Inversions (31 page)

Still the Protector’s son hung on to life. The convulsions and his lack of appetite had left Lattens so weak he could barely lift his head to drink. For a few mornings he seemed to be getting better, but then he relapsed and seemed once again at the very door of death.

UrLeyn was distraught. The servants reported that he raged round his apartments, tearing sheets and pulling down tapestries and smashing ornaments and furniture and slicing ancient portraits with a knife. The servants started to clean up the destruction when he went to visit Lattens on his sick bed, but when he returned UrLeyn threw the servants out, and from then on he would let nobody into his rooms.

The palace seemed a terrible, bleak place to be, the atmosphere contaminated by the powerless fury and despair of the man at its heart. UrLeyn remained in his wrecked apartments during this time, only leaving to visit his son every morning and afternoon, and the harem each evening, where he lay, usually with Perrund, collapsed in her lap or bosom while she stroked his head until he fell asleep. But such peace never lasted long, and he would soon twitch in his sleep and cry out and then wake, and subsequently rise and return to his own rooms, old and haggard-looking and sunk in despair.

The bodyguard DeWar slept in a cot along the corridor from the door to UrLeyn’s rooms. For most of the day he would pace up and down the same corridor, fretting and waiting for UrLeyn to make one of his rare appearances.

The Protector’s brother RuLeuin tried to see UrLeyn. He waited patiently in the corridor with DeWar, then when UrLeyn appeared from his apartments and walked quickly in the direction of his son’s room, RuLeuin Joined DeWar at UrLeyn’s side and tried to talk to his brother, but UrLeyn ignored him, and told DeWar not to let RuLeuin or anybody else approach him until he ordered so. YetAmidous, ZeSpiole and even Doctor BreDelle were all told this by the bodyguard.

YetAmidous did not believe what he was being told. He thought DeWar was trying to keep them all away from the General.

He too waited in the corridor one day, defying DeWar to force him to leave. When the door to UrLeyn’s apartments opened, YetAmidous pushed past DeWar’s outstretched arm and walked towards the Protector, saying, ‘General! I must talk to you!’

But UrLeyn just looked at him from the doorway, then without a word closed the door from the inside before YetAmidous could get there. The key turned in the lock. YetAmidous was left to fume in the doorway, then he turned and walked away, ignoring DeWar.

‘Will you really see no one, sir?’ DeWar asked him as they strode to Lattens’ room one day.

He thought UrLeyn would not answer, but then he said, ‘No.’

‘They need to talk to you about the war, sir.’

‘Do they?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘How goes the war?’

‘Not well, sir.’

‘Well, not well. What does it matter? Tell them to do whatever has to be done. I do not care to concern myself with it any more.’

‘With respect, sir’

‘Your respect for me will be expressed from now on by speaking only when you are spoken to, DeWar.’

‘Sir’

‘Sir!’ UrLeyn said, whirling to face the younger man and forcing him to retreat until his back was hard against a wall. ‘You will remain silent until I ask you to speak, or I will have you removed from this building. Do you understand? You may answer yes or no.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Very well. You are my bodyguard. You may guard my body. No more. Come.’

The war was indeed going badly. It was common knowledge in the palace that no more cities had been taken, and indeed that one had been retaken by the barons’ forces. If the message to try to capture the barons themselves had got through, it was either not being acted upon or was impossible to accomplish. Troops disappeared into the lands of Ladenscion and only the walking wounded seemed to return, with tales of confusion and horror. The citizens of Crough began to wonder when the men who had been sent to the conflict might return, and started to complain about the extra taxes which had been levied to pay for the war.

The generals at the war itself called for more troops, but there were scarcely any troops left to send. The palace guard had been halved, with one half being formed into a company of pikemen and sent off to the war. Even the eunuchs of the harem guard had been pressed into service. The generals and others who were attempting to administer the land and run the war while UrLeyn closeted himself away did not know what to do. It was rumoured that Guard Commander ZeSpiole had suggested that the only thing to do might be to bring all the troops home, to burn all that could be burned of Ladenscion and leave it to the damned barons. It was also rumoured that when ZeSpiole suggested this, at the table where UrLeyn had held his last council of war half a moon earlier, General YetAmidous had let out a terrible roar and, leaping to his feet and drawing his sword, swore he would cut out the tongue of the next man to betray UrLeyn’s wishes and suggest such cowardice.

