Reluctantly Isaveth rose and backed away, still searching Papa’s face. She was almost to the door when she got her answer: a single nod and a sad twitch of a smile.
Emotion welled up inside her. She wanted to run to him, bury her face in his chest, and hug him. But a wall stood between them, and she had to be brave, for both their sakes.
“Don’t worry, Papa,” she said, though her lips were trembling and her throat ached with unshed tears. “I’ll keep looking, and I won’t give up. We’ll get you out of here, you’ll see.”
Chapter Fifteen
“WHAT DID YOU SAY TO Papa?” Isaveth asked as she and Quiz walked away from the gatehouse. She’d hoped to linger by the door of the visiting room and eavesdrop, but the guard had returned as soon as Isaveth came out. So Isaveth had paced the rotunda, shuddering at every muffled clang and curse from the cells above, and praying that the prisoners—or guards—who’d hurt Papa would leave him alone from now on.
“Oh, not much,” said Quiz, scrubbing a fleck of mud off the pedalcycle’s seat. The rain had dissolved into mist now, and the thunderclouds were rolling eastward, grumbling as they went. “I only wanted to tell him who I was and that I’d be looking out for you.” He glanced at her. “Are you all right?”
Isaveth drew a slow breath, letting the rain-washed air drive the sour prison smell away. “I’m be fine. It’s Papa I’m worried about. If the Lawkeepers think he was part of a conspiracy, I suppose it makes sense that they’d ask him for names. But if they put him under a truth-spell, why can’t he just tell them he didn’t kill Master Orien and have done with it?”
“Well,” said Quiz, still picking at the mud, “I don’t know whether they’re going to truth-bind your father or not. But I found out a bit more about how the spell works, and . . . it’s not what you think.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean the decoction they give people doesn’t really make it impossible for them to lie. It only forces them to talk, and keep talking, until the Lawkeepers get tired of asking questions and give them the antidote.”
Isaveth stopped walking and stared at him. “But they could say anything, then. How do the Keepers know it’s the truth?”
“They don’t,” Quiz said. “But if a prisoner starts to ramble or avoids the question, they poke him with a shock-wand. And it’s hard to make up a convincing lie when you’re talking as fast as you can.”
A chill ran through Isaveth. Papa wasn’t stupid by any means, but his thoughts worked slowly, and he seldom spoke without weighing his words first. “What happens if they stop talking? Or can’t they do that?”
“Oh, they can. But if they don’t talk, they don’t breathe. That’s how the spell really works.”
Isaveth’s throat went dry. “That—that’s horrible.”
“Yes, and it’s also illegal in most provinces, including a good part of this one. Tarreton is one of the few cities in Upper Colonia that allows truth-binding, and it’s only supposed to be used on the most dangerous dissenters—the kind of people who lead riots or threaten to blow up the council.”
Or murder the governor of Tarreton College. Did the Lawkeepers think Papa had been trying to scare the other nobles into supporting the Reps’ Bill, or merely stop Orien from taking part in the final vote? Either way it seemed like a reckless scheme, more likely to harm the reps’ cause than strengthen it. Papa surely didn’t believe anyone in the Workers’ Club would do such a wicked, foolish thing, or he wouldn’t be so anxious to keep their secrets.
Yet if the Lawkeepers truth-bound him, what choice would he have? He’d either have to betray his friends or suffocate. . . .
“They can’t bind him yet, though,” Quiz said, putting a reassuring hand on Isaveth’s shoulder. “Even if they want to. The Lord Justice has to sign the order first, and he’s in Uropia.”
The knot in Isaveth’s chest eased. Uropia was clear across the Eastern Ocean, a week’s journey by steamship and at least three days by floater. “How do you know all of this?” she asked. “Affinity-charms, truth-binding, the Lord Justice’s schedule . . .”
“Oh, people love to tell me things,” said Quiz cheerfully. “I expect I have that sort of face.”
* * *
Someone had left a bundle of wet news-rags outside the tram station. Quiz blinked when Isaveth asked him to stop so she could pick them up, but he didn’t hesitate to oblige. Once she got home, Isaveth tore the damp pages into tiny pieces, added some beetroot juice and puff-weed petals for color, and left the pinkish glop in the washtub to soak. She’d screen it and press it dry, and then she’d have paper to wrap her next batch of spells in.
