Morning brought the Prince of Pentos no relief. Messengers sent into the city on the tracks of Magisters who had left in haste brought comfortless tidings—symptoms similar to those Prince Targaryen had, appeared overnight in another dozen people. Profuse vomiting, in some even with clots of blood, heat and fever mowed down Pentoshi rulers indiscriminately: equally foul news came about the condition of Ernaris and Gonlaris, though they did not agree in their preferences either in life or in politics, and even Gellio, always famous for excellent health, suffered from the same ailment.
All Pentos seemed to freeze in anxious expectation; the most fearful citizens tried to leave the city, fearing an epidemic, but Kallio ordered all gates closed, the guard strengthened and only messengers with his gilded tokens allowed through, so as not to allow the spread of infection if the ill-fated feast served as its beginning. Listening to his own condition, Karlaris spent the whole night in the company of a household healer in anxious expectation of retching or the onset of fever, but the mysterious ailment seemed to have passed him by.
Having slept some four hours, he emerged from his chambers just as tired, stale, and gloomy, so much so that household slaves fearfully huddled against the walls, though Karlaris never showed cruelty to them and was strict only to the necessary measure. After noon he managed to persuade himself to eat a few rusks with olive oil, vegetables and fruits plucked before his eyes and wash them down with cold water—fearing possible poisoning, he dared not do more.
"Did anyone leave the guest chambers?" he inquired of the housekeeper respectfully awaiting the end of his meal.
"Yes, master," answered the elderly woman; once she was his mother's slave, to which scars from a collar testified, and helped raise the future Prince. In Kallio's family, it was customary to free wet nurses for worthy service if the child raised by them survived; Karlaris felt something like filial gratitude to old Mara, and only to her firm hand could he entrust his native home when his parents were gone, and he himself turned out too busy with politics and trade to personally look after it.
"Who exactly?"
"The Grey Knight, master. He went to the kitchen, fried bread, eggs, took vegetables and boiling water, and returned to the chambers."
"Is that so..."
Possibly, Ser Dennis the Grey went out for breakfast for himself; in any case, a visit of courtesy should be paid and the Prince's health inquired after. Irritably tugging at his red beard, Kallio swore and nearly cursed the day when the Westerosi Prince landed in the gardens of the Prince's Palace; so many problems!.. On the other hand, were it not for him, the Myrish party would surely have found another pretext for a sacrifice with Kallio's direct participation.
Reflecting thus, the Prince found himself before a latticed wooden door leading to the rooms of the Westerosi guests; the heavy curtain behind it was drawn and let through neither light nor sound. Hesitating a little, Karlaris snorted and knocked. A few moments later muffled steps were heard, the curtain was thrown back and on the threshold appeared the grey-haired sworn shield.
"Most Excellent Prince," he greeted the host, and Kallio noticed for the first time that the Prince's servant speaks Pentoshi somehow too directly, diligently pronouncing all syllables, even those which Pentoshi themselves swallowed or merged with neighboring ones.
"I came to inquire about Prince Aegon's health."
"Of course. Certainly. I ask you in."
To the Prince's considerable surprise, the knight stepped aside, letting him inside. Trying to step as softly and quietly as possible so as not to disturb the sick man, Karlaris passed into a large hall, on the walls of which flaunted frescoes depicting a tropical hunt in the jungles of Sothoryos. One of the windows was thrown wide open and cool air (the first sign that autumn is slowly coming into its own) stirred thin, translucent golden curtains. At the opposite end of the room tall bookcases were arranged, stuffed with treatises and scrolls, and beside them stood a table at which Aegon Targaryen sat calmly and briskly copied something.
"I hope the Most Excellent Prince will forgive me if I greet him sitting," the sick man turned to him, and a slight smile of a man who achieved his goal played on his lips.
"Y-yes..." nodded Kallio, shocked. "My friend... But... How are you?"
"Better already, thank you."
Contrary to his own words, his appearance was still sickly; the skin remained pale, the face seemed haggard, and the silver of his hair had dulled. The Westerosi was practically undressed—short breeches to mid-calf did not hide that the right leg was withered and slightly shorter than the left; a light Pentoshi robe was thrown over, contrary to custom not caught by anything at the belt.