DeWar came to the harem’s outer room one morning, and requested that the lady Perrund attend him.

‘Mr DeWar,’ she said, sitting on a couch. He sat down on another couch across a small table from her.

He gestured at a wooden box and a game board, lying on the table. ‘I thought we might play a game of “Leader’s Dispute”. Would you humour me?’

‘Gladly,’ Perrund said. They unfolded the board and set out the pieces.

‘What is the news?’ she asked, as they commenced playing.

‘Of the boy, no change,’ DeWar said, sighing. ‘The nurse says he slept a little better last night, but he barely recognises his father and when he talks he makes no sense. From the war, there is news of change, but all of it’s ill. I fear the whole thing has gone wrong. The latest reports were confused, but it sounds as though Simalg and Ralboute are both retreating. If it is only a retreat there may still be some hope, but the nature of the reports themselves makes me think it may in reality be a rout, or well on the way to becoming one.’

Perrund stared at the man wide-eyed. ‘Providence, can it really be that bad?’

‘I’m afraid it can.’

‘Is Tassasen itself in danger?’

‘I would hope not. The barons ought not to have the military wherewithal to invade us, and there should be sufficient troops intact to mount an adequate defence if they did, but . . .’

‘Oh, DeWar, it sounds hopeless.’ She looked into his eyes. ‘Does UrLeyn know?’

DeWar shook his head. ‘He will not be told. But YetAmidous and RuLeuin are talking about waiting outside Lattens’ room this afternoon and demanding that he listen to them.’

‘Do you think he will?’

‘I think he might. I also think he might run away from them, or order the guards to throw them out, or run them through, or strike at them himself.’ DeWar picked up his Protector piece and turned it round in his fingers before replacing it on the board. ‘I don’t know what he’ll do. I hope he will listen to them. I hope he will begin to act normally again and start to rule, as he ought. He cannot go on like this much longer without those in the war cabinet starting to think that they’d be better off without him.’ He looked into Perrund’s widened eyes. ‘I cannot talk to him,’ he told her. She thought he sounded like a small, hurt boy. ‘I am literally forbidden to. If I thought I could say something to him, I would, but he has threatened that if I try to speak to him without his express permission he will have me removed from my position, and I think I believe him. So if I am to continue trying to protect him, I must remain silent. Yet he must be told what a pass things have come to. If YetAmidous and RuLeuin do not succeed this afternoon’

‘Will I, tonight?’ Perrund said, her voice sharp.

DeWar looked down for a moment, then he met her gaze again. ‘I am sorry to have to ask you, Perrund. I can only ask. I would not even think of doing so if the situation were anything less than desperate. But desperate it is.’

‘He may not choose to listen to a crippled concubine, DeWar.’

‘At the moment, Perrund, there is nobody else. Will you make the attempt?’

‘Of course. What ought I to say?’

‘What I have told you. That the war is on the verge of being lost. Ralboute and Simalg are retreating, that we can only hope that they are doing so in good order but the hints we have indicate otherwise. Tell him that his war cabinet is at odds with itself, that its members cannot decide what to do, and the only thing they may eventually agree on is that a leader who will not lead is less than worthless. He must regain their trust and respect before it is too late. The city, the country itself is starting to turn against him. There is discontent and wild talk of harbingers of catastrophe, and the beginning of a dangerous nostalgia for what people call “the old days”. Tell him as much as he can bear of that, my lady, or as much as you dare, but be careful. He has raised his hand to his servants before now, and I will not be there to protect you, or him from himself.’

Perrund gazed levelly at him. ‘This is a heavy duty, DeWar.’

‘It is. And I am sorry to have to offer it to you, but the moment has become critical. If there is anything at all I can do to help you in this, you have only to ask and it will be done if I can possibly do it.’

