The Tyranny of Ghosts_ Legacy of Dhakaan - Don Bassingthwaite [106]
The goblin scout pulled the Cannith apprentice’s plate over and inspected what was left of her meal. He sniffed at it, then pushed it back. “The black noon is off,” he said calmly.
Across the throne room, plates scraped as feasters shoved them away. A servant reached Ashi with an empty bucket that smelled like it had recently held mop water. She ignored the smell and buried her head in it.
When she looked up, Tariic’s eyes were on her. She nodded at him politely. One of the seats at the high table was empty. Tariic’s lackey Daavn was down on the throne room floor talking to the viceroy of House Medani. The half-elf rose and came over to her table. He held out his hand, and the dragonmark that patterned the back of it seemed to flash brighter for a moment. He swept his hand across the table, pausing over the Cannith apprentice’s plate.
“There’s no poison,” he said. “The noon in this dish was simply spoiled.”
The goblin scout muttered something under his breath as the Medani walked away. Tariic gave Ashi another long look, then made a dismissive gesture. Razu came trotting over to the table. “Those who are ill may leave the feast.”
Ashi cleared her mouth and spit into the reeking bucket once more, then handed it back to the servant. She rose, nodded again to Tariic, and, along with the others who’d eaten the tainted dish, walked out of the throne room with all the dignity she could manage. The noise of the feast returned, and the last she saw of Tariic, he had turned back to his conversation.
As soon as they were alone on the stairs leading back to the upper floors of Khaar Mbar’ost, Oraan slipped a vial into her hand. Ashi pulled the cork from it and swallowed the liquid inside in a single gulp.
Her queasiness vanished instantly. Her stomach settled, and even the bad taste in her mouth vanished, replaced with a sweet flavor vaguely reminiscent of cherries. “Rond betch,” she said. “That was unpleasant.”
“But necessary,” said Oraan. “If you’d been the only one to claim illness—”
“I know.” Tariic would have been suspicious. He might not have allowed her to leave the feast at all. And while no one who hadn’t eaten from the dish at her table would actually fall ill, the remains of a lone vat of spoiled black noon in the fortress kitchens would back up events. A cook might be beaten for carelessly preparing the tainted dish, but Ashi suspected that he or she had, along with the servant who’d brought it to the table, been very well compensated for their trouble.
They reached the floor where Ashi’s chambers were located and turned onto it, but didn’t stop. At the end of the corridor, a smaller servant’s staircase gave more discreet access to the levels of Khaar Mbar’ost. They climbed again until they reached the floor with Tariic’s quarters.
“Will there be guards?” Ashi asked.
Aruget—Oraan had changed faces again as they climbed—shook his head. “Not tonight. Tariic generously sent word for the guards on duty to relax and join in the celebration, so long as they’re back before he returns from the feast.”
“Did he really?”
The changeling snorted. “Of course not.”
“Won’t he find out what happened?”
“You think Tariic actually talks to his guards?”
The corridor before the lhesh’s quarters was empty. His door, predictably, was locked, but Aruget produced a pair of lockpicks and had it open in moments. The hinges swung in near silence. They slipped through, and he closed the door behind them.
Tariic’s chambers were luxurious. Thick Riedran carpets muffled their steps. The furniture was carved with fine details of vines and flowers—Ashi recognized work from the Eldeen Reaches—and tables and shelves displayed objects of art from across Khorvaire. Light came from everbright lanterns, their harsh