Inversions

24. THE BODYGUARD

The bodyguard DeWar woke from a dream of flying. He lay there a moment in the darkness for the few moments it took him to come fully awake, remembering where he was, who he was, what he was, and what had been happening.

The weight of the knowledge of all that had gone so wrong so recently settled on him like a dozen coats of chain mail thrown one by one upon his bed. He even gave a little groan as he rolled over in the narrow cot and lay with one arm under the back of his head, staring up into the blackness.

The war in Ladenscion had been lost. It was as simple as that. The barons had got all they had ever asked for, and more, by taking it. The Dukes Simalg and Ralboute were on their way home with the tattered and dispirited remains of their armies.

Lattens had edged a little closer to death, whatever was wrong with him proof against every remedy the physicians could devise.

UrLeyn had sat in on one war council, just yesterday, once the full extent of the catastrophe in Ladenscion had revealed itself through the jumble of reports and coded messages, but he had stared down at the table surface throughout, uttering only monosyllables mostly. He showed a little more animation and a spark of his old self when he had roundly condemned Simalg and Ralboute for the whole debacle, but even that tirade, towards the end, had seemed lacklustre and forced, as though he could not maintain even his anger.

It had been decided that there was little that could be done. The armies would return and the wounded would have to be cared for. A new hospital would be set up to this purpose. The army would be reduced to the minimum necessary for the defence of Tassasen. There had already been disturbances in the streets in a handful of cities when people who had in the past only grumbled over the increased taxes required for the war had rioted when they heard it had all been for nothing. Taxes would have to come down to keep the populace at peace and so a number of projects would have to be suspended or abandoned. At some point negotiations with the victorious barons would have to be entered into, to regularise matters once the situation had stabilised.

UrLeyn nodded all this through, seemingly uninterested in it all. The others could take care of it. He had left the council of war to return to his son’s bedside.

UrLeyn still would not let the servants into his apartments, where he passed almost all his time. He spent a bell or two at Lattens’ side each day, and visited the harem only erratically, often just talking with the older concubines and especially with the lady Perrund.

DeWar felt a damp patch on his pillow, where his cheek had lain during the night. He turned over on his side, absently touching the fold in the head bolster which he must have dribbled on to during the night. How undignified we become in our sleep, he thought, rubbing the damp triangle of material between his fingers. Perhaps he had been sucking it while he slept, he thought. Did one do that? Did people do such a thing? Perhaps children—

He leaped out of bed, pulled on his hose, teetering one-legged and cursing, fastened his sword belt across his waist and grabbed his shirt as he kicked the door open and raced through the early morning shadows of his small living room and out into the corridor, where startled servants had been snuffing the candles. He ran quickly, bare feet thudding on the wooden boards. He pulled his shirt on as best he could.

He was looking for a guard, to tell him to follow him, but there were none to be seen. Rounding a corner that would take him towards Lattens’ sick room, he crashed into a servant carrying a breakfast tray, sending the girl and the tray tumbling across the floor. He shouted back an apology.

There was a guard at Lattens’ door, slumped asleep on a chair. DeWar kicked the seat and shouted at the man as he burst through the door.

The nurse looked up from the window where she had been sitting reading. She looked with widened eyes at DeWar’s bare chest revealed by the half-tucked shirt.

Lattens lay still in his bed. A basin and a cloth lay on the table by his head. The nurse seemed to shrink back a little as DeWar strode across the room to the boy’s bed. DeWar heard the guard come in behind him. He turned his head briefly and said, “Hold her,” and nodded at the nurse, who flinched. The guard moved towards the woman, uncertain.

DeWar went to Lattens’ side. He touched his neck and felt a weak pulse. Clutched in the boy’s fist was the pale yellow scrap of material that was his comforter. DeWar prised it from his hand as gently as he could, turning to watch the nurse as he did so. The guard stood at her side, one hand clamped over her wrist.

The nurse’s eyes went wide. Her free arm flailed at the guard, who kept a hold of her and eventually succeeded in grabbing it and bringing it under control. She tried to kick him but he twirled her round and forced her arm up her back until she doubled over and screamed, her face level with her knees.

DeWar inspected the sucked end of the comforter while the guard looked on, mystified, and the woman gasped and wept. DeWar sucked tentatively at the piece of material. There was a taste. It was slightly sweet and a little acrid at the same time. He spat on the floor, then knelt down on one knee so that he could look into the nurse’s reddened face. He held the comforter in front of the woman.

