Chapter 72
It took an embarrassing amount of time to wiggle all the way to Izel so Tristan could get his hands on the man’s knife and cut free of the rope around his hands and feet.
Once the last of it fell he pulled upright and groaned, rolling his shoulders. The beating from Kiran hadn’t hurt anywhere important – more because of the Skiritai’s restraint than any skill of Tristan’s – but he’d still pick up a few bruises. Maybe he should have set aside something for the pain, considering he still had a long night ahead of him, but he balked at the idea of taking poppy. Better aches than a habit.
“That worked out surprisingly well,” Tristan told the paralyzed brigade, rubbing at his wrist. “You drank more of the water than I expected.”
He paused, gaze sweeping across the room to the prone forms of the Nineteenth – Tozi and Izel crumpled on the floor, Cressida belly down over her own poison bag and Kiran slumped against the side wall.
“Though hopefully not too much,” he muttered.
Spinster’s Milk was a paralytic but it could still be lethal. Caotl’s Spinsters, the horse-sized scorpions that produced the venom, were known to accidentally kill their prey with the sting if the creatures were too small. Cats, dogs. Children. Too much of the Milk would stop the heart instead of slowing it down and dumping vials in barrels wasn’t exactly what one would call precise dosage. Dusting himself off, the thief rose. He checked on Izel first, measuring the man’s pulse, and hummed thoughtfully. So long as it didn’t further slow, he should be fine.
Izel Coyac was the only one who’d earned any personal concern in this regard. Besides, even if one of the others went wrong he had the antidote. It was much more expensive than the Milk but the poison box he had bought off Hage still had six doses– which worked on all three of the venoms the box contained.
He flipped Tozi and Izel on their back instead of leaving them face down on the floor, then grabbed Kiran’s feet and dragged him across the room to join them. None too gently. He hesitated before moving Cressida, half-tempted to take no care in dragging her off the bag of poisons. He’d liked Cressida, he could admit to himself. He was not so much of a fool as to think that meant anything, but it made the way she had planned to sell him like merchandise stick under the fingernails.
It would have been different if the paper Angharad passed him painted Cressida Barboza as someone in trouble, like some of her fellow cabalists. Someone who needed the Ivory Library, a cornered rat. But as far as he could tell she was doing it for the payout. Still, he mastered himself and slid her off the bag gently before putting her with the others. He’d not dosed her with Milk just to see her die to some errant vial spill. The boy could be spiteful, but the Mask must be a professional.