"Then you will spread the ill humour to others, they will incubate it while you grow well again, they will perhaps subsequently inadvertently sneeze in your presence and consequently reinfect you, who will play host to it again while they recover, and so on."
"Don't lecture me, Doctor. I'm in no mood for it." The King looked round at the slumped pile of pillows propping him up, opened his mouth to call a servant but then started to sneeze, his blond locks bouncing as his head went back and forth. The Doctor stood up from her chair and, while he was still sneezing, pulled the King upright and rearranged his pillows. The King looked at her in some surprise.
"You are stronger than you look, are you not, Doctor?"
"Yes, sir," the Doctor said with a modest smile as she went back to undoing the dressing on the King's ankle. "And yet still weaker than I would be." She was dressed as she had been the day before. Her long red hair was more carefully prepared than was usual, combed and plaited and hanging down her long dark jacket almost to her slim waist. She looked at me and I became aware that I was staring. I looked down at my feet.
Poking out from under the great bed's valance was a corner of cream-coloured clothing that looked oddly familiar. I wondered at this for a moment or two until, with a pang of jealousy for the right of Kings, I realised it was part of a shepherdess's costume. I pushed it further under the valance with my shoe.
The King settled himself back amongst his pillows. "What is the news on that boy who ran away? The one who killed my chief questioner?"
"They caught him this morning," the Doctor said, busying herself with the old dressing. "However, I do not think he committed the murder."
"Really?" the King said.
Personally, Master, I did not think he sounded as if he particularly cared one way or the other what the Doctor thought on this matter, but this was the cue for the Doctor to explain in some detail — especially to a man, however exalted, who had a cold and had just eaten a light breakfast — exactly why she had convinced herself that Unoure had not killed Nolieti. I have to say that the consensus amongst the other apprentices, assistants and pages, arrived at in the kitchen parlour of the palace the previous evening, was that the only perplexing aspect about the whole business was how Unoure had been able to put off the dark decd fox so long.
"Well," the King said, "I dare say Quettil's fellow will get the truth out of him."
"The truth, sir? Or what is required to satisfy the prejudices of those already convinced they know the truth?"
"What?" the King said, dabbing at his reddened nose.
"This barbaric custom of torture, sir. It produces not the truth but rather whatever those commanding the questioner wish to hear, for the agonies involved are so unbearable that those subject to them will confess to anything — or more precisely, will confess to what they think their tormentors wish them to confess to — in the hope of causing the suffering to cease."
The King looked at the Doctor with an expression of confusion and disbelief. "People are beasts, Vosill. Lying beasts. The only way to get the truth out of them sometimes is to wring it from them." The King snorted mightily. "My father taught me that."
The Doctor looked at the King for a long moment, then started to undo the old dressing. "Indeed. Well, I'm sure he could not possibly have been wrong, sir," she said. She supported the King's foot with one hand and unwound the white dressing with the other. She started sniffing too.
The King kept on sniffing and snorting and staring at the Doctor. "Doctor Vosill?" he asked eventually as the last of the dressing floated free from his ankle and the Doctor gave it to me to put away.
"Sir?" she asked, wiping her eyes on her cuff and looking away from Quience.
"Madam, have I upset you?"
"No," the Doctor said quickly. "No, sir." She made as though to start applying the new dressing, then put it aside and made an exasperated clicking noise with her mouth. She busied herself with the inspection of the small wound healing on the King's ankle and then ordered me to fetch water and soap, which I had already provided and set by the bed. She seemed annoyed that I had done this, but quickly ensured the wound was clean, washed and dried the King's foot and began to secure the new dressing.
The King appeared discomfited during all this. When the Doctor was finished he looked at her and said, "You will be looking forward to the ball yourself, Doctor?"
She smiled briefly at him. "Of course, your majesty."
We packed our things away. As we were about to take our leave, the King reached out and took the Doctor's hand. There was a troubled, uncertain look I did not think I had seen before in his eyes. He said, "Women bear pain better than men, they say, Doctor." His eyes seemed to search hers. "It is ourselves we hurt most when we question."
The Doctor looked down at her hand, held within the King's. "Women bear pain better because we must give birth, sir," she said in a low voice. "Such pain is generally regarded as being unavoidable, but is alleviated to whatever extent it can be by those of my calling." She looked up into his eyes. "And we only become beasts — we become worse than beasts — when we torment others, sir."
She took her hand carefully from his, picked up her bag and with a small bow to the King, turned and headed for the doors. I hesitated, half expecting the King to call her back, but he did not. He just sat there in his vast bed, looking hurt, and sniffing. I bowed to the King and followed the Doctor.
Unoure never was put to the question. A few hours after he was captured and brought back to the palace, while the Doctor and I were attending the King and while Ralinge was still preparing the chamber for his inquisition, a guard looked in on the cell where the youth was being held. Somehow, Unoure had slit his own throat with a small knife. His arms and legs were tightly chained behind him and he had been stripped naked before being placed in the cell. The knife had been wedged hilt-first into a crack in the stone walls of the cell at about waist height. Unoure had been able to kneel before it at the extremity of the reach the chains securing him would allow and slice his neck across its blade, before collapsing and bleeding to death.
I understand that the two Guard Commanders were furious. The guards who had been charged with Unoure's custody were lucky they were neither punished nor put to the question themselves. It was eventually agreed that Unoure must have placed the knife there before his attack on Nolieti, in case he was captured and brought back to the palace.
Our shared station might dictate both that we knew little and that our opinions were worth less, but none of us who had had occasion to experience the full extent of Unoure's intelligence, forethought and cunning found this explanation even remotely convincing.
Quetticlass="underline" Good Duke, how very pleasant it is to see you. Is this not a fine view?
Walen: Hmm. I find you well, Quettil?
Q: In most rude health. You?
W: Tolerable.
Q: I thought you might want to sit down. See? I have arranged for chairs.
W: Thank you, no. Let us go over here…
Q: Oh. Well, very well… Well, here we are. And afforded an even finer view. However, I cannot imagine you wished to meet me up here to admire my own estates.
W: Hmm.
Q: Allow me to hazard a guess. You have some misgivings about… what was his name? Nolieti? Nolieti's death? Or rather about his and his apprentice's?
W: No. I believe that matter is closed. I attach no great significance to the death of a pair of torturers. Theirs is a despicable if necessary craft.
Q: Despicable? Oh no. No indeed. Why, I would call it a form of art at its most elevated. My man, Ralinge, is a veritable master. I have only avoided singing his praises to Quience because I'm afraid he might take him from me, and that would be most upsetting. I should feel deprived.