Perrund took a deep breath. She looked at the game board. With a faltering smile she waved her hand at the pieces between them and said, ‘Well, you could move.’

His small, sad smile matched hers.

The Doctor and I stood on the quayside. About us was all the usual tumult of the docks, and, in addition, the local confusion which normally attends upon a great ship preparing to depart on a long voyage. The galleon Plough of the Seas was due to sail with the next doubled tide in less than half a bell, and the last supplies were being hoisted and carried aboard, while everywhere about us, amongst the coils of rope, the barrels of tar, the piled rolls of wicker fenders and flatly emptied carts were played out tearful scenes of farewell. Ours, of course, was one.

‘Mistress, can you not stay? Please?’ I begged her. The tears rolled miserably down my cheeks for all to see.

The Doctor’s face was tired, resigned and calm. Her eyes had a fractured, far-away look about them, like ice or broken glass glimpsed in the dark recesses of a distant room. Her hat was pulled tight over her brindled scalp. I thought she had never looked so beautiful. The day was blustery, the wind was warm and the two suns shone down from either side of the sky, opposing and unequal points of view. I was Seigen to her Xamis, the desperate light of my desire to have her stay entirely washed out by the bounteous blaze of her will to leave.

She took my hands in hers. The broken-looking eyes gazed tenderly upon me for the last time. I tried to blink my tears out of the way, resolved that if I would never see her again, at least my last sight of her would be vivid and sharp. ‘I can’t, Oelph, I’m sorry.’

‘Can’t I come with you then, mistress?’ I said, even more miserably. This was my last and most dismal play. It had been the one thing I had been determined not to say, because it was so obvious and so pathetic and so doomed. I had known she would be leaving for a half-moon or so, and in those few handfuls of days I had tried everything I could think of to make her want to stay, even while knowing that her going was inevitable and that none of my arguments could carry any weight with her, not measured against what she saw as her failure. During all that time I wanted to say, Then if you must go, please take me!

But it was too sad a thing to say, too predictable. Of course that is what I would say, and of course she would turn me down. I was a youth, still, and she a woman of maturity and wisdom. What would I do, if I went with her, but remind her of what she had lost, of how she had failed? She would look at me and see the King and never forgive me for not being him, for reminding her that she had lost his love even if she had saved his life.

I knew she would reject me if I said it, so I had made an absolutely firm decision not to ask her. It would be the one piece of my self-respect I would retain. But some inflamed part of my mind said, She might say Yes! She might have been waiting for you to ask! Perhaps (this seductive, insane, deluded, sweet voice within me said) she really does love you, and would want nothing more than to take you with her, back to Drezen. Perhaps she feels that it is not for her to ask you, because it would be taking you away from everything and everyone you have ever known, perhaps for ever, perhaps never to return.

And so, like a fool, I did ask her, and she only squeezed my hands and shook her head. ‘I would let you if it was possible, Oelph,’ she said quietly. ‘It is so sweet of you to want to accompany me. I shall cherish always the memory of that kindness. But I cannot ask you to come with me.’

‘I would go anywhere with you, mistress!’ I cried, my eyes now full of tears. I would have thrown myself at her feet and hugged her legs if I had been able to see properly. Instead I hung my head and blubbered like a child. ‘Please, mistress, please, mistress,’ I wept, no longer even able to say what it was I wanted, her to stay or me to go.

‘Oh, Oelph, I was trying so hard not to cry,’ she said, then gathered me in her arms and folded me to her.

At last to be held in her arms, pressed against her, and be allowed to put my arms round her, feeling her warmth and her strength, encompassing her firm softness, drawing in that fresh perfume from her skin. She put her chin on my shoulder, just as mine rested on hers. Between my sobs, I could feel her shake, crying too, now. I had last been this close to her, side by side, my head on her shoulder, her head on mine, in the torture chamber of the palace, half a moon earlier, when the guards had tumbled in with the news that we were needed because the King was dying.

