Numenera--The Poison Eater Read online

  As far as Talia could tell, it wasn’t forbidden, precisely, for the poison eater and a member of the zaffre to spend time together outside of the necessary rituals. But it wasn’t exactly condoned, either. And Isera was one of the greyes, directly under Burrin’s command. Which changed everything.

  As soon as her hand touched the carved horn doorknob of the Sisk, she let out a deep breath. It was almost done. Soon, she would be sitting in a quiet, dark corner next to Isera, laughing over something. And that would be the moment in the ritual where Talia felt truly and deeply sure that she had survived another poisoning. That she had pulled it off. That things were going to be all right.

  Seven down, three to go.

  She pushed the door open, grateful for the dim light and the oddly angled interior space, where booths were tucked into corners and half hidden by heavy fabrics and ornate layers of lights and strings.

  Ziralyt was behind the bar, serving drinks and smiling coyly, as he often was. Every visible part of his skin – which was a lot, as he favored low-slung pants and little more than a few long necklaces on top – was covered in pale silver triangles that seemed to shape and reshape themselves upon his skin as he moved. His eyes, too, were silvered, and they shone in the half-dark.

  Ziralyt saw her first – he recognized her, even as she was hidden beneath her hood. Which shouldn’t have surprised her, as often as she and Isera met here, and as often as he served them both. It wasn’t the first time she felt like she was well hidden, only to have someone spot her inside her disguise.

  It wasn’t so much that she wanted to be sneaky or that she had a hidden agenda – outside of her role as the poison eater, at least. It was more that being the poison eater brought with it a level of attention that made her uncomfortable. Unlike Burrin, she didn’t want to announce herself. She wanted the choice to enter a space without disrupting it, to walk unnoticed, to do whatever the opposite was of creating a stir. Not invisibility so much as blending in. She suspected it was, like so many things, a leftover of her life before; any time the vordcha took notice of you was likely to be a bad moment. She had learned to do her best to skirt the edges of their vision, to walk the corners and shadows.

  Before she’d become the poison eater, she hadn’t considered the ramifications. Some, she assumed, wanted the position for the fame it brought. She’d wanted it for entirely different reasons; the attention was an unfortunate side effect.

  Just another reason that she was always grateful for Ziralyt’s discretion. Grateful now that he didn’t give formal greeting or even stop in his work – which was currently to give light to some kind of drink in a large metal glass. He did call a hail, the same as he might anyone who stepped into his tavern, certainly nothing interesting enough to turn anyone’s gaze.

  She doubted anyone else noticed the second gesture, a shake of his head that seemed to cause his tattoos to momentarily turn and point toward the back of the tavern.

  She didn’t think the gesture was just meant to tell her where Isera was. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d walked in the door without Ziralyt stepping out from behind the bar to clasp her shoulders and drop his forehead to hers in greeting. The place was busy tonight – perhaps not as busy as she’d ever seen it, but busier than she’d expected it to be, certainly. She didn’t think that was what kept him behind the bar, pointedly not shifting his body language toward her. Her hunger dissipated into an unease; it didn’t change the empty feeling in her stomach, but it did change her next set of steps from a ravenous rush into something more careful.

  Talia gave Ziralyt a small nod, partly in thanks and partly to acknowledge that she’d received his signal, even if she didn’t yet understand it. Sometimes living in Enthait was like living inside another person’s head, or being inside someone else’s story. Even after nearly a year here, after all this time and all her study, there were so many things that she didn’t know, so many dangerous places to step that she didn’t even know to look for. But Enthait wasn’t the blackweave, and that made it better than almost anywhere else she’d ever known.

  She ducked her head and began to make her way through the patrons, choosing the walkspaces where there were fewer people and less light. Often after the poisoning, her senses seemed to heighten into a dizzying intensity. Colors and scents grew overwhelmingly bold, sounds clamoring against each other, as if dueling for her attention. She found that to be true now as she stepped through the wide archway into the bar’s main room.

