The Final Strife

I find poisons to be a rewarding course of study. The silent nature of their effects and the subtlety of the concoctions require a keen eye and a keener mind. Generally, I prefer the term medicine to poison. Sometimes death is the only treatment that should be prescribed.

—The journal of the Warden of Crime

Anoor’s absence from her chambers left a gaping wound of silence. Sylah could hardly bear it. She busied herself with plans for the stealth trial, turning her spying to the officers who rotated shifts at the tower. She watched who drank coffee and who drank tea. She’d even caught one brewing verd leaves and wondered if her affliction echoed her own.

Though the seizures in her muscles had lessened over time, Sylah was glad for the break in training. She hadn’t successfully taught a lesson without experiencing pain of some sort.

Once Sylah knew the officers on sight and had recorded all of their meals and food preferences, she made ready to go to the Dredge. She knew she’d need slabs, so she searched Anoor’s chambers for as many as she could scrounge together. Unfortunately, it looked like Anoor had been giving them away too, as her purse came out as dry as a Duster’s.

“What are you doing?” Gorn stood immovable in the doorframe of the bedroom. Like Sylah, Gorn was gray with worry with Anoor still in the jail.

Sylah dropped the purse back onto the desk with her other hand spread wide like a shield against Gorn’s prying. “Nothing.”

“You’re stealing from her.” Gorn’s voice was normally a bark, but today, it was barely a whisper.

“No, I needed some money for an errand.”

“I provide you with the money, and I send you on errands. I have done neither today.”

“It was a specific task from Anoor.”

“Get out and never come back.”

Sylah stepped back as if struck.

Gorn continued, “I will proceed to the warden and tell her of your crimes, but as a service to the friendship”—her lips twisted—“you have given Anoor, I will give you fair warning to leave before the warden’s wrath strikes your back like a whip.”

“No, no, wait, listen—” Everything was unraveling around her.

There was silence. Gorn was actually waiting, listening. There was only one thing for it: the truth.

Sylah told Gorn of her plan to help Anoor win the stealth trial and explained why the money was required. She showed her the sheets of research she had done while Anoor was locked away.

“You did all this? To help her?”

Sylah nodded.

“Do you understand why I need the money? If I come back empty-handed, you can go to the warden. Please, just let me do this.”

Gorn looked at the sheets of notes, Sylah’s scribbled writing legible, but barely. It had been good practice.

“Come with me.” Gorn hooked a finger at Sylah and led her to her bedroom.

Sylah had never been in Gorn’s room, though it looked how she imagined it. A bed pulled taut with white linens, a desk with papers organized into different compartments. There were at least two dozen zines on a bookshelf to the side of the desk. Above her bed was a framed painting of two stick figures running across sand dunes.

Gorn saw where Sylah was looking.

“Anoor drew it for me when she was seven.”

Sylah couldn’t recognize the features of the smaller stick figure, but she knew it was Anoor holding hands with Gorn. The painting was the only decoration in the room.

“Here, is this enough, do you think?” Gorn handed her a leather purse of slabs, the weight hard to hold up with one hand.

“That should do it.” Sylah smiled.

—

“Not detectable, even to a trained person. Clear, quick-acting, lasts at least ten minutes, and causes no adverse effects.” Sylah listed the specifics on her fingers.