Matthew Corbett 03 - Mister Slaughter

'Yes sir, I know.'

'Run there as fast as you can! Tell him we're bringing in a poison victim! Go!'

Thirty-Four

'Drink this.'

Matthew recoiled; he couldn't recoil very far, however, for he was swaddled in damp beddings with his arms down by his sides. A cup of steaming liquid was tilted to his lips, which Matthew even in his humid haze kept tightly pressed together.

'It's just tea. English tea, that is. With honey and a dash of rum. Go ahead, drink it.'

Matthew accepted it, and Jason Mallory held the cup to his mouth until the tea was gone.

'There,' said Dr. Mallory. 'Wasn't so bad, was it?'

Matthew's swollen eyes took in the doctor sitting in a chair beside his bed. On an octagonal table next to the chair was a single candle with a polished tin reflector behind it, and by that light Matthew made out Mallory's face. The rest of the room was shrouded by darkness.

Matthew felt as if his mind had been shattered like a mirror and pieced together again by a stranger who was not quite sure how the memories fit. Had Rachel Howarth ever stood beautiful and defiant before a mocking throng of Indians in a Seneca longhouse? Had Magistrate Woodward ever nocked an arrow and fired it into the night-black forest? Or Berry ever leaned her head against his shoulder under the stars and wept heartbroken tears? He was all messed up.

More than that, his bones ached, his very teeth ached, he couldn't have gotten up from this bed or in reality lifted his arms from his sides for eight times eighty pounds, and he had the awful impression of a woman sliding a chamberpot under him and saying, 'There you are, now do your business like a good boy.'

He remembered sweating. But he remembered freezing, as well. Then burning up. At some point, had cold water been poured repeatedly over his back? He remembered someone pushing down on his chest, again and again, hard enough to had he wept, like Berry had? And someone saying close to his ear, 'Breathe, Matthew! Breathe!'

Ah, yes. He remembered drinking the tea. Not English tea, certainly. This had been thick, sharp-tasting, and

Again, Matthew. Drink it, now. You can do it. All down.

His heart. He remembered how his heart was pounding, as if about to tear itself from his chest and tumble across the floor spewing blood. He was sweating, he was lying in a sodden mass of linens, and

One more cup, Matthew. Come on, Greathouse, get his mouth open.

'How are you feeling?' Mallory asked.

Matthew made a noise between a fart and a whistle.

'Do you know where you are?'

Matthew could see nothing but the doctor's face, illuminated by the reflected candle. Mallory was a lean, handsome man who appeared to possess features part angel, in his long, graceful Roman nose and luminous sea- green eyes, and part devil, in his arched, thick dark brown eyebrows and a wide mouth that seemed to be on the constant verge of a cruel burst of laughter. He had a weathered face that spoke of the harsh fire of tropic suns. His hair was dark brown, pulled back and tied into a queue. His chin was square and noble, his demeanor calm, his teeth all in their places. His voice was low and smoky, like the rumble of distant guns.

'The treatment room in my house,' he said, when Matthew didn't respond. 'Do you know how long you've been here?'

'No.' Matthew was shocked at the weakness of his own voice. How time flew: one day a young man, the next ready for Paradise.

'This is your third morning.'

'It's day, then?' But where was the sunlight? Surely there were windows in here.

'When I last checked the clock, it was just after two. In the morning.'

'A night owl,' Matthew rasped.

'You might give praise for night owls. Owing to a particular night owl named Ashton McCaggers, you were brought promptly to me.'

'I remember ' What? A one-eyed ghost, sliding out of the wall? A sting in the side of his neck? Oh, yes. That. His heart was beating hard again, and suddenly he was wet with perspiration. The bed already felt like a sinking boat. 'Ripley,' Matthew said. 'What happened to him?'

'He is in need of a new face, and currently resides in the prisoners' ward of the King Street hospital. It's unlikely he shall be speaking anytime soon. You might thank McCaggers' slave for that.'

'How did Zed get there?'

'Well, he knocked the door down, is the short answer. As I understand, the slave was up on the roof of City Hall and saw your light. He relayed this-as he does in some way, I suppose-to his master, who wished to take you a bottle of brandy to toast your return. There was something about hearing glass break. So again, you might give thanks for night owls, both the white and black variety.'

'Why?' Matthew asked.

'Why what?'

'A moment.' Matthew had to compose the question again, for it had slipped away between thought and lip. 'Why was I brought to you? There are other doctors nearer Stone Street.'

'There are,' Mallory agreed, 'but none of them have travelled as extensively as I have around the world. And none of them know anything about the frog venom on the dart that struck you, or of course how to alleviate its unfortunate effects.'

'How?' Matthew asked.

'Is this a guessing game?'

'How did you alleviate?'

'First of all, I knew what it was-what it must be-due to the blowpipe that Ashton found in your office, and of course from your condition. I spent half a year on an expedition into the jungles of South America, where I witnessed natives regularly hunt with the pipe and dart, and more than once I saw them put even jaguars on the ground. Of course there are many different species of what they call 'poison-dart frogs', some more potent than others. The venom is actually sweat from the skin. A sort of sticky yellowish-white paste. As in the small clay vial that young wretch was carrying in his pocket.'

Matthew thought of the empty space where the blowpipe had been, in Mrs. Sutch's cupboard. His own name had been in the ledger book of victims, but it would not have been crossed out until Ripley had done the deed and reported back.

'The venom doesn't travel well,' Mallory went on, his face daubed yellow by the light. 'After a year or so, it loses its full lethal potency. Though it can still seize a man up, so to speak, or at least give him a good scare. The trick is to keep the victim breathing and give him a shock to the heart. Which I did with my tea.'

'Your tea?'

'Not the English variety. My own recipe, which I hoped would work if indeed the venom was not at its full potency. A tea boiled from feverwort, yarrow, cayenne pepper, coca leaves, hawthorn and skullcap. You received a very, very strong dosage. Several, in fact. Boiled down to a thickening, I suppose you might call it. The result is that your heart pounds, your lungs pump, and you sweat rivers, but you do banish the impurities, if you live.'

'Ah,' Matthew said. 'I expect my face got very red, as well?'

'Beet-red.'

'May I ask you a question?' Matthew slowly eased himself up to a sitting position. His head swam and the room spun, but he made it. 'Have you ever given that tea to Princess Lillehorne?'

'In a much more moderate portion, yes. A very expensive health treatment. Firms the fibers, aligns the humors and is quite beneficial to women's parts. She told me she was having some trouble in