Chapter 10: Scorpions.

Togo and I followed Ned to his tower and rooms.

“Well, that was a more interesting meeting than I had envisioned, Odysseus. What do you truly believe about Littlefinger?” Ned asked after a minute or two.

We were crossing the outer yard on our way to the Tower of the Hand. “Perhaps, my lord, that is a discussion better held away from prying ears,” I replied, glancing about at all the nearby knights, guardsmen and servants who were ill concealing their interest.

He nodded, and we finished getting to the tower in silence. The guards at the door straightened to attention and greeted us as we passed. We trooped upstairs, passing my room and standing outside Ned’s.

He chuckled. “You have seen me safe to my room, Odysseus,” he said. “I hardly need you to tuck me into bed.”

I shook my head seriously. “Actually, I wanted to do a sweep of your rooms first. Considering that your servants are from Winterfell, and unlikely to be suborned, this is actually the moment of greatest vulnerability,” I warned.

He frowned. “How? I hardly think my men would have missed an assassin hiding under the bed.”

I was deadly serious though. “Poisoned needles placed in the sheets, or sticking up from the floor. A poison that can absorb through the skin soaked into the cloth. Candles made from a wax impregnated with a powder which, when burned, is poisonous. I could go on, my lord.”

His eyes widened. “You have a deeper understanding of such dark deeds than I expected. Just what was your background that that was necessary?”

I grinned. “Such plots were vanishingly uncommon, my lord. I simply used to read, a lot. A few thousand books over my lifetime, I estimate. Many that were fiction and some that were fact included such plots.”

He shook his head. “I doubt anyone will have done so, but if it makes you more comfortable, check away.”

Togo and I looked through everything in the room. He smelled about to ensure there wasn’t anything strange, licking candles and such, while I ran my hand over the sheets, checked the mattress and chairs, and flowed a bit of blue mana through the walls to make sure there weren’t any surprises.

“As best as I can tell, it’s clear,” I reported.

“Come then. I’ll have the servants bring us up some food, and you can tell me about what you think of Littlefinger.”

As we ate, I told him how I suspected the man of more than the standard corruption and a degree of incompetence to boot.

“So what would you recommend?” Ned asked.

“Audit his books using the accounting technique I showed,” I answered. “If he was clever, and hid his theft in the accounts, it should find them. But it will take a few weeks. I just hope he’s arrogant enough not to destroy them overnight. As for Baelish himself, he should be kept under guard inside the castle, and insulated from speaking directly to anyone not loyal to you, my lord.”

“I will ask Robert, but I do not know that he will agree.”

“Very well. I’ll need to find a dozen assistants who know their numbers. Merchant’s children, or those studying their numbers under septons, perhaps.”

“Begin to do so in the morning,” he ordered.

“Yes, my lord,” I replied.

“If Baelish does prove to be dishonest, would you replace him?” he asked.

I was shocked. I hadn’t really considered it. After thinking for a moment, I decided against it. While it might seem like my progress to return home was slow, and it was, dimensional techniques and magic in general were both things to be approached with care. I needed to train in fighting and surviving; the middle ages were hardly safe, and Westeros had had two major wars in less than twenty years. Beyond that, I didn’t want to become monomaniacal, my mental health suffering under the drive to be back home immediately. But serving as the Master of Coin didn’t help my objectives, and was more than my own honor and ethics demanded. I was willing to help, to advise, but not to take on the position permanently.

I shook my head. “I’d prefer not to, my lord. Perhaps Lord Manderly, or one of his sons?” The Manderlys controlled White Harbor, one of the greatest ports in Westeros and the largest city in the North. They were adept traders, and most importantly, loyal to Ned.

Ned considered it for a moment, then nodded. “I can see the advantages. Well, it is late. I will see you at breakfast.”

“I hope you have a pleasant rest. If you don’t mind, do you think Togo could stay in your entryway?”

Ned stretched, yawned. “Ever the cautious one. If it will make you feel more secure with the situation, then fine. Goodnight, Odysseus.”

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The next day was busy. Jon and I had to visit half a dozen septons, mostly from the mercantile areas, and a few of the bannermen loyal to the Tullys and Starks that had holdings in the city. Togo was left to guard Lord Stark, which was a shame as the crowds were much more willing to crowd a mounted knight than a pony-sized husky look-a-like. Still, by the afternoon I had acquired the service of fourteen young men and boys who could write and add well enough.

While Aethon and I were gone, Ned convinced Robert to go along with my plan for the tournament. The king also agreed to “keep Baelish close” until I could finish the audit. The moments of serious work must have driven the king over the cliff though; that night at the welcoming feast he got even drunker than usual and was groping one of the serving maids in full sight of the hall.