  A goldglam was performing on the open stage in the middle of the main room, twirling giant golden wings in time to a music that Talia wasn’t sure existed outside the dancer’s own head. It didn’t matter; the show was captivating even without it, perhaps even more so, a languid, sultry flow of muscle and movement that beckoned you to lean in, take a step closer, until you found yourself practically at the glam’s decorated feet. Which was, the dance promised, right where you were supposed to be.

  Talia had seen the glam here before; the dancer was popular, always surrounded by potential suitors, many of whom were already writing their offerings on the slips of paper to tuck into the glam’s large, ornate box. One of them, maybe two, would be lucky enough to be chosen by the dancer, who would take them home in exchange for their patronage.

  Tonight, the glam’s hair was painted gold, to match the wings, and wound high into the shape of a tree. Tiny rainbowed jewels shimmered from the ends of the branches like leaves just before the fall. As the invisible music raised in tempo, so did the glam’s dance. A hard shimmy, a slow head toss, and a few leaves did fall, twirling down, catching the light on their way. One of the would-be patrons reached out a hand and tried to catch one; it flittered away from his fingers, teasing.

  That hand was reaching out from inside the sleeves of a blue and bronze uniform. That’s what Ziralyt had been trying to tell her – now that she was looking, she saw zaffre everywhere.

  Before now, she’d never seen a single zaffre here, other than Isera. Tonight, as she looked around, she realized the place was full of guards. Many seemed half in their cups, their uniforms disheveled, weapons leaned against walls or resting upon tables. The zaffre were not known for frivolity, and certainly not for public displays like this. And not just zaffre, but greyes as well. What were they doing here?

  She saw Imran and Rynz, both, standing with their backs to her in a far corner, conversing with someone she couldn’t see. I bet my hexed hand that’s Burrin, she thought, and then nearly laughed at her own absurdity. Burrin, here? No, that was impossible. He would never.

  Just in case, she tugged her hood up and ducked around a big, broad-shouldered man – one of the few in here who wasn’t a zaffre, it seemed – toward the back of the building.

  Isera was sitting at their usual booth, a barely lit space tucked into a curved alcove. The round light on the table touched her features, flickering across them like a kind hand. Her short blue hair was decorated with silver jewels that shone in the dark. The tiny piercings along the angle of her jaw, up the curve of her ear, and along the sides of her brow gave off a similar glow, making her light brown skin turn honeyed in the shadows.

  She was no longer in her zaffre uniform, but had changed into a dark purple outfit that Talia had once remarked on for the softness of the fabric. Talia had no doubt she’d put it on just for her.

  Talia took a step forward, and then realized that Isera wasn’t alone. Two other greyes sat at her table. From their exuberant gestures, Talia was pretty sure they’d either been here for a while or they’d been drinking quickly. She watched one of them, Woris, handtalk wildly mid-story and nearly spill his flaming concoction on the table. She wondered, not for the first time, who originally thought that adding fire to alcohol seemed like a good idea. Isera caught Woris’ gesture mid-swing, putting a steady hand against the base of the cup, staying its impending fiery slosh.

  Talia had interacted with Woris only a few times, but her impression hadn’t been good. He wasn’t the shiniest
cypher in the bag, but seemed the one most likely to malfunction when you needed him most. She doubted he improved with alcohol.

  Isera hadn’t seen her yet. With the drink disaster averted, Isera picked up the folding knife she’d let fall to the table. She fiddled with it, opening and closing it, her eyes everywhere but on the blade. It was the kind of thing she did when she was uncomfortable, which wasn’t very often. Isera had a hundred tells, ways you could know what she was feeling and thinking without her ever having to say anything. But then she often said something anyway. It was one of the things that drew Talia to her. The quiet resolve, the steadiness of her conviction. She was as honest and forward as Talia was delusive.

  That might be what drew her to Isera, but Talia still had no true idea what drew Isera to her.

