Page 15 of Hemlock & Silver
I backed out of the shrine. Javier didn’t say anything. I wondered if he’d heard me praying, and if so, what he thought of it, but I didn’t ask, and unlike Aaron, he really was the strong, silent type. I’d heard perhaps a dozen words out of him in the last two days.
My knees were unhappy after I stood up, and I leaned against the wall, trying not to rub them too obviously, while Javier waited.“You don’t have to check every single room I go into,” I said, still annoyed. “I swear I’m not colluding with anyone.”
He actually looked startled. “Ah… Mistress Anja… we’re here for your protection.”
“Sure you are.”
Javier cleared his throat and said, very carefully, “The king is concerned that if your mission becomes widely known, those responsible might seek to prevent you from carrying it out.”
I stared at him. “Wait…really?”
“If someone is conspiring to poison the king’s daughter, you can only be seen as a threat.” His voice was deep and faintly hoarse, as if rusty with disuse.
“But…” My mouth felt suddenly dry. “But… it probably isn’t even poison!”
His shrug was apologetic, but still a shrug.
I felt as if I’d been struck with a board. It hadn’t even occurred to me that I might be in danger from anything except the king’s displeasure. That was so large a thought that I couldn’t quite see around it. It squatted in the middle of my head like a piece of furniture too heavy to move. I poked at it from different angles, but it didn’t go away.
Those responsible might seek to prevent you from carrying it out.
No. Surely I’d misunderstood. “Are you actually saying that someone might try tokillme?”
He grunted, then apparently decided that wasn’t enough, and added, “Possibly.”
It was as if the world had picked itself up, turned ninety degrees, and dropped back down over me. Everything had shifted and nothing had changed. I stared up the steps to the sanctuary as if assassins might be hiding under every step.
At the top of the steps, I froze. Were all these pilgrims who they seemed to be? Was that woman who prostrated herself in front of the altar hiding a weapon? Was that old man as frail as he looked, or was he trying to divert suspicion?
Javier’s hand landed on my shoulder. He waited politely while I tried to pretend that I hadn’t yelped and jumped sideways, then said, “I do not think there is much cause for concern now. The danger will not truly begin until we are traveling.”
Did that make me feel better? I wasn’t sure. I took a step, then another. My guard was behind me. I wasn’t in danger yet. I would be in danger later, but not yet.
Very well. I’d deal withlaterwhen it arrived.
We took a more direct route home, passing through several wide plazas, including the Plaza of the Quail’s Fountain, which features an enormous bronze quail with water trickling out of its topknot. It’s not good art. The quail has big goggling eyes, and the water runs down its back and over its tail and, by an unfortunate coincidence, makes it look as if the bird is peeing endlessly on the floor. You’d think that people would laugh when they saw it, but in fact, the first reaction is usually fascinated horror.
Over the years, the plaza has become home to a rather seedy open-air market. My theory is that if the residents complained enough to get it shut down, they’d be stuck looking at the fountain again. My guard and I passed by blankets covered in old books, much-mended pans, and jewelry of questionable authenticity and even more questionable provenance. Cobblers selling cheap sandals rubbed jowls with pawnbrokers and merchants hawking spices and soup mixes that were at least half sawdust.
You’d think that being among so many strangers would be nerve-wracking now that I had to worry one would kill me, but in fact, it was the opposite. I knew this place. I had been here a thousand times. It was normal and familiar, and I understood it, the way I would never quite understand assassins and kings.
And then, of course, there were the patent medicine people, selling cures and antidotes, hope and lies. The edge of a dozen pitches assailed my ears as we threaded our way through the stalls.
“Infallible remedy for…”
“… a recipe handed down from the time of the ancients…”
“… powdered from the horn of…”
“Just a sprinkle of this powder on a mad dog’s bite…”
Indignation chased away fear. My hands had curled into fists by the time we were out of earshot of that last one. It wasn’t so much the man’s patter as the look on the faces of the crowd, the desperation and the hope. “I suppose if I broke that man’s kneecaps, you’d have to arrest me,” I muttered to Javier.
He snorted, which was the first expression I’d seen from him that wasn’t apology or mild surprise. “Not effective, I take it?”
“There’s no antidote for a mad dog’s bite.”
“Ah.” We passed a half dozen gates, then he asked, “So what would you do if you were bitten?”
