a sustained period. I tried it on some dogs before I moved to humans.’
‘You tried it on …’ Durdil trailed off and then drained his glass. ‘Remind me never to bring my hounds to the palace.’ He paused and replayed Hallos’s words. ‘Wait, you said they’ll be well enough to return to the barracks tomorrow. Where are they now?’
Hallos shifted in his seat. ‘Hospital,’ he muttered, and then patted the air again. ‘Precautionary only, I promise. I am making progress on ascertaining how long a healthy man can hold his breath in a variety of situations, though. Under water, in toxic smoke, while under stress, while running. All fascinating.’
‘And how is this of use?’ Durdil asked.
‘Well, say the palace caught fire, gods forbid. The king is trapped in his quarters with a fire raging its way towards him. You’re at the other end of the corridor. Now I’m confident that a fit man, as you undoubtedly are, could sprint that hundred yards while holding your breath in around twenty seconds. Meaning you know how long it will take you to reach the king and escort him to safety.’
Durdil choked slightly on his drink. ‘Twenty seconds? You have a lot of faith in an old man, Hallos. But let’s go along with the scenario. I heroically hold my breath and sprint the length of the corridor, full of toxic smoke, and burst into the king’s quarters. Now, once I’ve got my wind back, which I imagine would take several minutes and perhaps a small lie-down, how do I get his majesty out? With all due respect, I do not think him capable of sprinting a hundred yards while breathing, let alone while not.’
‘Ah, but this is where the research really comes into its own,’ Hallos 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