"I suppose you want to hear about the events that happened yesterday evening," Aegon said semi-affirmatively and, not waiting for the interlocutor's answer, asked the question himself: "Have you sent to the city yet?"
"Y-yes. No fewer than a dozen Magisters are ill. Very different people..."
"And that is excellent," the Prince nodded with satisfaction.
"Excellent?! Do you even understand what happened? Do you remember telling me you were poisoned?"
"I remember distinctly."
"Then..."
"What was the matter? Mussels. And the wine sauce for them."
"What?" asked Kallio dully. "You were poisoned by... mussels?"
"And a sauce based on red wine. If you remember, I told you that Dennis and I studied medicine together in the Citadel of Oldtown. There is nothing more natural than poisoning by gifts of the sea, especially if served with the right dressing," the dragon Prince grinned bloodthirstily. "Or rather, in our case, the wrong one."
"But I thought someone of the Magisters poisoned you!"
"There you see!" exclaimed Aegon triumphantly. "You thought so! And therefore you called a healer, and your reaction was so quick and natural only because you truly considered someone of your brethren a poisoner."
"I thought you were dying..."
"What say you, Dennis? Was I dying?" the Westerosi inquired of his knight.
"The threat was quite palpable," remarked the man tactfully. "Especially if one does not know the cause."
"There you see, Prince, everything was real. What you could mistake for blood was nothing other than half-digested red sauce, forgive me for such details."
"If it truly was dangerous, then... Other Magisters might not survive?"
"I do not think they have such useless healers," the Prince shrugged and drank water from a glass goblet. "The consequences of poisoning can be neutralized quickly enough. I assure you, nothing threatens the majority of your friends."
"Then what did you want to achieve by this? Why did you do it?"
The smile, not leaving the Targaryen's face, became conspiratorial.
"To protect the interests of the Seven Kingdoms, of course. Fortunately for you, your and our interests coincide, so I won you a little time."
"And what do you propose I do?!" Kallio felt indignation beginning to choke him. "Do you even understand that you burst in with your methods like... like a dragon into a shepherd village! If you want to poison, it must be done more subtly, it must be done for sure! What have you achieved? Won me a couple of days while Magisters puke? What do you propose I do in this time? Organize a coup? Become a usurper, proclaim myself King?! The citizens will tear me to pieces!"
"Calm yourself, my friend," Aegon raised hands placatingly. "Do not underestimate the power of bad mussels and trashy sauce."
Karlaris wanted to object to this that no one poisons Magisters with mussels, when suddenly a cautious knock rang out. The sworn shield glided to the door, behind which Mara turned out to be.
"Forgive me, my master," she bowed before Kallio. "A messenger arrived from the city."
"Well! What happened?"
"Magister Lorrio Lenaris passed away. The healer said his neck swelled and blocked his throat. He suffocated."
"Oh, gods..." was all Kallio could squeeze out of himself.
"He seems to be your relative?" inquired Aegon sympathetically.
"My cousin's husband. Tyra and I were never particularly close, and with Lorrio... We did not always agree in views."
"And yet he sent us drawings."
"Because I bought them from him," chuckled Kallio crookedly. "You transfer your Westerosi customs to us, and that is incorrect. Often even blood brothers do not always help each other, what to speak of cousins' husbands."
"Is that why he voted for your death?" inquired the Prince innocently.
And here cold sweat broke out on Karlaris due to a sudden guess:
"So this is your handiwork?!"
"No, not mine," answered the Targaryen calmly, confidently withstanding the Prince's gaze. "Neither I nor Dennis put or poured anything into his food or drink. Magister Lenaris is to blame for his own death. One must always watch what and how one eats. Especially regarding gifts of the sea—they are extremely treacherous. You know, Prince, one can live all life by the sea, but not taste fish, because precisely for you it is the most terrible poison."
"Natural poison?" Kallio began to guess. "But of course, Lorrio never ate mussels, or oysters, or crab meat, and fish—only river fish. But how did you manage to convince him to swallow them?"
"Oh, gods, my friend!" rolled his eyes Aegon. "As if you yourself do not know what a drunk man is capable of! He might not keep track of his own bladder, what to speak of the contents of a plate. Especially if everyone around him eats and praises."