*    *    *

The King was indeed dying. A terrible sickness had fallen upon him from nowhere, causing him to collapse during a dinner being held for the suddenly, and secretly, arrived Duke Quettil. King Quience had been in the middle of a sentence, when he stopped speaking, stared straight ahead and started to shake. His eyes had revolved back into his head and he had slumped down in his seat, unconscious, the wine goblet dropping froze his hand.

Skelim, Quettil’s doctor, was there. He had had to remove the King’s tongue from his throat, or he would have choked to death immediately. Instead he lay there on the floor, senseless and shaking spasmodically while everybody rushed around. Duke Quettil attempted to take charge, apparently ordering that guards be posted everywhere. Duke Ulresile contented himself with staring, while the new Duke Walen sat in his seat, whimpering. Guard Commander Adlain posted a guard at the King’s table to make sure nobody touched the King’s plate or the decanter he’d been drinking from, in case somebody had poisoned him.

During all this commotion, a servant arrived with the news that Duke Ormin had been murdered.

My thoughts, oddly, have turned to that footman whenever I have tried to envisage the scene. A servant rarely gets to deliver genuinely shocking news to those of exalted rank, and to be entrusted with something as momentous as the intelligence that one of the King’s favourites has taken the life of a Duke must seem like something of a privilege. To discover that it is of relatively little consequence compared to the events unfolding before you must be galling.

I was, subsequently, more than usually diligent in quizzing, as subtly as I could, the servants who were in the dining chamber that evening, and they reported that, even at the time, they noticed that certain of the dining guests did not react as one might have expected to the news, presumably just because of the distraction of the King’s sudden predicament. It was almost, they hazarded, as though the Guard Commander and the Dukes Ulresile and Quettil had been expecting the news.

Doctor Skelim ordered that the King be taken directly to his bed. Once there he was undressed. Skelim inspected the King’s body for any marks that might indicate he had been shot with a poisoned dart or infected with something through a cut. There were none.

The King’s blood pulse was slow and becoming slower, only increasing briefly when small fits passed through him. Doctor Skelim reported that unless something could be done, the King’s heart was sure to stop within the bell. He confessed himself at a loss to determine what had befallen the King. The doctor’s bag was delivered from his room by a breathless servant, but the few tonics and stimulants he was able to administer (little better than smelling salts by the sound of them, especially given that Quience could not be induced to swallow anything) had no effect whatsoever.

The doctor considered bleeding the King, in effect the only thing he could think of which he had not tried, but bleeding somebody with a weakening heartbeat had proved worse than useless in the past, and on this occasion, thankfully, the urge not to make matters worse overcame the need to be seen to be doing something. The doctor ordered some exotic infusions to be prepared, but held out little hope that they would be any more effective than the compounds he had already administered.

It was you, master, who said that Doctor Vosill would have to be summoned. I am told that Duke Ulresile and Duke Quettil took you aside and that there was a furious argument. Duke Ulresile flew from the room in a blinding rage and later took a sword to one of his servants such that the poor fellow lost one eye and a pair of fingers. I find it admirable that you stood your ground. A contingent of the palace guards was sent to the questioning chamber with orders to take the Doctor from there by force if necessary.

I am told that my mistress walked calmly in to the terrified confusion that was the King’s chamber, where nobles, servants and, it seemed, half the palace were assembled, crying and wailing.

She had sent me, with a pair of guards, to her chamber for her medicine bag. We surprised one of Duke Quettil’s servants and another palace guard there. Both looked anxious and guilty at being caught in the Doctor’s rooms. Duke Quettil’s man held a piece of paper I recognised.

I have never, I think, been so proud of myself for anything I have done in my life as for what I did next, for I was still half terrified that my ordeal had merely been postponed rather than cancelled. I was shaking and sweating with the shock of what I had witnessed, I was mortified at the callow and cowardly way I had felt in the torture chamber, ashamed of how my body had betrayed me, and my mind was still spinning.

What I did was take the note from Quettil’s servant.

‘That is the property of my mistress!’ I hissed, and stepped forward, a look of fury on my face. I grabbed the note from the fellow’s fingers. He looked blankly at me, then at the note, which I stuffed quickly into my shirt. He opened his mouth to speak. I turned, still quivering with rage, to the two guards who had been sent with me. ‘Escort this person from these apartments immediately!’ I said.

