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“Anton Petrov,” she said, and told the story quickly: that he had been her patient, that he had slipped the stone inside her bag, that she feared he was dead. That she had suspected he had known he was going to die.
“Anton Petrov,” he said, with some amusement. “I would almost think you were mocking me with a tale, but I can tell a liar.” He seemed to note her puzzled look, and smiled. “Petrov,” he said, “in the language of Nyenschantz, means ‘stone.’ ”
“I think,” Lin said slowly, “that he believed himself to be its guardian, in some way.” She shook her head. “I do not know why you have told me all this,” she said. “You want the stone. I would have given it to you the moment you asked. I will give it to you now.”
“You would do that?” The Ragpicker King’s eyes were pins of green ice, holding her in place. “So easily?”
“I am not a fool,” Lin said.
Something changed then in his face; he was up on his feet before she could say another word. “Keep the brooch. And come with me,” he said, and stalked out of the room.
Lin had to hurry to keep up with his long stride. They madetheir way through another series of corridors, these tiled in blue, black, and silver, reminiscent of a night sky. She was relieved that they did not again pass through to the grand chamber with its dark interior river.
They reached a half-open door through which a pale smoke drifted. There was an acrid tang to it, like the scent of burning leaves. The Ragpicker King stiff-armed the door open and gestured for Lin to enter the room ahead of him.
Inside, to Lin’s surprise, was a laboratory. It was not large, but it was cluttered. A large polished wood worktable was covered with the instruments of science: phials of multicolored liquids, bronze alembics (Lin had seen such things before in the market, where perfumers showed off the distillation of rose petals into attar), tangles of copper and glass tubing, and a mortar and pestle, still filled with half-pulverized dried leaves. An athanor smoldered away in the corner, releasing a pleasant heat.
A number of tall wooden stools surrounded the central table. Seated upon one of them, long legs dangling, was a young man with curling blond hair, in dark clothes like a student’s. He was scribbling away with great haste in a notebook propped on his lap.
Lin felt a stab of longing. In contrast, her workshop in the kitchen of the Women’s House seemed makeshift and ineffectual. What she could do with the equipment here, the compounds and cataplasms that would be at her fingertips—
Without looking up, the young man pointed at a retort distilling a pale-green liquid into a large glass vessel. “I’ve managed to dilute theAtropa belladonna,” he said, “but the concern remains that, for the solution to work, the key ingredient must be present in an amount that would surely prove fatal.”
“Belladonna,” said Lin. “Isn’t that deadly nightshade?”
The young man looked up. He was irrationally pretty, with delicate features and dark-blue eyes. He blinked for a moment at Lin before smiling pleasantly, as if she were someone whose visit he had been anticipating.
“It is, yes,” he said. “I suppose I’m used to using the more scientific name. The Academie insists on it.” He set his notebook down on the table. “I’m Merren,” he added. “Merren Asper.”
Asper,Lin wondered. Like Alys Asper, who owned the Caravel? She had provided physical examinations to a number of the courtesans there; Alys made sure they stayed healthy.
“This is Lin Caster, an Askar physician,” said the Ragpicker King. He had moved behind Merren, all long dark limbs in motion, like a shadow cast at noon. He had opened a drawer and was rummaging around in it.
Merren brightened. “The Ashkar are master herbalists,” he said. “You must have a laboratory like this in the Sault—” he gestured around the room—“or more than one, I suppose.”
“There is one,” Lin said. “Though I am not allowed to use it.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m a woman,” said Lin, and noticed the Ragpicker King glance over at her, briefly.
“Are you a good physician?” Merren asked, looking at her earnestly.
Youarethe best in the Sault.She pushed the intrusive thought of the Prince away and said, “Yes.”
“Then that’s stupid.” Merren picked up his notebook. He did not seem curious, Lin noted, as to why Andreyen had brought her into what was clearly his workshop; nor did he seem to wonder why the Ragpicker King was muttering to himself as he went through a drawer of crumpled papers. Seeming to locate the one he wanted at last, Andreyen gestured for Lin to join him as he spread the paper out, smoothing it across an uncluttered section of the worktable.
“Look at this,” he said as Lin joined him. “Do you recognize anything familiar about these drawings?”
Lin leaned in closer, though not to the Ragpicker King. He still frightened her, even in this incongruous setting. On the paper were a series of diagrams, the words written in Callatian, the language of the Empire. Her knowledge of it was limited to medical terms, butit did not matter: The drawings were what leaped out at her. They were sketches of a stone nearly identical to the one Petrov had given her—down to the swirl of smoke within it forming suggestions ofgematrywords and numbers.
She touched the paper lightly. “Is this from before the Sundering?”
“It is a copy of a few pages from a very old book. The works of the scholar Qasmuna.”
Lin shook her head; she didn’t recognize the name.
“She wrote them just after the great wars,” said the Ragpicker King. “She had seen magic leave the world and sought a way to bring it back. She believed that if these vessels of power could be reawakened, magic could be done again.”