Her heart still ached for Papa, and Isaveth feared for his safety more than ever. But worrying wouldn’t help him, or her sisters, either. She’d done all she could for Papa today; now she needed to work on getting that new dress for Lilet.
It cost Isaveth a nerve-racking dash past the Kerchers’ house and a shameful amount of begging to get Aunt Sal to lend the ingredients she needed. Mimmi, of course, had forgotten to deliver Isaveth’s note. But in the end her aunt gave in, and Isaveth returned to her own kitchen triumphant. She tied on her mother’s apron, opened the Book of Common Magic, and set to work.
She’d sifted all the flour she needed and was about to toss the neevils outside when a thought came to her. What had Mistress Anandri said about neevils? On impulse she dumped the wriggling bugs onto the pulp soaking in the washtub, then mashed them in. If it made her wrappers even a little more resistant to magic, it would be worth it.
Isaveth spent the next two hours in a frenzy of mixing, stirring, and pouring, and she had one bad fright when the decoction she’d left on the stove burst into flame. But she slammed the lid down in an instant, and when the liquid cooled, it was exactly the color the book said it ought to be. She poured it carefully into pill bottles—they had a lot of those left over from her mother’s illness—and bent to take her last batch of spell-tablets out of the oven.
“More spell-baking?” asked Annagail from behind her, and Isaveth jumped. She’d been so absorbed in her work, she hadn’t even heard the front door open. Quickly she dropped the pan onto the table and wiped her hands. “Anna! How was your day?”
Annagail didn’t answer. She circled the kitchen table, studying one decoction and batch of tablets after another. “You’ve been awfully busy,” she said. “What’s it all for?”
“Well, these ones are cleaning-tablets,” Isaveth said, pointing to the spongy-looking squares on the far end. “You can rub them on your hands or clothes, even if you don’t have water. Those are dark-tablets—I thought I could sell them to people with headaches or who work at night and have trouble falling asleep during the day. And this decoction is called Mother’s Helper because—”
“That’s not what I meant,” said Anna. “I only wondered why you were making them. I thought maybe Mistress Anandri had asked you to do some more spell-baking for the college.”
“Oh,” said Isaveth. “No. I just thought that if people weren’t interested in my other spells, maybe they’d want these ones.” Not to mention that measuring ingredients and stirring pots was better than brooding over Papa’s battered face or her fear that he might be truth-bound. “But what about you? Did everything go all right at the college?”
“Oh . . . oh yes, it went fine.” Anna toyed with her necklace, her gaze unfocused and a little troubled. Then she recollected herself and pulled a notebook from her pocket. “I did what you asked,” she said.
Isaveth took the notes eagerly and flipped through them. Sure enough, her sister had written down all of Master Orien’s visitors on the day he died—and the times they’d come to the office as well. “Thank you, Anna!” she exclaimed.
“Do you recognize any of the names?” Annagail asked. “I didn’t.”
“No,” admitted Isaveth. “But Quiz might.” Carefully she tore out the pages and handed the book back—Anna probably needed it for her work. “Anyway, I’m sure it wo
n’t be hard to find them.”
Annagail nodded, but she still looked distracted. Clearly something was weighing on her mind. “What is it?” asked Isaveth.
Anna hesitated. Then she reached into the bodice of her dress and pulled out their mother’s prayer scarf. “I . . . want you to have this.”
Her sister treasured that scarf, and with good reason: Mama had draped it around Anna’s neck with her own hands only a few minutes before she died. “B-but I’m not thirteen yet,” stammered Isaveth as her sister pressed the scarf into her hand. “And you’re the oldest. It’s yours to wear, not mine.”
“Wear it where?” Anna asked tiredly. “Vettie, I can’t risk anyone seeing me in a prayer scarf, at the college or not. I’m scared even to go to temple now, because who knows who might spot me on the way? And if word got back to Meggery . . .” She shook her head. “It’s too dangerous.”