“Is this how the boy’s been poisoned, madam?” he asked softly.

The woman stared cross-eyed at the scrap of material. Tears and snot dribbled down her nose. Her jaw was clenching and unclenching. After a few moments she nodded.

“Where is the solution?”

“Uh — under the window seat,” the nurse said, her voice shaking.

“Hold her there,” DeWar told the guard quietly. He went to the window and threw off the cushion in the seat set into the thickness of the wall, pulled open a wooden flap and reached inside. He threw aside toys and a few clothes until he found a small opaque jar. He brought it over to the nurse.

“Is this it?”

She nodded.

“Where does it come from?”

She shook her head. He took out his long knife. She screamed, then shook and struggled in the guard’s grip until he tightened it and she hung gasping again. DeWar put the knife very close to her nose. “The lady Perrund!” she screamed. “The lady Perrund!”

DeWar froze. “What?”

“The lady Perrund! She gives me the jars! I swear!”

“I am not convinced,” DeWar said. He nodded to the guard, who forced the woman’s arm further up her back. She shrieked in pain.

“It’s true! The truth! It’s the truth!” she screamed.

DeWar sat back on his heel. He looked at the guard holding the woman and shook his head once. The man relaxed his hold on the nurse again. The woman sobbed, her whole doubled-up body shaking with the effort. DeWar put the knife away and frowned. Another couple of uniformed men came thundering into the room, swords readied.

“Sir?” said one, taking in the scene.

DeWar stood. “Guard the boy,” he told the pair who had just entered. “Take her to Guard Commander ZeSpiole,” he instructed the man holding the nurse. “Tell him Lattens has been poisoned and she is the poisoner.”

DeWar tucked his shirt in as he strode quickly towards UrLeyn’s apartments. Another guard, also alerted to the commotion, came running up to him. DeWar sent him off with the man taking the nurse to ZeSpiole.

There was one guard at UrLeyn’s door. DeWar drew himself up, starting to wish he had taken the time to put on all his clothes. He had to see UrLeyn no matter what orders he might have left, and this guard’s help might be needed to effect entry. He assumed what he hoped was his most commanding tone. “Straighten up there!” he barked. The guard jerked upright. “Is the Protector inside?” DeWar demanded, scowling and nodding at the door.

“No, sir!” the guard shouted.

“Where is he?”

“Sir, he went to the harem, I think, sir! He said you need not be informed, sir!”

DeWar looked at the closed door for a moment. He began to turn and move away, then stopped. “When did he go there?”

“About a half-bell ago, sir!”

DeWar nodded, then moved away. At the corner, he started running. Two more guards joined him when he called them. They headed for the harem.

The double doors to the three-domed receiving room slammed back against the walls on either side. There were a couple of concubines in the softly lit hall, talking to members of their families and sharing a light breakfast with them. All fell silent when the doors crashed open. The chief eunuch Stike sat like a sleepy white mountain in his pulpit raised near the middle of the room. His face cleared of sleep and his brows met and creased as the doors swung slowly back from their twinned impact. DeWar sprinted across the room towards the doors leading to the harem proper, the two guards trailing in his wake.

“No!” bellowed the chief eunuch. He rose and started to wobble down the steps.

DeWar reached the harem doors, wrenching at them. They were locked. Stike came lurching over the floor towards him, wagging his finger. “No, Mr DeWar!” he cried. “You do not go in there! Not ever, in any event, but especially not when the Protector himself is in there!”

DeWar looked at the two guards who had followed him. “Hold him,” he told them. Stike screamed as they tried to take hold of him. The eunuch was surprisingly strong, and each of his leg-thick arms knocked over the guards once each before they could secure him. He cried out for help as DeWar tore at his white robes, looking for and finding the set of keys he knew was there. He cut the keys from the struggling giant’s belt, tried one, then another, before the third key slipped in and turned and the doors opened.

“No!” wailed Stike, almost pulling himself free from the two guards. DeWar looked around quickly, but there was nobody else who could help. He pulled the key out and took the full set with him as he entered the inner harem. Behind him, the two guards struggled to contain the mighty rage of the chief eunuch.

DeWar had never been here before. He had, however, looked at the layout of the place on drawings, so knew where he was, even if he did not know where UrLeyn was.