  She stopped in the shadow, unsure what to do. It was risky to try to talk to Isera here, to take the chance of being spotted. But she couldn’t bear to leave without at least making eye contact, letting her know she’d tried.

  She’d wait until Isera saw her, then she’d go. The thought made her feel nervous, as if she wouldn’t be able to mark this poisoning in her mind as completed, as if leaving might come back to haunt her in some way she couldn’t yet imagine. She knew it was false belief, that it was only the ritual of it – the way she’d grown accustomed to finishing the evening with Isera at her side – but she couldn’t shake it.

  There was nothing to be done for it. It was the right choice. Talia took another moment to watch Isera at the table, flipping her knife, pretending to be interested in whatever story Woris was telling now. But mostly she looked at Isera’s eyes, the way the firelight danced across those dark surfaces.

  At that moment, Isera looked up, caught sight of Talia standing there. Her face opened – eyes first, then smile – then her hands went still on the now-closed knife. It was the most amazing thing Talia had seen all night, but even as she watched, she knew Isera couldn’t close it back down. She was radiating joy and relief, and in about half a second, someone would notice.

  Time to go. Talia ducked her head lower and turned to step back into the night.

  “Moon meld you, Poison Eater.” It was Ardit, another of the greyes – were they all here tonight? – at her elbow, his hand lightly on her wrist. At first, she had no idea how he’d noticed her, but then she realized which wrist his hand rested upon. Blue light shone up through the gaps between his fingers. In moving through the crowd, her wrap had shifted, revealing her made hand. Skist. And double skist.

  It took her a moment to figure out how to respond. Every greyes was chosen for something – a skill, a talent, a unique knowledge. She often saw Ardit at Burrin’s side, but didn’t know him well enough to even guess at his specialty. He was just taller than her, his braided white hair slicked back, dark eyes hooded. He smelled lightly of fermented calafruit and alcohol. He seemed clearer headed than the others. She’d have to gamble on him being with it enough not to ignore a gentle nudge toward proper decorum.

  “Greyes Ardit,” she said. “I’d greet you properly, but…” She let her gaze pointedly linger on his hand over hers. It was forward of him to touch her, even as one of the greyes. She let the touch go without further comment, hoping that they might get through the formalities quickly, and he would allow her to escape.

  She expected him to remove his hand and murmur an apology. Instead, he said, “You’ll come and join us.”

  “I should be going,” she said. But her voice was lost in the din of the crowd and he did not let go of her made arm. If she stood still when he pulled, would the hexes break apart? Would the band slide from her arm and leave her standing there? She didn’t know, and so she let him lead her.

  So much for proper decorum. Next time, her nudge would not be so gentle.

  He wove through the crowd with a speed and ease that was startling – so that was something of his skills – and it seemed they were standing at Isera’s table before she’d barely finished speaking. She suddenly found herself in the midst of half a dozen zaffre, all of them raising their glasses silently in her direction.

  “I believe you know everyone, or know of them at least. But in case not…” Ardit talked above the din, saying each of their names as if they were new to her, and she did not give him an indication to think otherwise. He introduced Isera last, adding, “But you probably know her well enough already.”

  Talia was not about to take that dangling bait and ask what he meant.

  Isera, who had shifted her attention toward one of the others as soon as she’d realized Ardit and Talia were heading their way, brought her mismatched gaze to meet Talia’s.

  “Moon meld you, Poison Eater,” Isera said. Her thumbs trembled slightly as she brought them to rest above her eyes. Formal. More distant than even the first time they’d met on the Green Road. It was odd to hear that from Isera here, in a place where they’d never been poison eater and greyes, but something else entirely.

  Talia would have responded in kind, but the noise of a chant was welling up, making it nearly impossible to hear herself, much less anyone else. It was the zaffre all around her, their cups lifting high in the air, their feet stamping on the ground.

  * * *

  Moon meld us and mold us and keep us from harm

  for tomorrow we enter the wilds of Tawn

  and face fierce dangers from far beyond

  * * *

  There was more, but after ‘beyond’, it grew rambling and off-beat, the words stumbling over themselves, and Talia couldn’t make it out. And then, with a sudden last-gasp effort, the words sobered up long enough to find their way home.