This was, of course, a gamble on my part. In all the excitement, it had been quite unclear whether the Doctor and I were still technically prisoners or not, and therefore the two guards might rightly have concluded that they were my jailers, not my bodyguards, which was the way I was treating them. I would modestly claim that they were able to recognise something transparently honest and true about my righteous indignation and so decided to do as I commanded.

The Duke’s man looked terrified, but did as he was told.

I buttoned up my jacket to further secure the note, found the Doctor’s bag and hurried to the King’s chamber with my escorts.

The Doctor had turned the King on to his side. She knelt by his bed, stroking his head in a distracted way, fending off questions from Doctor Skelim. (A reaction to something in his food, probably, she told him. Extreme, but not poison.)

You stood, master, arms crossed, near the Doctor. Duke Quettil lurked in a corner, glaring at her.

She took a small stoppered glass vial from the bag, holding it up to the light and shaking it. ‘Oelph, this is the salts solution number twenty-one, herbed. Do you know it?’

I thought. ‘Yes, mistress.’

‘We’ll need more, dried, within the next two bells. Can you remember how to prepare it?’

‘Yes, I think so, mistress. I may need to refer to our notes.’

‘Just so. I’m sure your two guards will help you. Off you go, then.’

I turned to go, then stopped and handed her the note which I had taken from the Duke’s man. ‘Here is that paper, mistress,’ I said then quickly turned and left before she had time to ask me what it was.

I missed the uproar when the Doctor pinched the King’s nose and clamped a hand over his mouth until he turned nearly blue. You, master, held back the protestations of the others, but then grew concerned yourself, and were about to order her away at sword point when she let the King’s nose go and thrust the powder which the vial had contained under his nostrils. The ruddy powder looked like dried blood, but was not. It whistled into the King as he took a huge, deep in-drawing breath.

Most of the people in the room took their own first breath for some time. For a while, nothing happened. Then, I am told, the King’s eyes flickered and opened. He saw the Doctor and smiled, then coughed and wheezed and had to be helped to sit up.

He cleared his throat, fixed the Doctor with an outraged stare and said, ‘Vosill, what in the skies of hell have you done to your hair?’

I think the Doctor knew she would not need any more of salts solution number twenty-one, herbed. It was her way of trying to make sure that she and I were not brought to the King, made to cure him of whatever had befallen him and then promptly led away again back to the torture chamber. She wanted people to think that the course of treatment required would be longer than what amounted to little more than a quick pinch of snuff.

Nevertheless, I returned to the Doctor’s apartments, with my two guards in escort, and set up the equipment necessary to produce the powder. Even with the help of the two guards and it was a refreshing experience to be able to do the ordering around, rather than to be subject to it myself it would be a close-run thing to produce a small amount of the substance in less than two bells. At least it would give me something to do.

I only heard later and at second hand about the outburst of Duke Quettil, in the King’s chamber. The sergeant of the guards who had released us from the cell in the torture chamber spoke quietly with you, master, shortly after the King was brought back to the land of the living. I am told you looked a little shaken for a moment, but then went, grim-faced, to inform Duke Quettil of the fate of his chief questioner and his two assistants.

‘Dead! Dead? By fuck, Adlain, can you arrange nothing right!’ were the Duke’s precise words, by all accounts. The King glared. The Doctor looked unperturbed. Everybody else stared. The Duke attempted to strike you, and had to be restrained by two of your men, who acted, perhaps, before they thought. The King inquired what was going on.

The Doctor, meanwhile, was looking at the piece of paper I had given her.

It was the note that purported to be from you and which had lured her to the trap that had killed Duke Ormin and was supposed to dispose of her. The King had already heard from the Doctor that Ormin was dead, and that she had been meant to appear to be the killer. He was still sitting up in bed, staring ahead and trying to digest this news. The Doctor had not yet given him the details of what had supposedly happened in the questioning chamber, but merely said that she had been released before being put to the question.