Cersei, suffering from the loss of her brother and living under only the faintest veneer of calm, had finally had enough and started screaming at Robert in full view of the entire court. They really got into it. By the end of the night, Cersei was banished back to Casterly Rock, the seat of House Lannister.

Joffrey, who had drunk more than he should, unwisely took her side when complaining about his uncle’s death and the lack of response from the king. Robert decided that he should be someone else’s problem for a change, and announced that Joffrey would be sent on the next ship to Dragonstone to foster with Stannis.

Dragonstone was reportedly a hard, bleak fortress, and its lord was rumored to be one of the dourest, most dutiful and lawful men in the realm. It seemed that my advice had sat in the king’s mind until he was angered enough to use it. Stannis would either fix or break Joffrey, and either way the little shit would be out of my hair for a while.

Sat far down in a hall filled with powerful lords and landed knights, I smiled. Things were going my way.

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The sun two days later dawned, and the queen and her son were sent away. The majority of Lannister guardsmen went with them. It wasn’t enough to fix the city and court, but at least the most pestilent of the boils had been lanced.

Not that I had much time to appreciate it. I was busy getting my new assistants prepared. I put Jon as their general manager, and trained them all on double-entry bookkeeping.

Then I had the disorganized and dusty boxes of loose parchment, books and scrolls which recorded the previous years’ tax records and financial statements brought in, and I turned them loose. It was more work, and more disorganized, than I had expected; in my head I increased the likelihood of Baelish using the position solely for his own benefit.

No one actually uses such a disorganized system if they don’t have to; it just adds more work. Baelish wasn’t stupid. So if he was using a system where things could be easily lost, it was likely because there were things he wanted to hide.

Then a few days after the queen and prince left, the king fell ill. At first it was just an upset stomach, a bit of diarrhea and vomiting. Then the next day it got worse. He was throwing up, had stomach pains, and was quickly losing his health. I visited him with Lord Stark; I was highly suspicious of the circumstances, but it could have been Cholera or something like it.

Grand Maester Pycelle and a gaggle of servants were present along with Ser Barristan. The room was hot and smoky with incense and stank of shit and puke.

“Ah, Ned, look at me now,” Robert rasped. “Laid so low by fucking illness,” he spat bitterly.

Stark was concerned but tried to put a good face on it. “I’m sure you’ll be up drinking and hunting in no time, Your Grace.”

“Ha!” the king barked. “I doubt it. Pycelle tells me I may die.”

“If I may ask, what are the symptoms Your Grace?” I interjected.

Pycelle shot me a dirty look and answered for him. “His Grace has a chill on the stomach, likely from too much iced wine,” he said.

I looked at Pycelle. “And have your treatments been effective?” I asked. “Is the king able to keep broth down?”

He sneered at me. “So your expertise extends to medicine also, does it?”

My gaze hardened. “I know a bit, and might be able to relieve the king of some of his suffering,” I offered. Really, I didn’t. But I did know how to give a decent massage, and those always make people feel better. Further, it would give me enough time and contact to use my magic to figure out what was going on.

“If you think I’m going to let some unknown savage treat the king,” Pycelle began to bluster.

Robert interrupted him. “Let him try. Gods know I couldn’t feel any worse.”

I nodded, and stepped forwards. “Very well, Your Grace,” I said, drawing back the blankets. “I will be using a medical pressure-point massage. I am sure you have experienced in training that certain points on the body can cause immense pain when poked even lightly?”

He nodded weakly. “Yes.”

“Much in the same way, other points can aid in healing when used correctly,” I continued with my line of bullshit; even if others could do so, I had no fucking idea how Chinese medical massage worked. “Further, the swellings, pressures, rhythm of the blood, color; all of these may be used in diagnosing where the issues are, and what can be done to treat them. May I have your hand?”

He lifted his hand up, and I felt his pulse. Despite his fat, the muscles of his arms were strong and corded. I sent my magic into his body, a trickle of Blue for sensing woven with Green and White to see what might be naturally or unnaturally damaging his health. I felt specks of dark, reddish grey in his blood. I had experimented earlier with sensing poisons and toxins, even done live tests with rats; this was a relatively strong one.

I nodded, then moved my hands to his chest and began the massage, loosening his muscles as I fed White mana to sequester the poison and move it to his bladder, Green to regenerate the damage left behind. I didn’t want to go too far, and return the King to perfect health, but nor did I want to leave his system truly weakened. Already, the king’s color was better, his breathing easier without the pain.

I left a few lightly woven strands of White and Green behind as I finished the massage. Over the next few days they’d unravel, seeping into his system and returning him to his original health. Likely better, actually; I hadn’t been sure how much of the damage to his liver, heart and organs was from his lifestyle or the poison, and so I cleared it all up as best I could. Robert would likely feel a decade younger when he recovered.

