Page 26 of The Poisoned King (Impossible Creatures #2)

A Feast and a Plan

Anya was taken, first, to a bedroom, opulent and exquisitely furnished, though neglected—the curtains and quilt were matching velvet, but something had chewed at them—and through it to a bathroom. The walls were papered with images of hippocamps, and the bath had brass dragon’s claw feet.

Anya threw open the window so Gallia could come and go.

“You will need at least three baths, to look at you,” said Gallia. “Quick now.”

Anya ran the bath as hot as she could bear.

She took off her necklace and boots and climbed into the water fully clothed, gasping at the steam.

She scrubbed at her dress and then at her skin.

The soap was rose-scented, and the water turned red-brown as she washed.

She peeled off her dripping gown—it was still stained with blood, but at least it no longer smelled—wrung it out, hung it next to the bedroom fire, and reran the bath with clean water.

She sank into it, and let the warmth soothe her aching, scratched, bruised body.

She washed Koo, too, lightly dousing him as he perched on the edge of the bath.

He did not object; he would not have objected had she dropped him in, so total was his devotion.

Gallia clacked her beak. “Gaganas bathe in rainwater. You’ll spoil him.”

“He’s very young,” said Anya. “He can bathe in rainwater when he’s been alive at least a week.”

Koo shook the water from his feathers and stretched his wings. “Fly,” he said. “Fly up-up-up.”

To her astonishment, he tipped himself off the edge of the bath, and instead of plummeting to the tile floor, he flew: up, up, to the top of the bathroom door, and then down to circle around her head and land with a splash in the bathwater.

“Bravo!” said Anya, and Gallia unbent from her habitual sternness and offered a warm croak of approval.

“That’s good, young one,” Gallia said.

Koo went flying haphazardly in and out of the window. He brought Anya gifts: a half-eaten leaf, a shell, and a luminous phoenix feather.

“Where did you find this?” she asked. “Was it in the garden?”

But Koo would only say, “Mine!”

Anya washed her hair, which was now two completely different lengths where she had sliced it with the sword.

The bubbles swirled around her. She arranged them into shapes with a finger: a knife, an arrow, a vial of poison.

She dug her fingernails into the bar of soap, and imagined it was Claude’s heart.

Her dress was largely dry, though wrinkled and frayed. Still, she thought as she plaited her wet hair, it didn’t matter. It was a liberating thought; for the first time in so long, it didn’t matter to anybody what she looked like. Nobody was watching her. All that mattered was her father.

Irian knocked at her door just as she finished, and led her back down the long, wide corridors.

“Food’s ready. We’ll eat in the buttery,” she said. “The banqueting hall is currently occupied. Come in. Christopher’s here already.”

It was a small and perfectly circular room, with light pouring in at a dozen windows, a blazing fire and a table drawn up next to it. The small round table was so laden with food that no wood was visible.

Anya had not realized how starving she was—it was Tuesday, she calculated, which meant she had not eaten a proper meal for more than a day. For some minutes she said nothing, only ate as fast and hard as she could.

There was fresh fish, fried, in a sauce as delicate as sea-foam, and dumplings with prawn, and bread so soft it was almost cake.

There were tiny sweet red tomatoes, small as her little fingernail, and she ate them by the handful.

She spread the bread with a layer of butter as thick as her thumb and added a piece of sweet, pungent cheese.

“Nighthand cooked,” said Irian. “Thank you.” And she looked warmly at him. He turned the same color as the tomatoes and glared at his plate.

“It was nothing,” he said brusquely. “You have the creatures to care for. I must be permitted to care for you in turn.”

Ratwin sat on the table eating a savory cake of pine nuts, carrot, and walnuts, specially prepared for her.

“He is an excellent chef-man, Nighthand; I learned thats long ago. But you know his type doesn’t feel fear nor quailing nor doubtings, and fearless experimentations in kitchens are not always pleasants. ”

Nighthand nodded sagely. “I made a soufflé of jam and sardines once. It tasted like a clown had farted into an ocean. I probably wouldn’t make it again.”

At last, when Christopher had finished his second plate of fish, and Anya and Gallia and Koo had eaten between them a dozen dumplings, Nighthand fetched from the sideboard an armful of covered dishes, all printed in pink flowers.

“Dessert!” he said. “At least half of a meal should consist of dessert, in my opinion; perhaps two-thirds.”

He uncovered the dishes; one held profiteroles filled with homemade centicore-milk ice cream and dripping with chocolate sauce, another doughnuts sprinkled with what looked like tiny luminescent gems. “Sugar crystals,” said Nighthand.

“Made with kanko spit.” The third was an immense white cream cake topped with bunches of dark blue grapes, the color of nighttime.

“Now,” he said, and took a doughnut and ate it whole, and passed the cake to Anya. “Tell us. You both have things we must know.”

With Gallia’s interjections, Anya told them everything: about her grandfather’s murder, and her father’s arrest, and the poison, and her uncle’s treachery.

“I know the type of man,” said Irian. “They’re dangerous. They feel no guilt, because they have trained themselves not to. But we must have a plan. We can’t just act recklessly. It would be fatal.”

“I disagree,” said Nighthand. “I admire reckless. I say we storm the castle single-handed and disarm the guards. We’ll snatch your father back and work out the nuances later.”

