For the first time in our conversation, a touch of genuine interest entered his voice. 'You want me to interrogate your friend?'
It didn't seem the time to point out how far opposed to friendship my relationship with Alvantes was. 'Absolutely.'
The Inquisitor took a step back towards me. 'Do you think you can strike a deal?' He actually sounded intrigued now. 'Perhaps we'll execute Alvantes twice and let you go?'
'I just don't see why I should go through three hours of interrogation and he gets to sit there sulking.'
'Ah. I see.' His disappointment seemed every bit as real as his brief curiosity had been. 'I won't be examining former Guard-Captain Alvantes because nothing he could tell me would keep his head on his shoulders for another day. Whereas you might conceivably have saved your life if you'd answered a little more wisely.'
At that, my heart sank like a stone — a cold, grey stone plummeting into the depths of a frigid, bottomless lake.
The Inquisitor spared me one last look. 'Any more questions? Shall we discuss the weather or catch up on local gossip?'
'No,' I said, 'I think we're done.'
I couldn't say I wasn't glad of a little peace and quiet.
Yet the Inquisitor's departure had shut off one narrow avenue of hope — perhaps the only one I'd really had. It wasn't as if I'd truly imagined I could convince him to let me go; based on my experiences so far, qualities like reason, justice and even basic sanity had no place in Pasaeda's public affairs. Now that he was gone, though, my approaching fate seemed real for the first time.
Still. I wasn't without my resources. Few they might be and limited, but I wasn't quite done for. All through my interrogation, a minuscule part of my mind had been plotting. While most of my consciousness hung on the cusp of panic, it had calmly analysed my circumstances. Studiously, it had broken my big problem — being locked in a cell awaiting all-too-imminent execution — into smaller, more manageable difficulties.
There was the chain round my ankle.
The locked door.
The guard outside.
All of those might, if against my every experience luck should somehow favour me, be managed.
After that, however, the challenges became uncertain. I had only the vaguest idea of where we were within the palace, of its layout or what routes might take me safely through its boundless grounds.
Now, with the benefit of silence, I did my best to plan the unplannable. I went over and over the scant details I knew, racked my memory for every recollection of my time in Pasaeda, tried to tease out the shape of those many dangers I couldn't foresee. Where might guards congregate? What mistake would be likeliest to raise an alarm? If I should miraculously make it into the city, where could I hide and for how long? In the past I'd found that simply hammering my thoughts against such unsolvable-seeming dilemmas would sometimes offer the hint of a direction.
This wasn't one of those times. The more I considered, the more desperate the possibility of escape seemed. I might get out of my cell; but getting out of the palace, let alone the city, let alone the country were other things entirely. I had to try, of course. The alternative was to wait and die. However, the idea of a getaway attempt without hope of success left me increasingly despondent.
Such was my mood when I was jarred to attention by the sound of the door. As I watched, half-petrified by alarm, it swung open. Had I deliberated too long? Were they here to take us already? I'd been so mired in my thoughts that I had no idea how much time had passed since the Inquisitor left.
My fears appeared to be ungrounded. Asides from the familiar guard, the entrance was occupied by an elderly man. He was smartly dressed in a plain white robe with simple, silver adornment along the hems and a dark green sash about the waist. He had a military bearing; he held himself straight — and despite his age, was broadshouldered, with a suggestion of enduring fitness. His white hair was shorn close above a lined, square face, with features strong enough to be considered severe.
He barely glanced at me. Instead, his gaze fell on Alvantes. Like me, Alvantes had looked up when the door opened, and his attention held now to the old man's face. I could read nothing from either of them. They were still and expressionless as two opposing statues left to weather eternity.
Then, in a voice without inflection, the old man said, 'Hello, Lunto.'
Only then did Alvantes let go his stare. His eyes dropped to the floor. 'Hello, Father.'
'No. You no longer have the right to call me that.'
Alvantes's father advanced into the room, the guard following close at his heels. I couldn't tell whether he was there to supervise Alvantes Senior, to protect him from us, or was warding against some improbable escape attempt. His expression suggested no one had bothered to fill him in on such trivial details either; he made do by trying to watch all three of us at once.
Meanwhile, Alvantes's father never took his eyes from his son. I did think I saw them shift to note his missing hand, just for a fraction of a moment; but if the grim sight registered, it brought no hint of sympathy to his voice as he went on, 'That's what I'm here to tell you. You have failed the King, the Court, the people of Altapasaeda. You've failed me — more than I ever could have conceived. For these reasons, I've begged the King to let me see you one final time… just to convey my shame. These will be my last words to you, Lunto, do you understand? My last words.'
Alvantes's father stepped closer, as though concerned that one syllable of his vitriol might be missed. Yet when he spoke, it was with inhuman calm. 'I won't be there to witness your execution. I shall treat tomorrow as I have today and as I will the day after tomorrow. I'll set out to the Court at seven. Unlike you, my duties are something I would never try to escape. As always, I'll return home at five. I will spend the evening as I do every other, and have not a single doubt against which to guard. By nine, as every night, I'll be soundly asleep.'
Could Alvantes's father really have such an outrageous sense of his importance that he felt the need to share his itinerary in the last hours of his son's life? It wasn't even as if his heart was in it. His expression showed more concentration than anger. It was obvious his first concern was in keeping to the bizarre script he'd prepared.
'Let me tell you one more thing before I walk out that door. In my service to His Highness, I've always strived to be honest and open. Would that you'd done the same when it came to be your turn. Now, in your last hours, I urge you to do what's right. Think of those who are left. Think of those you've let down. What happens now is on your own head. It isn't something you have a right to blame His Highness for. He knows as well as anyone that justice must be vigorous if it's to keep a kingdom stable.'
Alvantes Senior intoned this maxim with clear finality. As though nothing of any significance had been said, he turned away.
Alvantes opened his mouth to speak. No sound came.
Then, apparently as an afterthought, Alvantes's father turned back and struck his son with all his strength across the face. It was a ringing open-handed blow, and it left a glowing welt in its wake. Yet Alvantes's head moved not one iota. He hardly seemed to feel it.
Alvantes Senior turned away once more. This time he marched from the room without another word — just as he'd promised. The confused guard hurried after, still trying to divide his attention equally between all three of us. Once they were both across the threshold, the door slammed shut.
For once, I couldn't but feel genuine pity for Alvantes. His thanks for loyalty was to be called a traitor and condemned to die; now his father visited solely to rub his nose in those facts. As if that weren't all bad enough, it was clear the old man was playing with a severely depleted deck of cards. Bad enough to endure so cruel an invective from a parent. For it to be hardly more than gibberish seemed to me that much worse.
I thought about making some attempt to express my sympathy. But nothing came to mind that did the situation justice — and based on what I saw in Alvantes's face, I doubted he'd even hear it. Moreover, I was quick to remind myself that my own circumstances were hardly any better, and identical in the long run. Anyway, wasn't it Alvantes's blind faith in his vindictive King that had landed us in this mess?
At least I understood now how he could have been so calm before. Alvantes had expected his father, evidently high up in the Court, to pull whatever strings it would take to secure his son's freedom. I was actually disappointed. Waiting for someone else to pick up the pieces didn't fit well with the Alvantes I knew — especially when the father he'd been so naively relying on was an unfeeling lunatic.
