I felt my heart beating even faster. Was it fear, or poison? I couldn't speak, certain as I was that my voice would betray my calm facade.
“Those loyal to me who wish harm on my enemies may be wondering how can I be certain that the poison has been ingested. Is it possible that the guilty party, or dare I say, parties were suspicious and merely pretended to eat and drink tonight? Of course. But even the craftiest of pretenders would have to raise a glass to his or her lips and put empty forks or spoons in their mouths to play the charade. The food, you see, was not poisoned. The cups and cutlery were. If you did not partake out of fear, you're poisoned just the same, and sadly, missed an excellent roast.”
Sweat beaded on my face and I turned from Farage so he would not see. My fellow advisors, all of them, were frozen in their seats. From the Marchioness Kolgar, white with fear, to Dianne James, visibly shaking; from the furrowed, angry brow of Abdul to the statue-like stare of Winston.
I couldn't help thinking then, could Farage's entire counsellorship be comprised of nothing but spies? Was there any person at the table loyal? And then I thought, what if I were not a spy myself, would I trust Farage to know that? No one knows better than his advisors both the depth of Farage's paranoia and the utter implacability of his ambition. If I were not a spy for the Conservative Party, even then would I be safe? Could a loyalist be poisoned because of a not-so-innocent misjudgment?
The others must have been thinking the same, loyalists and spies alike.
While my mind whirled, I could hear Farage's voice, addressing all assembled: “The poison acts quickly. If the antidote is not taken within one minute from now, there will be death at the table.”
I couldn't decide whether I had been poisoned or not. My stomach ached, but I reminded myself it might have been the result of sitting at a sumptuous banquet and not partaking. My heart shook in my chest and a bitter taste like Trama Root stung my lips. Again, was it fear or poison?
“These are the last words you will hear if you are disloyal to me,” said Farage, still smiling that damned smile as he watched his advisors squirming in their seats. “Take the antidote and live.”
Could I believe him? I thought of what I knew of Farage and his character. Would he kill a self-confessed spy at his court, or would he rather send the vanquished back to his masters? Nigel was ruthless, but either possibility was within his manner. Surely the theatricality of this whole dinner was meant to be a presentation to instill fear. What would my ancestors say if I joined them after sitting at a table, eventually dying of poison? What would they say if I took the antidote, confessing my allegiance to you and the Conservative Party, and was summarily executed? And, I confess, I thought of what you might to do to me even after I was dead.
I had grown so light-headed and filled with my own thoughts, that I didn't see Winston jump from his seat. I was only suddenly aware that he had the tureen in his hands and was gulping down the liquid within. There were guards all around, though I never noticed them entering.
“Winston,” said Farage, still smiling. “You have spent some time at Brussels. Speaking to Europhiles promising you a cushy job in their offices after you sabotage my efforts?”
“You didn't know?” Winston laughed sourly. “Not just any Europhiles. I report to Merkel herself, Chancellor of Germany. I've always been in her employ. By God, you poisoned me because you thought I was working for some foreign Green Party reps or something?”
“You're half right,” said Farage. “I didn't guess who you were working for, or even that you were a spy. But you're also wrong about me poisoning you. You poisoned yourself when you drank from the tureen.”
Your unholiness, you don't need to hear how Winston died. I know that you have seen much over the many, many years of your existence, but you truly don't want to know. I wish I could erase the memory of his agonies from my own mind.
The council was dismissed shortly thereafter. I do not know if Farage knows or suspects that I too am a spy. I do not know how many others that night, last night, were as close as I was from drinking from the tureen before Winston did. I only know that if Farage does not suspect me now, he will. I cannot win at the games he mastered long ago as a commodities trader, and I beg your unholiness, my dark liege Theresa May, to use your influence in the Conservative Party and dismiss your loyal servant from this charge.