Merren nodded pleasantly. “And you’re Kel Anjuman, the Prince’s cousin. Now that we have identified each other by our relatives, come and talk,” he said, advancing into the room and pulling out one of the chairs surrounding a long table. He gestured for Kel to sit, too.
Kel complied, studying Merren. He wore the unofficial uniform of a student at the Academie, Castellane’s university: faded black jacket, a loose white cravat at the throat, worn old shoes, and too-long hair. Up close, he could see the resemblance to Alys in Merren’s blue eyes and delicate features. A faint scent rose from his clothes, not unpleasant: something sharp and green, like the freshly cut stems of plants.
“Your sister tells me you’re the best chemist in all of Castellane,” said Kel.
Merren looked pleased. “Does she?” He ducked under the table and reemerged with a bottle of wine. He peeled away the wax stopper from the bottle before discarding it on the table. Imprinted into the wax was a pattern of grapevines: the symbol of House Uzec. It was impossible to get away from the Charter Families, Kel thought. “Would you like a drink?”
“I’m not sure,” Kel said. “Your sister also says you’re the best poisoner in all of Castellane.”
Merren looked offended. He took a swig from the bottle, coughed, and said, “I am a student of poisons. They are all chemical compounds, after all. It doesn’t mean I go about madly poisoning people—especially not my sister’s clients. She would murder me.”
This seemed true. Alys protected her business as a mother might protect a child. Besides, Merren had drunk from the bottle himself. Kel held a hand out. “All right.”
The wine was crisp as an apple and spread a pleasant warmth through Kel’s chest. Well chosen, Uzec. “I didn’t realize the Academie offered courses on poison.”
“They don’t. Technically, I am a student of chemistry and botany. Where it comes to poisons, I am self-taught.” Merren smiled as brightly as if he were discussing the study of poetry or dancing. “As a scholar once said, the only difference between a poison and a remedy is the dose. The deadliest poison is not fatal in a single grain, and milk or water can be lethal if you consume too much of it.”
Kel smiled a little. “Yet I am sure those who seek you out are not trying to purchase milk or water.”
“They want different things. Compounds for dyes, soaps, even shipbuilding. Anything, really.” Merren looked thoughtful. “I am a poison-maker because I find the components of poison interesting, not because I find death interesting.”
“What is interesting about poison?”
Merren looked down the neck of the wine bottle and said, “Before the Sundering, mages could kill with a touch, a look. Poison is the closest we have now to such power. A real poisoner can create a venom that takes years to work, or place a toxin on the pages of a book so that the reader is envenomed by each page he turns. I can poison a mirror, a pair of gloves, the hilt of a sword. And poison makes us equal. A dockworker, a noble, a king—the same dose kills them all.” He cocked his head to the side. “Who do you want to poison?”
Under the saffron light, Merren’s hair was the color of the brocade on Montfaucon’s jacket. In another time, another life, Kel might have been a student alongside someone like Merren. Might have been his friend. But a glass wall existed between Kel and all those outside a small circle who knew who he truly was. He could not breach it. And he was here on Palace business, he reminded himself, whether the Palace knew it or not.
“No one,” Kel said. “Chemistry offers more than just poisons, does it not? It offers remedies and cures—and antidotes.” He sat back in his chair. “One of the Castelguards, Dom Guion, was poisoned last week. By a lover, they say, a noblewoman of Sarthe. Now, I am not that concerned about the ill-considered affairs of Castelguards, but the emergence of a new poison, one in use by the nobles of Sarthe, a country that does not like our country—a venom that might be used against Princes—that concerns me.”
“You are worried for your cousin?”
Kel inclined his head. Worrying about Conor was his job. No, keeping Conor alive was his job, and that meant more than simply standing in front of crowds pretending to be him while half expecting an arrow to the chest. It meant thinking about who might want to harm Conor, and how.
In this sense, his job overlapped with Jolivet’s. But Jolivet’s only comment on the death of the Castelguard had been that one should avoid entanglements with Sarthian women. Meanwhile, Kel had prickled with anxiety. The idea that there was some new threat out there bothered him.
“Well,” said Merren, “it wasn’t a new poison. It was, in fact, quite an old one, often used during the time of the Empire. Cantarella, it is called. Many have thought the formula lost, but—” He waved a hand expansively—“not me, of course.”
“So you know the poison. Is there an antidote? I’d like to buy it from you, if it exists.”
Merren looked as pleased with himself as a mother cat with a litter of kittens. “It does. But I have to ask—you live at the Palace, don’t you? I would assume that the chirurgeons there could get anything they wanted. Poisons, antidotes, remedies—”
“There is one doctor, the Royal Surgeon,” said Kel. “He is a minor son of the Gasquet Charter Family. He is also an idiot.” Kel had never managed to discover where Gasquet had come by what medical knowledge he had. The Palace denizens tended to steer clear of his treatments unless they were unavoidable; Gasquet was a great fan of bleeding, and kept an unfriendly colony of leeches in his private apartments. “Not only a terrible physician, but knows nothing of what you call remedies. Says the best cure for poison is prevention, and Conor should simply avoid eating food unless someone tastes it first.”
“And the Prince doesn’t want to do that?”
Kel thought of Conor, downstairs, his lips stained with wine and cherries. “It’s not a practical solution.”
“I suppose not,” Merren said. “Besides, many poisons show their effects over time. A taster is only useful if the poison is meant to be instant.”
“Perhaps when you leave the Academie, you could replace Gasquet. He certainly needs replacing.”
Merren shook his head. “I’m against the monarchy,” he said cheerfully. “Though monarchies in general,” he added hastily, “not House Aurelian in particular. And it is only a philosophy. The only king I like the sound of is the Ragpicker King.”
Kel couldn’t help but smile. “You are against kings but for criminals, then?”
“He’s a good sort of criminal,” said Merren, serious as a child asking whether it was true that the Gods lived in the clouds. “Not like Prosper Beck.”
Kel had heard of Prosper Beck. The area just behind the docks was called the Maze: a labyrinth of flophouses, pawnshops, cheap food stalls, and crumbling warehouses that, at night, became venues for illegal boxing tournaments, duels （also illegal）， and the buying and selling of various contraband. It was a place the Vigilants themselves refused to go after dark. Kel had always assumed the denizens of the Maze answered to the Ragpicker King, but in the past few months he had heard the name Prosper Beck whispered about; rumor held that someone new was controlling the Maze.