Guilt stabbed at Isaveth. She’d been so determined not to let Annagail’s faith keep her from getting the job at the college, she’d scarcely thought about what it would cost her sister to hide it. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s not forever, it’s only for now. And the All-One knows what’s in my heart, even if I can’t show it.” She laid a hand on Isaveth’s shoulder. “But I would feel better if someone was wearing Mama’s scarf. Will you do it? For me?”
Isaveth folded the silky cloth and draped it about her neck. It felt strange to have a knot sitting in the hollow of her throat. Or maybe that was just the lump inside it.
“All right,” she said quietly. “For now.”
* * *
The next morning Isaveth was in the kitchen, ironing her newly made wrapping paper, when a tentative knock sounded at the door.
“Come in, Quiz,” she called. After all, who else would it be?
“What are you doing?” asked Quiz, doffing his cap as he came in. He must have bathed in the lake last night, because his face was clean, his patch all but hidden beneath the silky fall of his hair. “Making paper?”
“Neevil paper,” said Isaveth. “I don’t know how useful it’ll be, but I thought it was worth a try.”
Quiz blinked. “Come again?”
“Mistress Anandri said neevils have antimagical properties, and that’s why you have to be careful not to let them get into your spell-baking. But once the cooking’s finished, the magic’s sealed until you let it out. So I thought if I mashed up some neevils in my batch of paper and then wrapped my spells in it . . .”
Quiz’s brows shot up. “Clever! Does it work?”
“I’m about to find out,” said Isaveth, reaching for the scissors. She cut off a strip of her first page, wrapped up one of her old fire-tablets candy fashion, then flung the little parcel onto the table.
Nothing happened. Isaveth picked up the meat mallet and gave the tablet a rap—not hard enough to crush it, but enough that it ought to crack. Still nothing.
“Maybe it’s a bad one,” said Quiz, and before Isaveth could stop him, he’d pinched the package open. “Ow!”
The fire-tablet flamed up, then subsided into glowing crumbs. The neevil paper, however, was scarcely blackened at all. “It works!” exclaimed Isaveth in delight.
Quiz sucked his singed fingers, looking aggrieved. “You didn’t tell me it was a fire-tablet.”
“Well, you didn’t tell me you were going to touch it. Here.” Isaveth soaked a cloth in pump water and handed it to him. “Better?”
“I’ll live,” said Quiz. He waited until Isaveth had sat down and picked up her scissors again, then pulled out the chair across from her. “How was Annagail’s first day at the college?”
It didn’t take Isaveth long to tell him all her sister had said, even the details that had come out after Anna gave her the prayer scarf—she’d been more at ease then, willing to answer all Isaveth’s questions about her duties and what she thought of the other people at the college.
“So she’s got keys to the governor’s office and the rest of that floor as well?” Quiz leaned back, stretching his long legs under the table. “Perfect! Now we can get in anywhere we want.”
“I don’t know about that,” said Isaveth, shifting uncomfortably as his feet brushed hers. Why did boys always have to take up so much space? “She was willing to get me that list for Papa’s sake, but she doesn’t like prying into other people’s things, and I don’t think she’d want to help us do it, either. She did promise to ask about the cleaning maid who found Orien’s body, though, and to find out as much as she can about Master Buldage.”
“We could find out a lot more by searching his office,” said Quiz glumly, “but I suppose it’ll have to do. Where’s that list, then?”
Isaveth took the pages from her pocket and handed them over. Quiz adjusted his patch, then brought the pages close to his nose and squinted.
Was his vision really as poor as that? The thought made Isaveth’s skin break out in turkey-flesh, especially when she remembered that wild ride down the hill into Dern Valley. Yet he’d always dodged Mimmi’s questions about his patch, so he wouldn’t be likely to give Isaveth a straight answer about his eyesight, either.
“That’s disappointing,” Quiz said at last, lowering the papers. “I was hoping there’d be at least one master on the list.”
“So was I,” Isaveth admitted. “But if the murderer was one of the masters, why would he make an appointment? There’d be no need to visit the governor’s office if he’d planted the charm and tablet in his robe the night before.”
“True,” said Quiz. “Well, then, let’s look closer to the time of the murder. Who were the other people on Master Orien’s schedule that day who might have had access to exploding-tablets?”
