The Basilisk Throne by Greg Keyes

Author:Greg Keyes
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags:  
Publisher: Titan

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THEY WALKED through the gardens of Roselant and onward to open fields and pleasant, rolling hills buttered yellow by blooming lion’s teeth. Plesance chattered constantly, regaling her with colorful character assassinations of at least half of the household. Now and then Margot urged her to moderation, but her efforts seemed half-hearted.

They were accompanied by two serving girls of about fourteen, who bore heavy packs. The group arrived at the top of a hill, and Chrysanthe was pleasantly surprised to behold the sea below them.

“This is a good spot,” Margot said. “Beneath that apple tree.”

The serving girls went to the tree and began laying out a large blanket, then the makings of a picnic.

“It’s a lovely view,” Chrysanthe said.

“It is,” Plesance said. “There are no baboons or savages or crocodiles in it, as you may be used to, but it is nice enough.” Chrysanthe put on a false smile, and watched as the girls laid out the meal, parts of which she did not recognize.

“My room is quite nice,” she said, as the three of them settled on the blanket. “I hope no one was troubled to move from it.”

“Oh, it was empty,” Plesance said. “For some months now.” Her grin became more wicked. “That is a scandal all of its own.”

“Plesance,” Margot sighed.

“Well, she asked,” Plesance said. “Why should I hold back from telling?”

Margot’s only answer was a little shrug.

“Try this,” Plesance said, indicating a sort of grayish loaf. She cut a bit with a small knife; it quivered visibly before she spread it on a slice of bread. Chrysanthe accepted the proffering and took a little bite. Gelatinous and cold, it tasted like fish.

“Aspilic of eel,” Plesance said.

“Interesting,” Chrysanthe replied, wondering why on earth someone would concoct something with such an utter lack of seasoning.

“Her name was Sandrine d’Ospios,” Plesance said. “The woman who last inhabited that little chamber pot you’re staying in. A spinster of some twenty-four years, or so we thought. She was originally employed as a nurse for the swarm of little brats you’ve already had the misfortune to meet.”

Plesance took a small goblet of amber fluid from one of the servant girls as the other handed one to Chrysanthe. The wine in it had a sweet, flowery taste.

Plesance made a face. “This is from our own grapes,” she said, looking sharply at the girl. “Didn’t I ask for the Vin Clere?”

“There was none to be found, Danesele,” the girl said.

“Well, that’s vexing.”

“I think it’s quite good,” Chrysanthe said.

Plesance raised an eyebrow.

“They make much wine, in the tropics?” she asked.

“No,” Chrysanthe replied. “Grapes do not grow well there. What wine we have is imported.”

“Hence your opinion,” Plesance said. She took a sip and made a face. “But it will do.” She crinkled her brow. “Whatever do you drink? Besides whatever ‘wine’ you import?”

“Well,” Chrysanthe said, trying to stay pleasant, “There is rum, of course, usually mixed with the juice of various fruits, and there is injirab, made from ginger.”

“Oh dear,” Plesance said. “How exotic.” She brushed at her nose as if a fly were there, although Chrysanthe did not see anything.

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