He ran down a short corridor to another set of doors, Stike’s anguished cries and entreaties still ringing in his ears. There was a round internal courtyard beyond, gently lit by a single translucent dome of plaster high above. The glowing space rose on three colonnaded levels. A small fountain played in the centre and couches and seats were scattered about its floor. Girls in various states of dress and undress stood or doubled up where they lounged, yelping and screaming when they saw DeWar. A eunuch leaving a room off to one side of the lowest colonnaded level saw him and shouted. He waved his arms and came running up to DeWar, slowing and stopping only when he saw that DeWar held a sword.

“The lady Perrund,” DeWar said quickly. “The Protector.”

The eunuch stared as though hypnotised at the tip of the sword, for all that it was a couple of strides away from him. He raised one shaking hand towards the pale dome above.

“They are in,” he said in a quiet, shaking whisper, “the top-most level, sir, in the small court.”

DeWar looked around and saw the stairs. He ran for them, then in a spiral up them, to the top. There were ten or so doors arranged all around the highest level, but across the well of the courtyard he could see a wider entrance which formed a truncated corridor with double doors at its end. He ran, breathing hard now, round the gallery to the short hallway and the twinned doors. They were locked. The second key he tried opened them.

He found himself in another domed internal courtyard. This one had but a single level, and the columns supporting the roof and the translucent plaster dome were of a more delicate turn than those in the main court. There was a fountain and a pool in the centre of this yard too, which at first sight appeared to be deserted. The fountain was in the shape of three intertwined maidens, delicately sculpted from pure white marble. DeWar sensed movement behind the pale carvings of the fountain. Behind this, on the far side of the court, beyond the columns, one door lay ajar.

The fountain splashed, tinkling. It was the only sound in the wide, circular space. Shadows moved on the polished marble of the floor, near the fountain. DeWar glanced behind him, then walked forward and round.

The lady Perrund knelt before the fountain’s raised pool, washing her hands slowly and methodically. Her good hand massaged and wiped at the wasted hand, which lay floating just under the surface of the water like the limb of a drowned child.

She was dressed in a thin gown of red. It was semitransparent, and the light from the glowing plaster dome above fell down across her dishevelled blonde hair and picked out her shoulders, breasts and hips within the gauzy material. She did not look up when DeWar appeared round the side of the fountain. Instead she concentrated on washing her hands, until she was satisfied. She lifted the wasted limb out of the water and placed it gently by her side, where it hung, limp and thin and pale. She rolled the flimsy red sleeve down over it. Then she looked slowly round and up at DeWar, who had approached to within a few steps, his face pale and terrible and full of fear.

Still she did not say a word, but looked slowly round at the door which lay open behind her, opposite the double doors through which DeWar had entered.

DeWar moved quickly. He pushed the door open with the pommel of his sword and looked into the room. He stood there for some time. He backed away, until his shoulder hit one of the columns supporting the roof of the room. The sword hung loose in his hand. His head lowered until his chin rested on the white shirt over his chest.

Perrund watched him for a moment, then turned away. Still kneeling, she dried her hands as best she could on her thin gown, looking at the rim of the fountain’s bowl, a hand or so in front of her eyes.

Suddenly DeWar was at her side, standing by her wasted arm, his bare feet by her calf. The sword came slowly down to rest on the marble rim of the fountain’s bowl, then slid with a grating noise near to her nose. It dipped, and the blade went under her chin. The metal was cold on her skin. A gentle pressure lifted her face until she was looking up at him. The sword remained pressed against her throat, cold and thin and sharp.

“Why?” he asked her. There were, she saw, tears in his eyes.

“Revenge, DeWar,” she said quietly. She had thought that if she could speak at all, her voice would quiver and shake and quickly break and leave her sobbing, but her voice was steady and unstrained.

“For what?”

“For killing me, and my family, and for raping my mother and my sisters.” She thought her own voice sounded much less affected than DeWar’s. She sounded reasonable, almost unconcerned, she thought.

He stood looking down at her, his face wet with tears. His chest was coming and going inside the loosely tucked and still unbuttoned shirt. The sword at her throat, she noticed, did not move.

“The King’s men,” he said, his voice catching. The tears continued to stream.

