I raised my hand high, letting the tip of my sword point straight down. With all the strength in my body, with every last ounce of rage in my being, I drove it down into the marble floor.
By rights the blade should have shattered, yet somehow I’d found the perfect angle and the tip struck a weak point in the marble. My rapier sank nearly a foot into the floor of Castle Aramor’s throne room. I let go of the grip and watched as it quivered from the force of the impact. The stonemason’s warning about the castle’s weaknesses came back to me and I found myself wondering if we were all about to go tumbling down to our deaths. There would have been a kind of poetic symmetry in that, but death, like life, cares nothing for poetry.
Very slowly, I walked back to Aline’s body. I removed my greatcoat and laid it on top of her.
Then I turned and faced the room. ‘I’d like to go to my cell now,’ I said.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
The Three Visitors
The first week in a cell is the hardest. Fear is a constant companion, an unwelcome cellmate who talks and talks until you clamp your hands against your ears even though you know it will do no good. Then, when exhaustion finally overtakes you, he whispers such horrors to you that your own imagination seems an insufficient canvas to hold so many dark thoughts.
I suppose it’s even worse for those who still care about living.
For someone like me, who, let’s face it, has never had the most adamantine grip on reality, the real problem is having my sanity fall out from beneath me like a trapdoor opening onto a particularly deep pit. The sensation felt so familiar that the thought of going mad was almost welcome – it does help to pass the time, after all. However, it’s not without its annoyances, specifically, never being sure if the parade of people coming to see you are real or not.
‘Food,’ my night-time guard said, and I looked up from the darkness of my cot to see him holding a tray beneath the dim light of the lantern hanging in the hallway outside my cell. I checked to see if his appearance had changed; in my experience, imaginary people rarely look exactly the same from visit to visit. In this case, Dezerick was much the same as every other time I’d seen him: a big, burly man with oddly beautiful blue eyes offset by a nose that had clearly been broken more than once. He had thick, curly black hair and a beard that looked like it had been recently been adorning a bear’s—
‘You’re not real,’ I said, wagging a finger at him.
He looked surprised. ‘I’m not?’
I got up from my cot so I could see him better. ‘You’ve had a haircut – and not one you did yourself – and your beard has been trimmed. Elegantly.’
‘A man’s not allowed to take some pride in his appearance?’
I kept silent. It’s important to remember not to talk back to hallucinations.
‘Look, do you want this food or not? Otherwise I’m going to eat it.’
Despite myself, my eyes went to the tray: a bowl of soup that smelled of tomato and basil, a thick slice of bread and a plate that appeared to have a slab of actual meat on it (and not rat meat, either). ‘Now I know I’m imagining you,’ I said, breaking my own rule about not conversing with my delusions. ‘Who in the hells would bother putting herbs in prison soup?’
‘Brings out the flavour,’ he said, sounding a little offended. ‘Besides, why would the cooks go to the trouble of making especially unappetising meals just for you when they’ve already got pots of proper soup made for the castle’s guests and staff?’
He was right; you really do have to wonder why most dungeons go to all the trouble of serving such unpalatable food to prisoners.
‘That doesn’t explain the beef,’ I pointed out. ‘And I couldn’t help but notice you’re wearing a clean shirt too . . .’
‘Look, I’m going to put this tray through the slot and you can either eat it or not as pleases you. Now, do you want to hand me your shit-bucket or is that imaginary too?’
Reluctantly, I picked up the bucket and slid it through the gap in the bars intended for that purpose – and immediately ran to the far corner of the cell. Guards often find it terribly funny when, instead of taking away the bucket, they hurl the contents through the bars and drench you in your own filth.
Dezerick gave me a sour look. ‘You really do expect the worst of people, don’t you?’
As he started his slow shamble back down the hall I scrutinised the contents of the tray. My inspection lasted less than a second before I grabbed the beef and took a bite, barely bothering to chew before swallowing it. Yes, fine, it might have been poisoned, but really, I’d attempted to kill the new heir to the throne so I was going to die anyway soon enough. And in truth, the meals hadn’t been bad to start with, and oddly, appeared to be getting better and better. ‘A proper haircut,’ I called out between the bars. ‘Your beard styled and oiled and a nice new shirt. Who’s been bribing you to bring me better food?’
The guard came back and folded his arms across his chest. ‘Did you just accuse me o—?’
‘I’m not complaining. I’m just saying, I hope you made out all right on the deal.’
A wide grin slowly spread across Dezerick’s face. ‘I’ve never had so many give me money! I can’t walk from my cottage to the castle without someone slipping a coin into my hand. “Show him some kindness,” they say, “and there’ll be more on the morrow.” I swear, Falcio, the missus and I are this close to being able to buy a nice little plot of farmland we’ve had our eye on.’ He glanced down at the tray, now mostly empty, as I’d been eating while he’d been talking. ‘Want some more? It isn’t any trouble.’
I shook my head. ‘Thanks, but I’m all right – I don’t want to look fat at my hanging, do I?’
‘Well, I hope that’s not too soon.’ His look made it clear he’d hold me personally responsible for any loss of income should I be executed before he’d become the proud possessor of a snug little farm. ‘Anyway, if there’s anything I can do for you – well, other than letting you escape! – you let me know.’
I considered that for a moment. Books might have been nice, and perhaps an oil lamp to read them by, but that wasn’t how I wanted to spend this favour. ‘There is one thing you could do for me.’
‘Name it,’ he said warily.
‘No visitors.’
*
Despite my request, I received a visitor that same night. I suppose given who it was, I couldn’t really blame the guard.
‘Hello, First Cantor.’
At first I thought it might be Filian, but where his voice had always annoyed me with its supercilious formality, this one was younger, richer, filled with a kind of warm enthusiasm, like that of a child about to set out on their first fishing expedition.
I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and waited for my vision to clear as I stared at a young man of twelve with unruly dark hair and an overly optimistic grin. Tommer, who’d taken a fatal blow protecting Aline from a God, whose hand I’d held as he’d given up his last breath, was standing a few feet away from me, inside my cell.