Godblind. Anna Stephens
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said excitedly. ‘One of my volunteers breathed in toxic smoke for eleven minutes by the sand clock before finally passing out. Now, it wouldn’t take eleven minutes to walk a hundred yards, would it? And even if Rastoth were somehow incapacitated and you had to carry or drag him, it wouldn’t take you more than a minute, two at the outside. And we can tell from my research that your body would be able to withstand that much smoke without long-term adverse effects.’
‘You poisoned one of my recruits for eleven minutes?’
‘Durdil, you’re missing the point. The human body is resilient: there’s so much it can absorb, endure, before it starts to break down.’
‘Well, we know I wouldn’t need to sprint the hundred yards if I could walk it without dying.’
‘Yes, but these were simply two experiments conducted under similar conditions. It’s not meant to be taken as a training manual.’
‘Truly, your research astonishes,’ Durdil said, deciding not to point out that any man who’d ever burnt his dinner could tell you surviving a smoke-filled room for two minutes was easy, though surviving your wife’s withering scorn afterwards took a little more grit.
‘Oh, this is minor stuff, really. I’m taking a man’s appendix out tomorrow. It’s causing him terrible pain. Would you care to assist?’
Durdil smiled. ‘I think I’ll leave that to you. I would rather how it’s done remained a mystery. Though I feel that there are too many mysteries for me of late. This is a young man’s game, and I don’t think anyone would mistake me for one of those any more.’ Durdil rotated his glass, staring at the firelight winking through the red of the wine. Like the colours inside your eyelids when you turned your face up to the sun.
‘Speaking of young men, how is Mace faring? Wolves and Mireces keeping him busy?’
Durdil’s expression was grave. ‘More mystery. I had word only today that the Wolf village was attacked by Mireces hunting an escaped slave. Turns out the slave killed King Liris before fleeing. But they can’t find out who’s taken the throne.’
Hallos whistled. ‘Have you told Rastoth?’
Durdil wouldn’t meet his eyes. ‘Yes. He’s still sending the princes west. Both of them. Despite the danger. And then he forgot I’d told him.’ He rubbed his face, weary beyond words.
‘The princes can look after themselves, and Mace will ensure they’re kept safe. I spoke to them, you know, about Rastoth.’
‘And?’
Hallos shrugged. ‘They’re still grieving for the queen. They want their father back. The kingdom needs a king, Durdil. Perhaps it’s time for Janis to be crowned. I know it’s been suggested already.’
Durdil stiffened. ‘Rastoth still lives.’
‘Barely. And you’ve made no progress on Marisa’s death. I can’t imagine he will begin to recover until that chapter is closed.’
‘So it’s my fault?’ Durdil demanded, and then apologised. ‘Forgive me, Hallos. I am tired. But Rastoth is my king. I cannot countenance deposing him, not even in favour of Janis.’
‘The killers know the court; they knew the queen. Even the guards knew them. Galtas said they were dead facing the door, so they were killed when the assassins came back out. So they must have known them or they’d never have let them into the queen’s presence in the first place.’
Durdil sat forward. ‘Galtas said that? Those details are confidential. Not even the princes know that.’ He drained his glass and thumped it on the table, and then raked his fingers across his scalp. Galtas? How did he know? Unless …
He stared into the fire. He could still taste the blood in the air from that night, the thick stench of it and the sight of it daubed in bright swathes on the walls. Stepping over the dead guards with his sword drawn into that red room and seeing a slender arm sticking out from under a pile of torn tapestry. An arm that, when he crouched beside it, he saw wasn’t attached to a body. He felt an echo of the nausea that had risen in him then and swallowed hard. She’d been in pieces. Not just killed, but dismembered. His throat was tight; he took the glass Hallos refilled for him and drank.
‘As you say, they must have known us intimately. Which is why I’ve started investigating the court. The nobles, the nobles’ wives, the clothiers, the queen’s jeweller, her bathing attendants, her dressers, even her chambermaid. There’s nothing.’ He met Hallos’s eyes. ‘I even investigated you, my friend. I’m sorry, I had to. It was my duty.’
‘I hope I passed,’ Hallos said, a little unsteadily.
‘You did, of course, Hallos. Of course.’ Durdil paused. ‘I even looked into the whereabouts of the princes, you know,’ and he heard Hallos gasp. He spread his hands. ‘What else could I do? Someone she knew, Hallos, a friend, acquaintance or servant. Why not a son?’
‘And what did you find?’ Hallos hissed, leaning forward.
‘Nothing, of course. The heir was in his chambers, accounted for by a dozen separate, reliable witnesses, and Rivil was with Galtas in that posh inn in the cloth district. Innkeeper himself told me.’
‘Isn’t he dead now, that innkeeper?’ Hallos asked and Durdil was glad for the change in subject.
‘Aye, stabbed by his wife of all things. She found out he was sleeping with his daughter by marriage. Suppose you can’t blame the poor woman.’
‘People, eh?’ Hallos said. ‘The more you learn about them, the less you understand.’
Durdil huffed and reached for his drink; then he paused, hand extended. So the innkeeper who vouched for Galtas is mysteriously dead. And Galtas knew the placement of the bodies. But no, because Rivil was there with him. But then, they often drink in the Gilded Cup: the innkeeper could have got his days mixed up. And now I can’t ask him. But I can ask Galtas where he was the night the queen died.
Brooding, he drank. He didn’t notice Hallos leave.
Eleventh moon, seventeenth year of the reign of King Rastoth
Wolf Lands, Rilporian border
The air had the silent weight of snow when Dom half woke and rolled over. He snuggled into the warmth of a neck and back and drifted back to sleep, dreams flitting behind his eyelids like swallows. The images became clearer, and then stranger, darker, tugging at him until he gasped and jerked awake. He flailed and broke contact with the girl, and the images vanished. She moved too, rolling over and pressing her back against the freezing canvas, her breathing harsh.
The knowing swelled and burnt its way through his skin where he’d touched her, worming its way towards his skull. He stretched out a foot and kicked at the tent flap, allowing a spear of daylight and a blast of freezing air into the gloom. They stared at each other by its light, Dom turning over the images he’d seen, probing at them like a tongue at a rotten tooth.
The tent was so small they were still practically touching, even when they were both straining away from each other. He caught a whiff of old sweat and rain from the ragged plait of her hair that lay across the space between them, but he didn’t move it. Right now he didn’t know if even that much would bring on another knowing and he wasn’t risking that here, with only her for help and company.
Normally I can’t tell when a knowing will happen. Why is it with her I know one’s coming? Why is everything twisted around her? She’s like an oak and the world is ivy, climbing her, revolving around her. He scrubbed at his face. So what happens to the ivy if she falls?
He forced the images to the cage at the back of his mind. ‘I’ll kindle the fire. Pack up,’ he growled and