sons-mine and Curtis's." Varia looked at her small audience. "She totally ignores my present marriage, of course," she added drily, "as she did my first one, years ago."
Her eyes moved to Cyncaidh, then to the twins, finally settling on Macurdy. "I have no doubt Sarkia meant well by this, but she has given me a cruel choice: my sons-or my sons. But I cannot abandon my husband. Or my children by him, whom I nursed and cuddled, cleaned up, fed, taught, scolded, and on occasion disciplined."
Her focus turned to the twins. "Imperial law allows exiles from foreign lands to apply for residence here. If you wish to stay, we welcome you abundantly."
She paused, looking at Cyncaidh. "Raien?" she said.
He nodded and stood, his eyes too on the twins. "If you wish, you can live with us," he said, "as part of our family. Normally, at the beginning of Seven-Month we go to Aaerodh Manor, our home on the Northern Sea. Our… other sons left for there when the spring lectures ended here at the university. At Aaerodh you can begin learning our ways, and a profession. Perhaps train as officers in my own ducal cohort, with the option of transfer to the emperor's army, where there are greater opportunities for advancement. With the training you've already had, it should go quickly and well for you."
He paused. The twins stared soberly, saying nothing. "Or perhaps you'd rather not," he went on. "We may seem too foreign to you. At any rate you will doubtless want to discuss it between yourselves. And perhaps with your parents."
He turned to Macurdy. "Curtis," he said, "I'm afraid we've rather left you out of this. No slight was intended. If you…"
Talrie entered without knocking. "Lord Cyncaidh," he said, "something urgent has come up. Zednis, in the kitchen, has taken severely ill." His eyes turned to Varia. "If your ladyship can come…"
Scowling, Cyncaidh interrupted. "Have you any idea what it might be?"
"My lord, I think she's poisoned. I'm told she'd drunk from one of the untouched wine glasses. They know they're not supposed to, but…"
"Go then!"
Talrie and Varia hurried away. Macurdy and the twins watched Cyncaidh walk to the buffet and look in the glasses there. Raising one, he tipped it. A tiny pinch of powder fell to the polished walnut buffet top. One by one he did the same with the others, with the same result.
"Apparently," he said, "Captain Rillor has tried to poison us. I must ask you to leave this room. I'll send for His Majesty's investigators, to see what manner of powder we have here."
Two investigators arrived within an hour. The first thing one of them did was light the lamp by the door. He then lit a long match from it, and went around the room lighting the others. His partner swept the suspect powder from the buffet, then holding the lamp, was checking the floor when the poison reached the lamp flame.
Apparently he realized instantly what he smelled. Lurching toward the open patio doors, he cast the lamp outside, where it shattered on the flagstones, the oil forming a thin puddle on the ground, flames spreading quickly over it. Then he crumpled on the floor. The other investigator staggered outside. There the fresh evening breeze dissipated the fumes, but even so, he too collapsed.
The Sisterhood's embassy was enclosed by a wall. It was not militarily effectual, of course, but it kept out thieves and vandals. And with occasional attention by the resident magician and her assistant, it discouraged would-be assassins. For if Quaie the Elder was long dead, and his Expansion Party badly shrunken, there were still fanatics dedicated to his memory and his hatreds.
Rillor had paused at the embassy just long enough to change back into the civilian clothes in which he'd traveled, and to get a loaf of bread and block of cheese from the pantry. He departed on horseback, then left the horse at a livery stable on River Street, saying he'd pick it up the next day. When he didn't, they'd wait a few days, then claim it for nonpayment. Next, pack-roll on his back and saddle on his shoulder, he walked a block to a boat rental.
By that time it was not much short of night. Occasional dedicated sport fishermen were still rowing in, returning their boats and picking up their deposits. Using a false name, Rillor rented a trolling rig, a landing net, and a boat with skeg, spar, and sail. He planned, he said, to row downstream, trolling, and spend the rest of the night at his cousin's in Riverton. He'd spend a day sailing on Mirror Lake, then hire a tow back up the river behind a freight barge. It was a common procedure. He left his saddle and a gold imperial for security.
Before he left, he stepped his spar, then rowed out into the river and unfurled the small sail. The current and the northwest breeze would take him to the Imperial Sea by next afternoon. Supper at the latest. He could stop at some riverside inn for a meal. Then he'd cross the so-called sea by skirting the wild marshy west shore, camping in his boat in the mouth of inflowing creeks. If weather developed, he could shelter in one of them. With favorable winds, the crossing wouldn't take more than a day and a half. Two or three if he had to row; five at worst.