All in all it had taken me about forty-five minutes before I finished. “Very well, Your Grace. You’ll likely feel the need to take a piss; please do, and drink at least a flask of clean water over the next hour. You should have soup and broth, something light on the stomach like chicken, and avoid alcohol for at least two days,” I recommended.

He laughed, moving much more quickly than before. “By the Gods, Ser, you’ve worked a miracle!”

Barristan nodded. “You’ve certainly done a great deed in curing the King’s illness, Ser.”

I could see Pycelle seething in the background. “I did nothing to cure his Grace’s illness, Lord Commander,” I replied.

Pycelle nodded happily. “Indeed, it is well that you recognize the importance of my medicines, Ser Odysseus. Still, your techniques were quite impressive for one so young.”

Oh, that fucker. I had little doubt who was responsible for the poison, but watched his eyes closely as I spoke.

“I did not cure the king’s illness because the king was not ill. He was poisoned.” And there it was, as everyone else recoiled in shock, anger and horror there was that flicker of hidden fear in Pycelle’s eyes. “But then again, you knew that, didn’t you?” I challenged.

His hands flick over to a pocket his robes, but too slowly as I leapt the distance between us and smashed my fists into his shoulders hard enough to break the bones of even a young, fit man; Pycelle’s frail, birdlike limbs were shattered.

He fell back screaming. I stepped over to him, rolled him onto his front, and without a care for his injuries secured his hands behind his back with some thin rope I habitually carried as he screamed in agony. Ser Barristan had Pycelle’s servant-slash-assistant, a relatively young girl just into her teens, backed up against the wall quietly crying with his sword at her throat.

Robert was fucking furious. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he caught on fire from the sheer extent of his rage.

“You rat fucking traitor!” he roared. “How dare you. To poison me, your king!” He drew back his leg, prepared to stomp on the old man.

“Your Grace!” I shouted loudly over the sounds of Pycelle’s cries, drawing his attention. “We should question him as to who was responsible before we kill him, and what other crimes he might have committed.”

Roberts teeth ground, his desire for vengeance warring against his common sense. “Very well. See to it. Ned, you can witness. But I want his fucking head on my gate by morning.”

“Ser Barristan, Ser Odysseus, may I suggest that Togo stays to help ensure no other poisoning attempts are successful?” Ned added.

I nodded. “Togo should be fine with that, so long as the room is cleaned and shutters opened to let in some air. The stench, you know.”

“Y-you can’t! You can’t!” Pycelle sobbed. “I’m innocent! You can’t torture me without a trial!”

Lord Stark looked uncomfortable now. “That is the law, Your Grace. Even for treason,” he said.

“Damn the law!” Robert roared.

I shook my head. “Not necessary, in this case, Your Grace,” I said. Everyone looked at me. “After all, first Pycelle must be searched, and stripped in case he’s carrying any other assassin’s tricks. Then I need to see to his shoulders – giving medical care to prisoners is, while not required, encouraged after all. But there’s also nothing requiring me to give him any milk of the poppy if he’s uncooperative.” I jerked him a little, jostling his shoulders and making him scream in agony again. “Why, then we might need to move him about a few times, here and there. I imagine after a day or so of being jerked about on these arms he’ll be ready to talk. If not, the damage would require a whole new round of healing. I bet if we’re careful he lasts days before the rot sets in and kills him. Or, Pycelle, you could cooperate.”

Pycelle was openly sobbing now, horrified at the prospect of torture. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he cried. “It was Jeremy Renos, one of the servants. He said he needed the arsenic for the rats, that they were getting to the wine. But when I saw the king, I knew. I knew,” he wailed, “but I was afraid to say anything! I did my best, but I couldn’t heal Your Grace, and I was scared! Please, please, forgive this old man, please!”

It was a believable story, and he was convincing. I didn’t trust a word of it.

“Whose man is this Renos?” I asked.

“I believe he was the queen’s,” replied Barristan after a while.

“Do you remember the story of the scorpion, Your Grace?” I asked.

He paused a moment, searching his memory then his face darkened as he understood what I was implying. “I do.”

“I believe you were just stung, and the Grand Maester wears red and gold.”

“Indeed he does,” the king said, his rage controlled and leashed. “In my name, Robert the First, King of the Seven Kingdoms, I pass sentence. Grand Maester Pycelle of the small council, your position is stripped of you. Pycelle, as a traitor your sentence is death, to be carried out immediately.”

Then the king reached over, picked up a stool, and smashed in Pycelle’s skull. As I looked at the corpse, splattered across the floor, I was just thankful that I didn’t have to clean up the physical mess that went along with cleaning up the political one.