The look the Inquisitor gave me was as intent as ever, but uncharacteristically guileless, as if he were searching my face for some clue he'd found missing in my words. I couldn't judge whether he saw what he was looking for, because he quickly caught himself and erased the expression. However, his reply was cryptic enough. "That remains to be seen," he said.
Pausing, he again seemed distracted. Could it be that a glimmer of reality was beginning to penetrate his fabrication of the last few weeks' events?
"Let us agree," he said finally, "that Moaradrid is dead — just as Prince Panchetto is dead. Meanwhile, Altapasaeda has fallen into the hands of a petty crook and his band of miscreants, who are now set on wresting the Castoval from the just grip of its Pasaedan masters."
"I think you'll find Alvantes would be more than glad to go back and deal with that last one. If the King could spare a few men and he wasn't imprisoned for treason, that is."
"No doubt. Were His Highness to allow it, you'd both be valiantly rushing to rescue Altapasaeda at this very moment. You were a hapless witness to Prince Panchetto's murder. Even Moaradrid's death, which robbed the Court of the alleged culprit, was an unfortunate misunderstanding." He sighed heavily. "This is the story you'd ask me to deliver to the King?"
"It's the only one I have."
"I could torture you, Damasco. You realise that, don't you? I'm well versed in torture. More than you could probably imagine."
For all our intimate discussion, it was obvious he still didn't know me very well. Imagining physical pain had always been the thing my brain excelled at over any other. Moreover, alarming as the prospect of torture might be for someone with secrets to hide, it was infinitely worse for me, who'd just spent three hours blabbing his every thought in minute detail.
Holding my voice as steady as I could manage, I said, "You could torture me. I'm willing to believe you'd be very good at it. But all you'd get out of me would be the same things I've been telling you all day — only at a higher pitch."
The Inquisitor sighed, too theatrically for my liking. He nodded solemnly, as though through his efforts we'd achieved a milestone in our relations as interrogator and prisoner. He snapped his book shut, with a musty slap that sounded to my ears like a death knell. "You know," he said, "the sad truth is I believe you."
For a moment, I actually felt dizzy with relief. It was like a tidal wave pouring up from my feet to the tips of my hair. "You believe I'm innocent?"
"Of course not. You've been condemned by the King. Your innocence is an impossibility."
"Oh."
"I just don't believe you're clever enough to make up anything so patently absurd."
He took up his book, quill and ink from the low alcove he'd rested them in when writing and placed them in a case of black leather, which he tucked into a pocket of his robe. Then he turned to the door and rapped sharply. It swung inward on well-oiled hinges, revealing a guard stood at attention in the opening.
"Wait," I called. "Haven't you forgotten something?"
He turned back. "Not to my knowledge. If you wish to enlighten me, please be quick. You're not the only one in the royal dungeons in need of interrogation."
I tipped my head towards Alvantes. "My point exactly."
For the first time in our conversation, a touch of genuine interest entered his voice. "You want me to interrogate your friend?"
It didn't seem the time to point out how far opposed to friendship my relationship with Alvantes was. "Absolutely."
The Inquisitor took a step back towards me. "Do you think you can strike a deal?" He actually sounded intrigued now. "Perhaps we'll execute Alvantes twice and let you go?"
"I just don't see why I should go through three hours of interrogation and he gets to sit there sulking."
"Ah. I see." His disappointment seemed every bit as real as his brief curiosity had been. "I won't be examining former Guard-Captain Alvantes because nothing he could tell me would keep his head on his shoulders for another day. Whereas you might conceivably have saved your life if you'd answered a little more wisely."
At that, my heart sank like a stone — a cold, grey stone plummeting into the depths of a frigid, bottomless lake.
The Inquisitor spared me one last look. "Any more questions? Shall we discuss the weather or catch up on local gossip?"
"No," I said, "I think we're done."
I couldn't say I wasn't glad of a little peace and quiet.
Yet the Inquisitor's departure had shut off one narrow avenue of hope — perhaps the only one I'd really had. It wasn't as if I'd truly imagined I could convince him to let me go; based on my experiences so far, qualities like reason, justice and even basic sanity had no place in Pasaeda's public affairs. Now that he was gone, though, my approaching fate seemed real for the first time.
Still. I wasn't without my resources. Few they might be and limited, but I wasn't quite done for. All through my interrogation, a minuscule part of my mind had been plotting. While most of my consciousness hung on the cusp of panic, it had calmly analysed my circumstances. Studiously, it had broken my big problem — being locked in a cell awaiting all-too-imminent execution — into smaller, more manageable difficulties.
There was the chain round my ankle.
The locked door.
The guard outside.
All of those might, if against my every experience luck should somehow favour me, be managed.
After that, however, the challenges became uncertain. I had only the vaguest idea of where we were within the palace, of its layout or what routes might take me safely through its boundless grounds.
Now, with the benefit of silence, I did my best to plan the unplannable. I went over and over the scant details I knew, racked my memory for every recollection of my time in Pasaeda, tried to tease out the shape of those many dangers I couldn't foresee. Where might guards congregate? What mistake would be likeliest to raise an alarm? If I should miraculously make it into the city, where could I hide and for how long? In the past I'd found that simply hammering my thoughts against such unsolvable-seeming dilemmas would sometimes offer the hint of a direction.
This wasn't one of those times. The more I considered, the more desperate the possibility of escape seemed. I might get out of my cell; but getting out of the palace, let alone the city, let alone the country were other things entirely. I had to try, of course. The alternative was to wait and die. However, the idea of a getaway attempt without hope of success left me increasingly despondent.
Such was my mood when I was jarred to attention by the sound of the door. As I watched, half-petrified by alarm, it swung open. Had I deliberated too long? Were they here to take us already? I'd been so mired in my thoughts that I had no idea how much time had passed since the Inquisitor left.
My fears appeared to be ungrounded. Asides from the familiar guard, the entrance was occupied by an elderly man. He was smartly dressed in a plain white robe with simple, silver adornment along the hems and a dark green sash about the waist. He had a military bearing; he held himself straight — and despite his age, was broadshouldered, with a suggestion of enduring fitness. His white hair was shorn close above a lined, square face, with features strong enough to be considered severe.
He barely glanced at me. Instead, his gaze fell on Alvantes. Like me, Alvantes had looked up when the door opened, and his attention held now to the old man's face. I could read nothing from either of them. They were still and expressionless as two opposing statues left to weather eternity.
Then, in a voice without inflection, the old man said, "Hello, Lunto."
Only then did Alvantes let go his stare. His eyes dropped to the floor. "Hello, Father."