Inversions c-6

by Iain Banks

  "Do you think it was the work of the gods, mistress? There axe those who say that Providence was punishing us for something, or perhaps just punishing the Empire. Others hold that it was the work of the old gods, and that they are coming back. What do you think?"

  "I think it could be any of those things, Oelph," the Doctor said thoughtfully. "Though there are some people in Drezen — philosophers — who have a much more bleak explanation, mind you."

  "Which is what, mistress?"

  "That such things happen for no reason at all."

  "No reason?"

  "No reason beyond the workings of pure chance."

  I thought about this. "Do they not think that there is good and bad? And that one deserves to be emulated and the other not, but rather punished?"

  "A very small number would say that there are no such entities. Most agree there are, but that they only exist in our minds. The world itself, without us, does not recognise such things, just because they are not things, they are ideas, and the world contained no ideas until people came along."

  "So they believe that Man was not created with the world?"

  "That's right. Or at least not people with wits."

  "Are they then Seigenists? Do they believe that the Lesser Sun created us?"

  "Some would say it did. They would claim that people were once no more than animals and that we too used to fall asleep promptly when Xamis set, and rise when it rose. Some believe that all we are is light, that the light of Xamis holds the world together like an idea, like a hugely complicated dream, and the light of Seigen is the very expression of us as thinking beings."

  I tried to comprehend this curious concept, and was just starting to decide that it was not so different from normal beliefs when the Doctor asked suddenly, "What do you believe in, Oelph?"

  Her face, turned to me, was the colour of the soft, tawny dusk. Seigen-light caught fallen wisps of her half-curled red hair.

  "What? Why, what all other civil people believe, mistress," I said, before thinking that perhaps she, coming from Drezen where they obviously had some odd ideas, might believe something quite different. "That is to say, what people hereabouts, that is in Haspidus…"

  "Yes, but what do you personally believe?"

  I frowned at her, an expression such a graceful, gentle face did not deserve to have directed at it. Did the Doctor really imagine that everybody went around believing different things? One believed what one was told to believe,

  what it made sense to believe. Unless one was a foreigner, of course, or a philosopher. "I believe in Providence, mistress."

  "But when you say Providence, do you really mean god?"

  "No, mistress. I don't believe in any of the old gods. No one does any more. No one of sense, at any rate. Providence is the rule of laws, mistress," I said.

  I was trying not to insult her by sounding as though I was talking to a child. I had experienced aspects of the Doctor's naïveté before, and ascribed it to simple ignorance of the manner in which matters were organised in what was to her a foreign land, but even after the best part of a year it appeared there were still subjects that each of us assumed we viewed in a mutual light and from a similar perspective which in fact we saw quite differently. "The laws of Nature determine the ordering of the physical world and the laws of Man determine the ordering of society, mistress."

  "Hmm," she said, with an expression that might have been simply thoughtful or tinged with scepticism.

  "One set of laws grows out of the other as do plants from the common clay," I added, remembering something I'd been taught in Natural Philosophy (my determined and strenuous endeavours to take in absolutely nothing of what I had regarded as entirely the most irrelevant part of my schooling had patently not met with total success).

  "Which is not so dissimilar to the light of Xamis ordering the major part of the world, and that of Seigen illuminating the human," she mused, staring towards the sunset again.

  "I suppose not, mistress," I agreed, struggling to follow.

  "Ha," she said. "All very interesting."

  "Yes, mistress," I said, dutifully.

  Adlain: Duke Walen. A pleasure, as ever. Welcome to my humble tent. Please.

  Walen: Adlain.

  A: Some wine? What about food? Have you eaten?

  W: A glass, thank you.

  A: Wine. I'll take some too. Thank you, Epline. So, you are well?

  W: Well enough. You?

  A: Fine.

  W: I wonder, could you…?

  A: What, Epline? Yes, of course. Epline, would you…? I'll call… Now then, Walen?… There is nobody else here.

  W: Hmm. Very well. This doctor. Vosill.

  A: Still her, eh, dear Duke? This is becoming an obsession. Do you really find her that interesting? Perhaps you ought to tell her. She may prefer older men.

  W: Mocking the wisdom that comes with age is a fit sport only for those who expect never to attain much of it themselves, Adlain. You know the substance of my complaint.

  A: I regret I don't, Duke.

  W: But you have told me of your own doubts. Did you not have her writing checked in case it was a code or something similar?

  A: I thought about it. I decided not to, directly.

  W: Well, perhaps you should, directly. She is a witch. Or a spy. One of the two.

  A: I see. And what strange old gods or other demons do you think she serves? Or which master?

  W: I do not know. We will not know, unless we put her to the question.

  A: Ah-ha. Would you like to see that happen?

  W: I know it is unlikely while she retains the King's favour, though that might not last for ever. In any event, there are ways. She might simply disappear and be questioned… informally, as it were.

  A: Nolieti?

  W: I have… not discussed this with him as such, but I have already ascertained most reliably that he would be more than happy to oblige. He suspects strongly that she released through death one of those he was questioning.

  A: Yes, he mentioned that to me.

  W: Did you think to do anything?

