Maggot spooned her stew around the bowl, sucking her lip. “It’s funny, but I was thinking … when you take a person out of the world, you don’t just take them, do you? You take everything they were, too.” The little girl squinted at Bladesinger. “Do you ever think about that? When you kill someone in the arena?”
“No,” the woman said. “That way lies madness.”
“What do you think about, then?” Maggot asked, taking another bite.
“I think better them than me,” Bladesinger replied.
The little girl turned to Mia, talking with her mouth full. “What about you, Crow? Do you think about the things you’re taking away?”
Mia parted her lips, but found no words to speak.
Truth was, she did think about those she’d ended. More and more, it seemed. The Luminatii she’d killed at the Mountain, those she could justify easily. But everyone after that? The senator’s son and magistratii she’d unwittingly murdered in Scaeva’s employ? Those men in the Pit at the Hanging Gardens? The gladiatii she’d killed in the arena? In some way, they all paved the way for her to be here, just a few weeks from the consul’s and the cardinal’s throats. But did that truly vindicate her?
“I think the end justifies the means,” she replied. “As long as the end isn’t mine.”
“Do you truly believe that?”
“I have to.”
“Well,” Maggot smiled sadly. “Better you than me.”
Fang whined, licked at Mia’s fingers with his flat, pink tongue.
“I’m sorry, boy,” she said, kneeling to scruff the dog’s chin. “You already ate it all. Surprised you’ve got room for more.”
The mastiff whined again, deeper this time, licking at his chops. He snuffled Mia’s hand, walking in a small circle with his stubby tail between his legs. Sitting on his haunches, he made a hacking noise, as if from a hairball. And looking at Mia with his big brown eyes, the dog coughed a spray of bright red blood all over the floor.
“Maw’s teeth,” Mia cursed, flinching away.
Maggot’s bowl of stew fell from her hand, spattered over the stone.
“Crow…”
Mia looked up, saw a trickle of blood spill from the girl’s lips.
“I don’t feel w-well…,” she whispered.
“O, shit,” Mia breathed.
Maggot slipped down off the slab, coughed a mouthful of blood. Mia rushed to her side, caught her before she fell. She looked to Bladesinger, the woman wiping at her lips and bringing her knuckles away red. As she watched, the woman clutched her belly and coughed a spatter of blood onto the stone.
Mia looked at Fang, curled up in a puddle of gore.
The empty bowl the dog had eaten her dinner from …
“O, shit…”
Poison …
“Help me!” she roared. “Help!”
She heard cries of pain from the verandah, bewildered curses, hacking coughs. Clutching Maggot in her arms, Mia staggered to the infirmary door and saw every gladiatii in the collegium on their knees or on their backs, mouths and hands smeared with blood, bowls of stew spilled over the tables and floor. Maggot moaned, coughed another mouthful of blood onto Mia’s chest. A gobsmacked Finger was staring at the carnage, several guards standing around dumbfounded.
“Don’t just stand there, fucking help me!” Mia roared.
Finger saw Maggot in Mia’s arms, hobbled to her side. Somewhere in the house, someone began clanging the alarm. Between the pair of them, Mia and Finger carried Maggot back into the infirmary, laid her on a slab. Bladesinger had collapsed, blood leaking from her mouth. Mia looked about the room, mind racing. Kneeling by Maggot’s bowl, she dipped her finger into the stew, tasted and spat. Beneath the seasoning, she could sense a bitterness, a metallic tang. Her mind racing, all the knowledge that had made her Spiderkiller’s favored student spinning in her memory, repeating the four principles of venomcraft to herself, over and over.
Delivery: Ingested.
Efficacy: Lethal.
Celerity: Five minutes or less.
Locality: Stomach and intestines.
Mia’s eyes widened, the answer coming to her in a flash.
“It’s Elegy,” she said, turning to Finger.
“Are you—”
“Yes, I’m fucking sure. Do you have cow’s milk in the kitchen? Or cream?”
“… I’ve goat’s milk for the dona’s tea.”
“Set it boiling. All of it. Now.”
“But I—”
“Now, Finger!”
The cook hobbled off, and Mia started sorting through Maggot’s jars and phials. Elegy was a deadly poison, relatively difficult to concoct unless you knew what you were about. But it was one of the first toxins Mercurio had taught her how to brew, and while the antidote wasn’t well known, it was easy enough for a Blade of Our Lady of Blessed Murder to fix. Grateful the dona had allowed Maggot to restock, Mia ransacked the shelves, grabbing the ingredients she needed.
Brightweed. Lopsome. Milkthistl—
“Four Daughters…”
Mia turned and saw Dona Leona in her nightshift, standing by the infirmary door. Magistrae stood beside her, horror on her face as the alarm continued to ring.
“What in the Everseeing’s name…,” Leona breathed.
“Poison,” Mia said. “Elegy, mixed with their evemeal. We don’t have much time. I can’t find the fucking silver nitrate … Do you have a mirror?”
The dona’s face was fixed on Maggot’s, watching the blood leaking from her lips.
“Leona!” Mia barked. “Do you have a looking glass?”
The woman blinked, focused on Mia. “A-aye.”
“Bring it to the kitchen. Now!” She turned to the guards hovering beside their mistress. “You, carry Maggot, you two bring Bladesinger. Hurry!”
“Do as she says!” Leona barked.
Mia gathered her armful of phials and jars, rushed across the yard with the guards in tow while Leona dashed up to her room. She could hear Maggot coughing again, Bladesinger groaning. The verandah looked like a war zone, gladiatii laid out in pools of blood. Wavewaker was facedown, Bryn leaning on a table, thick ribbons of gore and mucus spilling from her lips, Sidonius on his back. Executus stood amid the carnage, wide-eyed and horrified.
“Arkades, turn Sidonius on his side,” Mia shouted, rushing past. “Roll everyone off their backs or they’ll drown in their own blood!”
In the kitchen, Finger was leaning over a large pot, stirring the steaming milk inside. Mia pushed him out of the way, began adding her ingredients, measuring carefully despite her haste. She had no seconds to waste—every moment would drag Maggot and the others closer to death. But as always, the passenger in her shadow kept her nerves like steel, her hands steady. First rule of venomcraft: a poorly mixed antidote was as bad as no antidote at all.
The guards placed Maggot on the kitchen bench behind her. The girl was ghastly pale, moaning and bringing up another gout of blood.
“Keep her throat clear, she needs to breathe!”
Sweat in her eyes. Pulse hammering under her skin. Maggot coughed again, a bubble of bright red popping at her lips.
“Maggot, you keep breathing, you hear me?”
Leona arrived with a large oval looking glass from her bedroom wall.
“Will this d—”