Reap the Wind (Cassandra Palmer 7)

He looked at the door.

But Rhea was already shaking her head. “It’s a perimeter ward only. It shouldn’t affect anything else.”

And too bad if it did, because we couldn’t exactly lower it, could we?

“How long will it hold?” Rico asked her.

“I— Ten minutes? Perhaps a little more? It was meant as an extra level of protection for the Pythia in times of distress.”

“Well, I think this qualifies,” Fred muttered from behind the sofa. He was doing something, but I couldn’t tell what. But if it was cowering, I didn’t intend to say anything.

Bet he didn’t volunteer next time.

“I am no mage,” Rico told us. “But I know a few tricks. As long as we have time, I will use it.”

“We don’t have much time,” Rhea said, biting her lip.

“Then I will be quick.” He shot her a devastating grin over his shoulder. “Although that’s not my usual style.”

She looked at him blankly. He grinned wider. I went over to see what Fred was doing.

He was behind the sectional of many pillows, but he wasn’t cowering. He was peering myopically at something ugly. I assumed he’d pulled it out of the largish sack on the ground next to him, which one of the thieves must have dropped on the way out the door.

Although why any thief had wanted that thing was beyond me.

“Have you seen this?” he asked, looking up.

“Yes.” And I didn’t want to see it again.

“It’s a hell of a thing,” he told me.

“It’s a bezoar.”

“That’s what I mean.” He held it out to me. “Someone rescued that from a goat’s stomach, prettied it up, and made it into a cup.”

“I know,” I said, trying not to shy back, but the thing was nasty. And that was despite the nice little framework of enameled gold someone had added in a seriously misguided attempt to add some class. Although what else they could have done I didn’t know, since it was basically a dung-colored, hairy softball.

That now looked like a dung-colored, hairy Fabergé egg.

“Why would anyone do that?” Fred demanded.

“Lady Phemonoe collected poison remedies,” Rhea told him, glancing at the empty shelving. Which, until recently, had held the world’s creepiest cup collection. Which seemed to now be residing in the sack Fred was looking through.

“All of them?” Fred asked, clearly fascinated. “Even the horn?”

“Horn drinking vessels were believed to vibrate on contact with poison,” she told him. “Vintners used to wear a piece of horn around their necks when they tested their wine, to make sure it hadn’t gone off.”

“Seriously?”

“Rock crystal was similar,” she added as he pulled out another cup. “When exposed to poison, it was supposed to lose its transparency and turn cloudy. This one is set with amethyst, as it was believed to change brightness when near poisoned items.”

“And the one with the shark teeth?”

“Fred,” I said, interrupting. “Can you do me a favor and try to find any potion bottles that Rhea and I might have missed? Your nose may be able to pick up on something we didn’t.”

“Well, yeah,” he agreed. “That’s why I came over here. These things reek.”

“Of potion?” I asked sharply.