Kallio, slowly recovering from initial surprise, sat on a chair with armrests that turned up so opportunely; in his head, the canvas of Pentoshi politics ripped and taken apart into threads began to weave together again, but this time with new patterns. The rotten thread needed replacement—citizens must choose a new Magister in Lorrio's place, and a friendly candidate must be offered them; it seems Gessio Gonlaris had a nephew who also traded with Westeros, it seems he sailed to the western shores of the neighboring continent himself. Yes, perhaps he will be a suitable replacement if his election can be achieved.
"Have you thought what to do if the truth surfaces?" inquired the Prince in a businesslike tone already.
"One of our Maesters wrote that truth always exists, and regardless of our desire to hide it comes out," remarked the Prince philosophically, returning to his books. "Tell me, Prince, to what end hide the truth? In what does it consist? In that guests were poisoned by shellfish? That happens if they lived in too warm water, or maybe they were simply kept too long on the counter. I would advise finding the fisherman who sold your cook spoiled goods. And flog the cook, since he cannot distinguish good mussels from bad. Someone got drunk and ate something wrong? In a Free City a free man, especially a Magister, is his own master, if he cannot watch over himself—in that is only his fault, and no one else's. We paid for our mistake in full. And as for someone's death... Sometimes death is simply death, is it not? You never know around which corner the Stranger waits for you. Searching for secret meanings is a useless business, I report to you, believe me, I experienced this on my own hide while studying in the Citadel. Sometimes tragic accidents simply happen, and nothing can be done about it."
When the Targaryen finished speaking, silence reigned in the hall, broken only by the rustle of curtains and the scratching of a quill on paper. Mara remained standing in the doorway—the Prince did not doubt her loyalty; Ser Dennis, crossing his legs, sprawled comfortably on the sofa, but his whole posture spoke of a threat lurking in him and readiness to jump up immediately with sword drawn. In the Westerosi's words and actions there was sense, of course: somewhat too simple, obvious, artless, in a word, Westerosi, not Pentoshi, but it was there. The situation, of course, is unpleasant, but nothing irreparable, in essence, happened. In a couple of days, while Magisters come to their senses, Karlaris will be able to pay a couple of visits to strengthen his own party, and besides, condolences must be expressed to the sister (they are relatives after all) and work with Gonlaris's nephew begun. And yet Kallio could not get rid of the unpleasant feeling that he was duped somewhere, deceived, but at the same time convinced that it was profitable for him.
Scratching his beard, he asked as if by chance:
"So how long, say you, will your recovery take?"
The Targaryen betrayed his attitude to the provocative question by nothing and continued to copy his folio; surely he knew how his plan would end.
"I think in a couple of days I shall be able to sit in the saddle. I understand, Most Excellent Prince, that Pentos has no time for us now, internal affairs are no less important than external ones. Tomorrow I shall finish with work and return your books to the library, another day, I think, will go to packing, and then we shall have no reasons to abuse your cordiality and hospitality. The healing springs of Andalos should help me return to normal."
Karlaris rose from the chair, smoothed his chocolate-gold clothes, and spoke unexpectedly for himself quite sincerely, as if there were no vexation and anger at the rashly acting youth:
"If there is need in this, remain in this house as long as required. You are still my guests, and I still want to consider you my friends. That you turned out involved in our internal affairs..."
"We are grateful to you, my friend, but all is already decided," answered the Prince softly, but adamantly and unexpectedly declaimed: "Luck will incline to the side of him who came to the battlefield in time, but victory will arrive on the side of him who left it in time."
"Beautiful phrase," paid tribute Kallio. "Who said that?"
"My namesake, Aegon Anogarion in his Art of Victory. From these words Tey sekar the Victorious derived one of his stratagems."
"So I cannot hold you even under the pretext of care for your health?" spoke the Prince with sadness.
Aegon Targaryen turned his whole body to Kallio, and he felt an anxious chill run down his back under layers of clothes. The Prince smiled no longer, and green flame of one of the hells danced in his eyes.
"Vermithor has not dined yet, my friend. Could you not order a couple of bulls brought to him?"
Kallio swallowed with effort a lump suddenly formed in his throat, nodded and went out. Only at a respectful distance from the guest chambers did he allow himself to curse. All these months he called Prince Aegon a Westerosi to himself, but now the man reminded that precisely Targaryens, and not Volantenes or Lyseni are the true heirs of Old Valyria, reigning by right of blood and by right of fire.
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