Jerrod, smirking, sipped his tea. The mask made it difficult to tell what he was thinking, but he seemed to be looking over the rim of the cup at Merren. There was something curious in his eyes—almost admiring.
Kel said, “Were you not expecting to see me again because you assumed I’d died in that alley?”
“I learned soon enough that you hadn’t,” said Jerrod. “Word gets around. I’m glad to see you looking better, Anjuman. It wasn’t anything against you personally.”
“So, now you do know who I am,” said Kel.
Jerrod inclined his head. “You’re the Prince’s cousin, who had the misfortune to look a bit like him and borrow his cloak on your night out in Castellane.” He glanced at Merren. “In fact, we followed you from Asper’s flat to the Key. We wondered what the Prince of Castellane was doing visiting a dank building in the Student Quarter.”
“It isn’t dank,” Merren said indignantly.
“But now I’m wondering what the Prince’s cousin was doing visiting a dank flat in the Student Quarter. You do know your friend here”—he gestured at Merren—“has been spotted going in and out of the Black Mansion? That he seems to run errands for the Ragpicker King?”
“I can see how that might trouble you,” Kel said, rolling his eyes. “Proximity to crime, I mean.”
“I am not a cousin of House Aurelian,” Jerrod pointed out. “Whereas you are, yet you seem to favor the more . . . seedy sides of Castellane.”
“Some of us are drawn to sin,” Kel said darkly, and noted Merren shooting him a glare. “And some of us are stupid enough to try to kill the Crown Prince of Castellane in an alley.”
Jerrod shook his head so violently he dislodged his hood. It fell back, uncovering a head of tousled, brown hair. “We weren’t trying to kill anyone. It was only a matter of money owed. And the money is still owed, by the way.”
“I thought we could discuss the matter,” Kel said, as a waiter carrying a tray approached their table. “Look, I’ve bought you dinner. A show of good faith.”
Jerrod’s eyebrows went up just as a server arrived at their table carrying a steaming tray. Two copper bowls were set down in front of them, followed by small ladles, ornately enameled with flowers and dragons. Soup was served from a vast pitcher of noodles and broth, and garnished with the traditional shavings of ginger, garlic and scallion, topped off with a rice cake and a dash of spiced oil.
Kel picked up his ladle and dug in. There was an art, in his opinion, to consuming noodle soup: One needed to get the right blend of broth, meat, and garnish into each mouthful. He glanced at Jerrod, who had not yet taken a bite. Finally Jerrod shrugged, as if to say, Well, we’re eating out of the same pitcher, what’s the harm? He picked up his ladle.
“I’d like to meet with Beck,” Kel said. “Discuss this with him.”
Jerrod swallowed his soup, then chuckled. “I don’t have to ask, because Beck would never agree. He doesn’t meet. Not with anyone.” He cast a sideways glance at Merren. “Well. Maybe he’d meet with you, if you were interested in crossing sides. Working for Beck. He likes attractive people.”
Merren raised an eyebrow.
“Beck’s being awfully reckless,” Kel said. “Trying to start a war with the Palace. What does he have to back up his threats besides a pack of criminals from the Maze?”
“He’s got more than that,” Jerrod said, and frowned, passing a hand across his face. He was starting to sweat. Kel could feel it, too, the first prickles of heat along his own skin.
“Well, what he has had better be an army and a navy, because that’s what Conor has,” said Kel.
Jerrod tapped the fingers of his free hand on the table. He had large, square hands, with bitten fingernails. “Prosper Beck has a good reason for doing what he does, and a better knowledge of his own position than you do.”
“I want to talk to Beck,” said Kel, setting his ladle down. There was a faint buzzing in his ears. “In person.”
“And I said you can’t.” Jerrod set down his ladle. He looked exasperated, and . . . in pain? Merren looked at him with a sudden puzzlement, followed by a shocked realization. “Besides. Why should I do you any favors?”
“Because I poisoned you,” said Kel. “The soup. Is poisoned.”
The ladle fell from Jerrod’s hand. “You what? But we shared the soup—”
“I know,” Kel said. “I poisoned myself, too.”
Both Merren and Jerrod looked equally stunned. “You what?” Jerrod demanded.
“I poisoned myself, too,” repeated Kel. “I told the chefs it was a spice I’d brought from home, asked them to add it to the soup. Not their fault. They didn’t know.” His stomach cramped, sending a bolt of pain through his abdomen. “Merren didn’t know, either. My fault—nobody else’s.”
“Kel.” Merren was white about the mouth. “Is it cantarella?”
Kel nodded. His mouth felt dry as sand.
“Ten minutes.” Merren’s voice was flat with fear. “You have about ten minutes before it’s too late.”
“Anjuman—” Jerrod gripped the edge of the table, fingers whitening. With an effort, he said, “If you poisoned yourself, there’s an antidote. If there’s an antidote, you have it with you.” He started to rise. “Give it to me or I’ll cut your fucking head off—”
“The more you move around, the faster the poison spreads through your system,” said Merren, almost automatically.
“Anjuman, you bastard,” Jerrod breathed, sitting back down. The collar of his shirt was dark with sweat. Kel could feel the same fever-sweat prickling his own spine, the back of his neck. There was a dull, metallic taste on his tongue. “You’re insane.”
“I can’t disagree with that,” Merren muttered.
“What,” Jerrod said, with tight control, “do you want, Anjuman?”
“A promise that you’ll set up a meeting for me with Prosper Beck.”
The vein in Jerrod’s neck was throbbing. “I can’t promise that. Beck might refuse.”
“It’s your job to convince him not to refuse. Not if you want the antidote.”
Jerrod looked at him; when he spoke, he sounded as if he were being slowly strangled. “Every minute you delay, you’re risking your own life. Why not take the antidote yourself? Make me beg for it?”
Kel didn’t feel like grinning, but he did it anyway. “You need to see how far I’ll go.” His hands were burning, his tongue numb. “That I’ll die for this.”
Jerrod’s face was pinched around the mask. He said, “You really would?”
Merren leaned across the table, white-faced. “He’s willing to die,” he said. “He might even want to. For Aigon’s sake, just agree.”
Jerrod looked at Merren. “All right,” he said, abruptly. “I’ll get you a meeting with Beck.”
His hand shaking, Kel drew one of the two phials of antidote Merren had given him out of his shirt pocket. Began to twist off the top. His throat was tightening. Soon he wouldn’t be able to swallow at all. He tipped the open phial of antidote down his throat—sweet, licorice, the taste of pastisson—and flipped the second across the table to Jerrod.