  * * *

  When the eater of poison eats of the ten

  she’ll see us in her dreams of the dead

  * * *

  When the chant had faltered away, she saw that Isera had slid over in the booth to make room for her. A quick glance at the tight crowd made it clear that leaving was not a likely option. Isera gave her a nod that meant this is the best way. Talia trusted that nod, so she slid along the booth until they were sitting together, as they often sat together at this very table, and yet this was wholly and completely different. The length of their thighs touched beneath the table and despite everything happening around them, all of Talia’s body sank down to be in those places of heat between them. Isera’s hands were back on the table. Knife open and closed, open and closed. Talia had to resist the urge to touch her dancing fingers, her wrist, the blade.

  Instead, she nodded at Isera as if they’d just met, had nothing more than a passing knowledge of each other’s life. Not as they were at all.

  “Finwa,” Talia said to the table, and the word was simple enough, but it was also so much more. To the greyes, a proper greeting. Beneath that, a sadness, a reaching out, that was hidden, she hoped, to all but Isera and her.

  “Surely you’re not all here for Ziralyt’s barely potable concoctions,” Talia said, tinkling the edge of her fingernail against one of the half-empty metal cups. She felt a little bad saying it; Ziralyt made beautiful drinks and took great pride. If he’d heard her, she had no doubt he would be hurt. It was the only thing she could think of to say. It wasn’t as if she could ask Isera what was going on, not without giving things away that she didn’t want to give away, and nothing in her experience was helping her figure out what the zaffre were doing here.

  Woris leaned in, spilling some of his no-longer-flaming drink on the scarred wooden table. He smelled sweetly decayed, like flowers gone to rot.

  “As if you don’t know why we are here,” he said.

  Beside her, Isera stiffened. Talia waited. If someone like Woris wanted to tell you something, she’d learned the fastest way to get them to do so was not to ask, but to sit silent and wait.

  It didn’t take long. He leaned in, all flopping black hair and sad-flower breath. “We’re going to die because of you. Because of you and your satho vision.”

  It’s not my crazy vision, she started to say, but of course
it was. The creatures she’d described to Burrin didn’t exist, they were a figment of her imagination, and tomorrow the zaffre would ride out and try to protect the city by fighting something that could not be found.

  “Why couldn’t you have just lied?” Woris said. “Made something up? No, instead you had to–”

  Whatever came next was cut off by Ardit, who pulled Woris away, draping an arm around his shoulders. Still, the irony of Woris’ words wasn’t lost on her. She felt it run down her spine like a creature with a thousand spiky legs. Talia couldn’t tell if she was the one shaking or if it was Isera. She swallowed so hard it felt like there was a living thing in her throat. Even if there were words she knew to say in response – which there weren’t – she didn’t know if she could have said them.

  Ardit said something to Woris that she couldn’t hear. Then loudly, in a voice that carried farther than it should have been able to, he said, “Don’t let Woris fool you. There will be no dying tomorrow. Woris is as excited to fight the charn as the rest of us. Aren’t you, Woris?”

  In answer, Woris pulled back and punched Ardit in the jaw, a sloppy half-closed fist that probably hit harder than he meant it to, the crack of his fingers sounding loud even in the din.

  For a moment, she thought they’d fight. Both had their fists up. Ardit’s lip was curled. Half snarl, half grin. His voice was low, but it carried across to Talia as if it was meant for her. “Stop, you fool. Save your fear for tomorrow. We’ll fight together, as we always do.”

  A moment later, Woris nodded, allowing himself to be drawn back into Ardit’s embrace for half a moment before he reached for his cup again. His face was set, impassive but for a tiny tic at the corner of his jaw. He was scared. Terrified. Putting on a brave face – both of them, Ardit better at it than Woris – but what was it that had them so afraid?