“Yes!” said Anya. She knelt in her seat, quivering with sudden hope, knocking over her glass. “Yes! Let me come! Let me fight!”

But Christopher shook his head. “I’ve seen it, Nighthand. There’s soldiers everywhere. They put a bolt through Naravirala’s leg.”

“The royal army,” said Gallia, “has grown three, four times the size it used to be. You would need a force of at least a thousand to overwhelm them, perhaps more.”

Irian looked at the Berserker, warmth in her eyes. “Even you, Nighthand, cannot beat back an entire army.”

“I could try,” said Nighthand. “It would be a good day out.”

“But it would solve nothing. I’m sorry, Anya. It can’t be done that way.”

Nighthand sighed. He uncovered another dish: freshly peeled peaches, with custard where the stone would be. “Eat,” he said.

“Anya,” said Irian. “I will give it my sharpest thought. I swear we will not let time pass. But our first priority must be to keep you safe. Don’t go near the perimeter of the island. From what you say, your uncle will be searching for you.”

“I know,” said Anya. “And by being here, I put you in danger too.”

“That’s unimportant. Where is the cloth you took from your grandfather’s collar? May I see it?”

Anya reached into her dress pocket. “Here.”

Irian took it in her hands—but Jacques, to Anya’s surprise, reared back at the sight of it.

“Keep that rag away from me!”

Christopher and Anya exchanged puzzled glances.

“What’s wrong, Jacques?” said Christopher. “It’s just a tiny drop. It can’t hurt you.”

“I have uncommonly sharp senses, even for a dragon!” Jacques was quivering. “That drop has evil in it!” He flew up from the table, and would not return until Anya returned the scrap to her pocket.

“Now,” said the dragon. He seemed embarrassed by his outburst. “Christopher will tell his tale. It is a superior tale, for I appear in it.”

Nighthand uncovered another dish: this one was full of jellylike sweets. “Masticandos! I invented them: the first batch was so chewy I nearly lost a tooth. They have blackberries in them, and a little dryad grape juice.”

They were spectacular, and Anya ate fistfuls as Christopher told his story as quickly as he could; Jacques and his summons, and the detour to Anya. He was eager, Anya could see, to be gone.

“And where did you get that sword?” asked Nighthand when Christopher was finished. “It’s more beautiful than most.”

“Naravirala gave it to me.” He handed it to Nighthand, who ran an approving hand over the carved hilt. “It’s made from dragon obsidian.”

“Dragon obsidian?” asked Anya. It was silver-white and shining.

“Ancient pyrite, Naravirala told me. Rock burned molten by dragon fire and reshaped by it,” said Christopher. “If you can find it, she said, it will make you a sword sharper and stronger, thinner and lighter than any metal. It doesn’t just reflect the light; it multiplies it ten times over.”

“Precisely,” said Jacques. “All things dragonic are strong. I, for instance, am among the meatiest and fiercest of my breed. I could burn the topmost towers of any city.” He flicked his tail, caught it on Christopher’s collar, and fell off his shoulder.

“Wait!” Anya leaped to her feet; a sudden thought had lit the whole of her brain with vivid light.

“I’ve been so stupid—we have a dragon! We don’t need an army to fight Claude’s guards—Jacques, you could burn them all to the ground!

You’ve killed a manticore with your flames, you said! You could free my father!”

But Jacques was looking at his own claws, and his wings were hunched. He breathed out, and the huff of breath had terrible shame in it. “I could not.”

“But—I’d do anything! I have jewels, at home…” Dragons, she knew, loved jewels.

“My fire is gone,” said Jacques. “I expended it on the island of Arkhe. Even my breath comes less easily than it did.”

Christopher stared. “But you say all the time that you’ll burn me!”

“Yes! I lied! Presumably you’ve heard of the concept? You can call my biography The Disgraced Jaculus: The Pathetic, Fireless Little Lizard if you wish it.”

Anya’s heart had dropped as fast as it had risen, but she could not bring herself to say any more to Jacques, who crept between the salt and pepper bowls and curled himself into the smallest possible ball. He refused to look anyone in the eye.

Nighthand pushed forward another of the dessert dishes. “Here—Jacques—have some. It’s chocolate fudge cake, but I added a little onion, for bite.”

Jacques refused. Nighthand shrugged and ate a mouthful the size of the dragon. He chewed slowly. “Very fine,” he said judiciously. “Assuming you enjoy the taste of armpit.”

Ratwin looked at Christopher. “What nows-then for you, Christopher? Where to?”

“I have to go to Edem. To speak to Sarkany.”

“Christopher!” said Anya. Her former idea shifted, bent, took on new shape. “Let me come too! If Jacques can’t burn down the castle and snatch back my father, Sarkany can!”

Christopher frowned. “Sarkany?” He seemed to be testing the idea, and she fixed him with her eyes and put all her pleading and hope into them.

“If I can help her, maybe she can help me in return.” It would be better, Anya thought, than waiting for her uncle to hunt her down.

“Anya, the dragons won’t let you get near them,” said Irian. “Is that not true, Jacques? You’re the authority.”

The dragon unfurled; he raised his chin a little. “I think perhaps they would. She is a child, and she is with Christopher.”

“Would it be safe?” said Irian.

“No. There is always a risk where dragons and humans meet. You take a risk right now: I could devour you all.”

He huffed, and a lump of fish, wedged in his nostril, flew out and landed on Christopher’s cheek.