'It is preposterous. That doesn't mean it didn't happen.'
'You really expect me to believe that you kidnapped a giant?'
'Not kidnapped,' I said. 'Borrowed. Or, at any rate, liberated.'
'You kidnapped a giant from the insurgent Moaradrid. You stole the stone he was using to control this giant and others of his kind. Then you escaped…' The Inquisitor paused to make a great show of consulting his own notes. 'By riding upon said giant.'
'Until he got tired. Then I liberated a horse instead.'
'And it was your theft of this so-called giant-stone that set about the chain of events which ended in Prince Panchetto's murder.'
'No! I mean, how am I supposed to know? Maybe if I hadn't taken the stone… if Moaradrid hadn't been a murderous lunatic…'
Had my brain not caught up with my mouth just in time, I'd have added, if Panchetto hadn't had all the sense of a wet sponge. The truth was, every time we went over the events preceding Panchetto's death I found myself feeling a little more guilty; every time I narrated my role in the last hours of his life, I sounded more culpable. I was slowly being condemned by the power of suggestion.
The Inquisitor frowned down his nose, apparently now trying to impress my guilt on me through sheer intensity of expression. 'Maybe? Why can't you admit your iniquity?'
'I've admitted plenty of iniquity. It just hasn't been for the crime you're planning to execute me for.'
He stamped his foot. The gesture should have seemed petulant and ridiculous, but the suddenness of it — in the close confines of the cell — set my nerves jangling. 'Admit it. Your visit to Altapasaeda ended with Prince Panchetto's death.'
I struggled to keep my voice level. Something told me that losing my temper in a royal prison cell had the potential to end badly. 'His death at the hands of Moaradrid. Look, I feel as bad about Panchetto's death as anyone…'
'You refer to His Highness, Prince Panchetto,' hissed the Inquisitor. 'And I sincerely doubt you feel as badly as his father.'
I fought back a groan. 'I feel as badly about His Highness's death as anyone who barely knew him could. But the fact is, he got on the wrong side of a madman — a madman with a large sword. Of course I'd have tried to help him if only I'd realised what was happening.'
'Perhaps that responsibility, at least, can't be laid at your feet.'
The Inquisitor turned his hawkish glower on Alvantes. Sensing his gaze, Alvantes glanced up just for an instant — and a faint shudder ran through him.
The sliver of a smile hung on the Inquisitor's lips as he looked back at me. 'However, even if your version of events is true, the fact remains that it was your actions that placed Prince Panchetto in jeopardy.'
He had me there. As much as I'd have liked to deny it, and even without all this interrogation, I did feel a certain amount of responsibility for Panchetto's death. After all, it was a safe bet he wouldn't have been promenading the dockside in the middle of the night if I hadn't burgled his palace.
Nevertheless, the truth was that Panchetto had practically offered his neck to Moaradrid — and Moaradrid had been only too willing to oblige. That left only two real culprits. Both were dead, and one of them also happened to be the victim.
If there was a tactful way of explaining this to the Royal Inquisitor, however, my brain was missing it. In fact, considered like that, it was easy to see why he might be eager to pin the blame on Alvantes and me. It might not be the truth, but it had virtues the truth lacked — things like neatness, closure, and the satisfying spectacle of lopping the culprits' heads off in a public place.
Maybe I really wouldn't be able to talk my way out of this one.
'I'm not saying my time in Altapasaeda was blameless.' Seeing the glint in the Inquisitor's eye, I added hastily, 'But I'd like to think I've been punished enough by subsequent events, not to mention this chastening spell of imprisonment. Given all that, and the fact I helped bring the real culprit to justice…'
The Inquisitor raised a hand to silence me. 'Here we return to your claim that Moaradrid is dead.'
'He is dead. Extremely dead.'
He spared a glance for his notes. 'Your claim that the giant pushed him off a bridge.'
'Not pushed,' I said. It was an accident. He fell.'
'Yet no one saw the body.'
'Fell from the top of a mountain.'
'Nor did they see the impact.'
'Into the sea. Assuming he missed the rocks.'
'But no one saw?'
'He's dead!' If I didn't quite shout it, I definitely came closer than was prudent. Doing my best to sound apologetic, I added, 'Believe me, the King can be safe in the knowledge his son's death has been avenged.'
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.'
