Plainly primed by Clee, his host exerted himself to draw Pen out about his youth at Jurald Court. Pen chose not to spoil the mood by mentioning Drovo’s death, but he did ask questions in turn about the mercenary life, wondering if his brother had found it satisfying before its truncation. Talking about his command, Rusillin sounded more like Rolsch than like Drovo, more calculations and logistics and complaints of dubious suppliers than thrilling tales of heroism. Garrison life ran mostly dull, but Rusillin’s company had seen bloodshed in two clashes over a disputed valley on the earl palatine’s far borders, and in one peasant revolt over, of all things, an attempt by the earl to eradicate packs of feral dogs plaguing the region.
Rusillin topped up Pen’s glass again, with an encouragement to drink pointed with assorted toasts. Pen remembered that Drovo had been at a drunken party with his friends when they’d been recruited in Greenwell, though he had defended his choice with vigor even after he’d sobered up. Could a man be made dead drunk and drafted into mercenary service the way the king of Darthaca had once been rumored to press sailors during one of his wars? Surely it would be easier to run away from a mercenary company than from a ship at sea. He wet his lips and smiled cautiously through the toasts.
Rusillin then inquired genially about Pen’s accidental acquisition of Desdemona. Pen told the tale, again; the repetition was beginning to seem more like the memory of a memory than the thing itself. Clee was very interested in the details of his swoon, which Pen on the whole was unable to supply. Growing a touch morose, perhaps with the wine, Pen dwelt on his broken betrothal.
“Does the pretty Preita await you?” asked Rusillin.
“I doubt it,” sighed Pen. “Her parents were no doubt entertaining better offers for her hand by the time I rode out of town.”
“Mm, sad.”
Clee made to refill his glass in consolation, frowning to find no room. “And has the demon awoken within you?”
“A little,” Pen confessed, reluctant to recount such lunatic experiences before this company. And he could hardly describe Ruchia’s book to Clee, deep in Tigney’s confidences.
“So it survived the abrupt transfer all intact?” said Rusillin.
“Oh, yes. Seems to have.”
Clee pressed more meat upon him which Pen, stuffed, was compelled to refuse. “I can hardly hold any more of your abundant hospitality, my lord,” he apologized.
“It was the least I could do. I have one more indulgence to offer.”
Rusillin went to the sideboard, and came back with three goblets fashioned of the pale green glass of the district, passing them around with his own hands like a very superior butler. They proved filled with a golden liqueur scented of flowers. Pen had thought such things were served in smaller vessels, but the lord of Martenden seemed not a man to stint his table.
“Try this cordial. It is distilled by a woman in our own village.” Rusillin saluted Pen with his glass, and sipped, as did Clee.
Pen lifted his own goblet in grateful return toast. As he set it to his lips, a voice inside his head began, Penric, Penric, Pen, pen, penpenpen Pen! Pen! It sounded as panting and effortful as someone breaking through a brick wall with a sledgehammer. His eyes widened, and he smiled in concealment of his confusion.
Desdemona . . . ? What? he tried back.
Take only a small sip, and hold it in your mouth. Don’t swallow. Be ready to spit it into your napkin.
Not knowing what else to do, or why, he did as instructed. The cordial was on the whole pleasant, very sweet and complex, but with a bitter undertaste.
Aha. Syrup of poppies only. We can handle that. Drink, then, but very slowly. Do not betray your knowledge.
Why not?
Because we want to see what transpires.
Ruchia, Pen recalled, had been a spy. Trusted agent. Who sailed troubled waters, whatever they were, aside from a prime example of Tigney’s maddening vagueness. Pen felt he had embarked all unknowing into a very strange storm.
The liquid in his mouth acquired an even nastier taste, and Desdemona whispered, against the evidence of Pen’s senses, Good. It is made safe. Now swallow.
Pen gulped, and managed, without choking much, to say “Most interesting. It smells of chamomile blossoms.”
“Yes, I believe that is one of the ingredients, though the goodwife guards her recipe even from me. Chamomile is said to be very soothing.” Rusillin sipped from his own goblet with evident pleasure, and regarded Pen benignly. When not laced with syrup of poppies, the stuff was evidently a deal more palatable.
The conversation grew more desultory as Pen slowly drank. The two brothers were now watching him with all the attention of a cat or a dog, spoiled by tidbits at the table, tracking every morsel their master ate, waiting to pounce on a prize. When Pen yawned, not really feigned after the meal and all that untainted wine, they swayed with it. Pen’s body grew warm, though the room was cool as the lake-light from the slit windows faded to gray and shadows of evening encroached, and he undid the collar of his tunic.
Finishing his glass, Pen remarked, “Very soothing indeed, my lord.”
“I shall tell the goodwife how much you enjoyed it,” Rusillin promised, and took the glass away again to the sideboard where, his back to the room, he refilled it.
Clumsy, opined Desdemona. I suspect poisoning guests is not in his usual line. Though I suppose greater subtlety would be wasted on you.
And why was she an expert? Pen had no trouble producing a frog-eyed goggle as Rusillin handed him a second glass. Its undertaste was even more bitter than the first.
They’re not taking any chances, are they? mused Desdemona, as the stuff turned vile in his mouth.
Now what should I do? asked Pen, starting to panic. I’m going to throw up soon.
Keep playing along. You may now start to feign a drunken stupor. I’m sure you’ve witnessed such things.
Not only witnessed, but experienced, if only the once. Wine-sickness, like a hanging, had been a salutary lesson he’d taken to heart at a young age.
“You could use this cordial as a bedtime composer,” Pen remarked, letting his speech slur.
“Truly,” said Clee, sipping along with him from a glass in which the level had barely dropped.
Pen yawned again, more widely. “Sorry, m’lor’,” he muttered, and let his head fall, pillowed on his arms. Silence fell around the table.
Bastard’s tears, he demanded of Desdemona, now what?
Stay limp. If they think their ploy effective, they will not bother to bind you. A considering pause. Not that bindings are any great impediment, but why make extra work for us?
Rusillin’s voice finally came, “Is he out? Check his eyes.”
Clee lifted Pen’s head, painfully by the hair, and pulled back an eyelid. Pen suppressed a yelp and tried to make his eyes roll up.
“Not wholly,” Clee judged, accurately, “but I expect this will do.” He took a fraught breath. “Are you ready?”
“Yes. Let’s get the business over with.”
Between them, they lifted Pen from his chair and supported him, an arm dragged over each brotherly shoulder.