  A: I told him he should be more careful.

  W: Hmm. At any rate, she might be discovered in such a manner, though that would be somewhat risky, and she would have to be killed thereafter anyway. Working to force her from the King's favour might take longer and could, pressing the matter as one may have to, entail risks which were hardly less than those attached to the former course of action.

  A: Obviously you have given the matter considerable thought.

  W: Of course. But if she was to be taken, without the King's knowledge, the help of the guard commander might be crucial.

  A: It might, mightn't-it?

  W: So? Would you help?

  A: In what way?

  W: Provide the men, perhaps?

  A: I think not. We might have one lot of the palace guard fighting their fellows, and that would never do.

  W: Well then, otherwise?

  A: Otherwise?

  W: Damn it, man! You know what I must mean!

  A: Blind eyes? Gaps in rosters? That sort of thing?

  W: Yes, that.

  A: Sins of omission rather than commission.

  W: Expressed however you wish. It is the acts, or lack of them I would know about.

  A: Then, perhaps.

  W: No more? Merely, "perhaps'?

  A: Were you thinking of doing this in close proximity to the present, dear Duke?

  W: Perhaps.

  A: Ha. Now, you see, unless you-

  W: I don't mean today, or tomorrow. I am looking for an understanding that should it become necessary, such a plan might be put into effect with as little delay as possible.

  A: Then, if I was convinced of the urgency of the cause, it might.

  W: Good. That is better. At last. Providence, you are the most-

  A: But I would have to believe that the safety of the monarch was threatened. Doctor Vosill is a personal appointee of the King. To
move against her might be seen as moving against our beloved Quience himself. His health is in her hands, perhaps as much as it is in mine. I do my modest best to keep at bay assassins and others who might wish the King ill, while she combats the illnesses that come from within.

  W: Yes, yes, I know. She is close. He depends on her. It is already too late to act before her influence achieves its zenith. We might only work to hasten the descent. But by then it might be too late.

  A: You think that she means to kill the King? Or influence him? Or does she merely spy, reporting to another power?

  W: Her brief might include all of those, depending.

  A: Or none.

  W: You seem less concerned in this than I imagined, Adlain. She has come from the ends of the world, entered the city barely two years ago, doctored to one merchant and one noble — both briefly — and then suddenly she's closer to our King than anybody else! Providence, a wife would spend less time with him!

  A: Yes. One might wonder whether she performs any of the more intimate duties of a wife.

  W: Hmm. I think not. To bed one's physician is unusual, but that only arises from the unnaturalness of having a woman claiming to be a doctor in the first place. But, no, I have seen no sign. Why, do you know?

  A: I merely wondered if you knew.

  W: Hmm.

  A: Of course, she does seem to be a rather good doctor. At the very least she has done the King no obvious harm, and that in my experience is far more than one might reasonably expect from a court physician. Perhaps we should leave her alone for now, while we have nothing more definite than your suspicions, however reliable they have proved in the past.

  W: We might. Will you have her watched?

  A: Well, no more than at present.

  W: Hmm. And besides, I have another investment in the truth or otherwise of her story that may yet yield her.

  A: You do? How so?

  W: I shall not trouble you with the details, but I have my doubts concerning certain of her claims and hope presently to bring before the King one who can discredit her and show her to have borne false witness to him. It is a long-term investment but it should bear interest during our time at the Summer Palace or, if not, then shortly thereafter.

  A: I see. Well, we must hope that you do not lose your capital. Can you tell me what form it takes?

  W: Oh, it is the coin of man. And land, and tongue. But I must hold mine. I'll say no more.

  A: I think I shall have more wine. Will you join me?

  W: Thank you, no. I have other matters to attend to.

  A: Allow me…

  W: Thank you. Ah. My old bones… at least I am able to ride, though next year I may take carriage. I thank Providence the way back is easier. And that we are not far from Lep now.

  A: I'm sure in the hunt you can out-jump men half your age, Duke.

  W: I am sure I cannot, but your flattery is still gratifying. Good day.

  A: Good day, Duke… Epline!

  All this I copied — with a few deletions to make the narrative less tedious — from the part of the Doctor's journal written in Imperial. I never did show it to my Master.

  Could she have overheard all this? It seems inconceivable. The guard commander Adlain had his own physician and I'm sure he never once called upon the Doctor's services. What would she have been doing anywhere near his tent?

  Could they have been lovers and she was hiding under some bed covers all the time? That seems no more likely. I was with her almost all of the time, every single day. Also, she confided in me, sincerely, I am convinced. She simply did not like Adlain. Indeed she felt threatened by him. How could she suddenly have tumbled into bed with a man she feared, never giving the remotest sign before that she desired to, or afterwards that she had? I know that illicit lovers can be ingenious in the extreme and suddenly find within themselves reserves of guile and the ability to act that even they did not until then know they possessed, but to imagine the Doctor and the guard commander in such a sexual conspiracy is surely to draw the bow one notch too far.

  Was Epline the source? Did she have some sort of hold over him? I do not know. They seemed not really to know each other, but who can tell? They may have been lovers, but the same unlikeliness attaches to that liaison as does to that of her and Adlain.