Isaveth leaned across the table, scanning the pages. “Well, in the afternoon there was Alv Nowatcz and Tomias Rennick—they’re both listed as ‘builder.’ Oh, and Errol Yeng, the architect, but he came in the morning.”
“And Alv came next, early in the afternoon. I’ll bet he’s the man the Sagelord picked to oversee the charmery project,” said Quiz. “The one Master Orien didn’t like. I think we should start with him.” He started to rise, but Isaveth tapped his hand.
“Wait. If one of these men was the murderer, he’d have had to slip the charm and the tablet into Orien’s pocket while he was talking to him. How would he do that without him noticing?”
“Easy,” Quiz replied. “Disguise them as something innocent. Wrap them up and make them look like . . . I don’t know, a packet of candies. Or pipe-baccy.”
“But how could they know Master Orien would accept the gift, let alone put it in his pocket? What if he’d left it on his desk or given it to his secretary instead?”
Quiz made a wry face. “You’re right, it would be a chancy way to kill someone. So you’ve still got your eye on Master Buldage?”
“Or someone else inside the college,” Isaveth said. “Like that cleaning maid Papa saw coming up the stairs when he was going out. What if she killed Orien for some reason we don’t know yet and then fooled the Lawkeepers into thinking she’d stumbled onto his body by accident?”
“I suppose,” said Quiz, “but in that case we might as well suspect everyone else on the staff. If the cleaning maid, why not the porter? He was there at the time too.”
“Yes, but he’s still at the college. He didn’t vanish and not tell anyone where he was going.” Isaveth tugged at her prayer scarf—she was still self-conscious about wearing it, and the knot always felt a little too tight. Yet Quiz hadn’t even seemed to notice. “But I’m not saying we shouldn’t look into these other men as well. Let’s go to the city records and find out as much about them as we can.”
Chapter Sixteen
ONCE ISAVETH HAD PACKED her father’s old lunch satchel with her newly wrapped spells, she and Quiz cycled into the city. There they spent the next two hours in the dusty heat of the Records Office, peppering the bemused clerk with questions and hunting through business directories until they found the informa
tion they needed. While Quiz scribbled down addresses and sketched maps on his notepad, Isaveth leafed through a copy of last year’s Governor’s Report—which gave her a better sense of Master Orien’s character, as well as a few more insights into Master Buldage.
“His great-grandfather was one of the founders of Tarreton College,” she explained to Quiz as they left the building. “And his father was governor for nearly twenty years. So of course Master Buldage would have been upset when the Sagelord appointed Orien instead of him. It was an insult to his whole family.”
“That’s a good motive for wanting to kill the Sagelord,” said Quiz, “but not so much for wanting to kill Master Orien. After all, Buldage couldn’t be sure that Lord Arvis wouldn’t just snub him again.” He flipped the notebook shut and stuffed it back into his pocket. “I’ve got an idea. Instead of both of us going to Alv Nowatcz’s workshop, why don’t I go there on my own? Then you can check out the architect’s office at the same time. Maybe sell some of those spell-tablets you’re carrying too.”
It wasn’t a bad idea—after all, Quiz could always pretend to be looking for work, and he’d have a better chance of getting Mister Nowatcz’s workers to talk than she would. Besides, Alv’s workshop was a fair distance away, and Quiz could pedal faster if he didn’t have to carry Isaveth as well.
“All right,” she said as Quiz swung himself onto the cycle. “Good luck.”
* * *
Unfortunately, Isaveth’s visit to Errol Yeng turned out to be a disappointing waste of time. Not only was the architect out of his office, but his secretary had no patience for Isaveth’s questions, and shooed her away with a stern warning not to come back.
Still, now that Isaveth had seen Yeng’s spare, modern, and fastidiously neat workplace, she was even less inclined to suspect him than the college porter. Certainly Yeng worked in building construction, but only in the planning stages, so there was no reason he’d have any more access to exploding-tablets than the average citizen. He appeared well off, and most of his clients were nobles, so why would he want to murder Master Orien? He had even less motive than Papa, as far as Isaveth could see.