She wanted to shake her head, though she was worried that the slightest movement would cut her skin. But then he would be doing that soon enough anyway, if she was lucky, she thought, and so, tentatively, she did shake her head. The pressure of the sword blade across her throat did not waver, but she avoided cutting herself.

“No, DeWar. Not the King’s men. His men. Him. His people. He and his cronies, those closest to him.”

DeWar stared down at her. The tears were fewer now. They had made a damp patch on the white shirt, below his chin.

“It was all as I have told you, DeWar, except that it was the Protector and his friends, not one of the old nobles still loyal to the King. UrLeyn killed me, DeWar. I thought I would return the compliment.” She opened her eyes wide and let her gaze fall to the blade of the sword in front of her. “May I beg you to be quick, for the friends we once were?”

“But you saved him!” DeWar shouted. Still the sword barely moved.

“Those were my orders, DeWar.”

“Orders?” He sounded incredulous.

“When what had happened to my town and my family and to me had happened, I wandered away. I found a camp, one night, and offered myself to some soldiers, for food. They all took me too, and I did not care, because I knew then that I had become dead. But one was cruel and wanted me in a way I did not want to be taken, and I found that once one was dead it was very easy indeed to kill. I think they would have killed me in return for his death, and that would have been that, and perhaps the better for all of us, but instead their officer took me away. I was brought to a fortress over the border, in Outer Haspidus, mostly manned by Quience’s men but commanded by forces loyal to the old King. I was treated kindly, and there I was introduced to the art of being a spy and an assassin.” Perrund smiled.

If she had been alive, she thought, her knees, on the cold white marble tiles, would be hurting a little by now, but she was dead and so they troubled somebody else. DeWar’s face was still streaked with tears. His eyes stared, seeming to bulge in their sockets. “But I was ordered to bide my time, by King Quience himself,” she told him. “UrLeyn was to die, but not at the height of his fame and power. I was commanded that I must do everything I could to keep him alive until his utter ruin had been contrived.”

She gave a small, shy smile and moved her head fractionally to look at her wasted arm. “I did. And in the process I became above suspicion.”

There was a look of utter horror on DeWar’s face. It was, she thought, like looking at the face of somebody who had died in agony and despair.

She had not seen, or wanted to see, UrLeyn’s face. She had waited until, having been given the news she claimed to have been called away to receive, he had fallen into a fit of sobbing and buried his face in the pillow, then she had risen, lifted a heavy jet vase in her one good hand and brought it crashing down on the back of his skull. The sobbing had stopped. He had not moved again or made a further sound. She’d slit his throat for good measure, but she had done that while straddling his back, and still she had not seen his face.

“Quience was behind it all,” DeWar said. His voice sounded strangled, as though he had a sword at his throat, not she at hers. “The war, the poisoning.”

“I do not know, DeWar, but I imagine so.” She looked deliberately down at the sword blade. “DeWar.” She looked up into his eyes with a hurt, pleading expression. “There is no more I can tell you. The poison was delivered by innocents to the Paupers’ Hospital, where I received it. Nobody I know knew what it was or what it was for. If you have the nurse as well, you have the totality of our conspiracy. There is no more to tell.” She paused. “I am already dead, DeWar. Please, if you would, finish the job. I am suddenly so weary.” She let the muscles supporting her head relax so that her chin rested on the blade. It, and through it DeWar, was now taking all the weight of her head and its memories.

The metal, warm now, dropped slowly away from beneath her, so that she had to stop herself falling forwards and striking the rim of the fountain pool. She looked up. DeWar, his own head hanging down, was sliding the sword back into its scabbard.

“I told him the boy was dead, DeWar!” she said angrily. “I lied to him before I crushed his filthy skull and slit his scrawny old-man’s throat!” She struggled to her feet, her joints protesting. She went to DeWar and took his arm with her good hand. “Would you leave me to the guard and the questioner? Is that your judgment?”

She shook him, but he did not respond. She looked down, then grabbed at the nearest weapon, his long knife. She pulled it from its sheath. He looked alarmed and took two rapid steps backwards, away from her, but he could have stopped her taking it, and he had not.

“Then I’ll do it myself!” she said, and brought the knife quickly up to her throat. His arm was a blur. She saw sparks in front of her face. Her hand began to sting almost before her eyes and mind had registered what had happened. The knife he had knocked from her hand smacked into a wall and fell with a metallic clatter to the marble floor. The sword hung in his hand again.

“No,” he said, moving towards her.