  I cannot think who else could have heard all of this. It did occur to me that she might have made it all up, that what she wrote here constituted her darkest imaginings regarding what others in the Court might be planning for her, yet somehow that too does not feel right either. In the end I am left with something that I am certain reflects a genuine conversation, but with no clear idea how the Doctor came by it.

  But there we are. Some things never do make perfect sense. There must be some explanation, and it is perhaps a little like the Doctrine of the Perfect Partner. We must be content to know that she exists, somewhere in the world, and try not to care overmuch that we will probably never meet her.

  We arrived without incident at the city of Lep-Skatacheis. On the morning after we arrived the Doctor and I went to the King's chambers before the business of the day was due to start. As usual on such occasions, the King's business — and much of the Court's — comprised of hearing certain legal disputes which had been deemed too complicated or too important for the city authorities and the Marshal to decide upon. According to my experience, gained during the three previous years I had travelled this way, such sitting in judgment was not a function of his responsibilities the King relished.

  The King's chambers were on a corner of the CityMarshal's palace, overlooking the reflecting terraces of the pools which led down towards the distant river. Swifts and darts played in the warm air outside, wheeling and tumbling beyond the cool stone of the balcony balustrades. The chamberlain Wiester let us in, fussing as usual.

  "Oh. Are you on time? Was there the bell? Or a cannon? I did not hear the bell. Did you?"

  "A few moments ago," the Doctor told him, following him across the reception room to the King's dressing chamber.

  "Providence!" he said, and opened the doors.

  "Ah, the good Doctor Vosill!" the King exclaimed. He was standing on a small stool in the centre of the great dressing chamber, being dressed in his ceremonial judicial robes by four servants. One wall of plaster windows, south facing, flooded the room with soft, creamy light. Duke Ormin stood nearby, tall and slightly stooped and dressed in judicial robes. "How are you today?" the King asked.

  "I am well, your majesty."

  "A very good morning to you, Doctor Vosill," Duke Ormin said, smiling. Duke Ormin was ten or so years older than the King. He was a lanky-legged sort of a fellow with a very broad head and a surprisingly large torso which always looked, to me at least, stuffed, as though he had a couple of pillows forced up his shirt. An odd-looking fellow, then, but most civil and kind, as I knew myself, having been briefly in his employ, though at a fairly menial level. The Doctor, too, had been retained by him, more recently, when she had been his personal physician before she had become the King's.

  "Duke Ormin," the Doctor said, bowing.

  "Ah!" the King said. "And I was favoured with a 'your majesty'! Usually I am lucky to escape with a 'sir'."

  "I beg the King's pardon," the Doctor said, bowing now to him.

  "Granted," Quience said, putting back his head and letting a couple of servants gather his blond curls together and pin a skull cap in place. "I am obviously in a magnanimous mood this morning. Wiester?"

  "Sire?"

  "Inform the good lord judges I shall be joining that I am in such a good mood they will have to be certain to be at their most sourly pitiless in court this morning to provide a balance for my irrepressible leniency. Take heed, Ormin."

  Duke Ormin beamed, his eyes almost disappearing as his face screwed up in a grin.

  Wiester hesitated, then started to make for the door. "At once, sire."

  "Wiester."

  "Sire?"

  "I was joking."

 
"Ah. Ha ha." The chamberlain laughed.

  The Doctor put her bag down on a seat near the door.

  "Yes, Doctor?" the King asked.

  The Doctor blinked. "You asked me to attend you this morning, sir."

  "Did I?" The King looked mystified.

  "Yes, last night." (This was true.)

  "Oh, so I did." The King looked surprised as his arms were raised and a sleeveless black robe edged in some shiningly white fur was placed over his shoulders and fastened. He flexed, shifting his weight from stockinged foot to stockinged foot, clenching his fists, executing a sort of rolling motion with his shoulders and his head and then declaring, "You see, Ormin? I am becoming quite forgetful in my old age."

  "Why now, sir, you have barely left your youth," the Duke told him. "If you go calling yourself old as though by royal decree, what must we think who are significantly older than you and yet who still fondly harbour the belief that we are not yet old? Have mercy, please."

  "Very well," the King agreed, with a roll of the hand. "I declare myself young again. And well," he added, with a renewed look of surprise as he glanced at the Doctor and me. "Why, I seem to be quite bereft of any aches and pains for you to treat this morning, Doctor."

  "Oh." The Doctor shrugged. "Well, that's good news," she said, picking up her bag and turning for the door. "I'll bid you good day then, sir."

  "Ah!" the King said suddenly. We each turned again.

  "Sir?"

  The King looked most thoughtful for a moment, then shook his head. "No, Doctor, I can think of nothing with which to detain you. You may go. I shall call you when I need you next."

  "Of course, sir."

  Wiester opened the doors for us.

  "Doctor?" the King said as we were in the doorway. "Duke Ormin and I go hunting this afternoon. I usually fall off my mount or get torn up by a barb bush, so I may well have something for you to treat later."

  Duke Ormin laughed politely and shook his head.

  "I shall start to prepare the relevant potions now," the Doctor said. "Your majesty."