where-but did know how the murder had been committed.
Ruso had never met anyone quite like Thessalus before. He gave up his time to run a free clinic for people who largely didn’t do what he told them. He was a good doctor but was so doped up with poppy that he was incapable of defending his patients against the laziness of his staff. He put up with a ghastly deputy and even took him out on his birthday, and then-according to him-committed a grisly and apparently motiveless murder in a back alley. It made no sense. Yet like a lot of his apparent nonsense about triangles and fish, there might be some sort of meaning if one could piece together the background.
Ruso rolled back, put his hands behind his head, and stared at the invisible rafters.
Thessalus had not chosen an easy calling. Only the sick would be truly eager to meet a man who spent his days with the ulcerated and unlovely, poking about in the dark and stinking recesses of humanity that most people would prefer to forget about. Ruso sometimes wondered why he had taken it up himself, since he frequently found his patients drove him more to exasperation than compassion.
Thessalus had evidently found it too much of a strain. Working with Gambax would not have helped. Unable to bring about the miracles demanded of him daily and possibly asked to collude in torture, a kindly and well- meaning man could easily find himself unable to sleep. So he would take a carefully controlled dose of something to lift himself above his worries. He would tell himself it would steady his nerves. Indeed, it would do so. He would take another dose the next night, believing he needed the rest and would wake refreshed and a better healer the next morning. He would tell himself he could stop at any time, and would always be on the verge of stopping. But knowing that “any time” was receding farther into the distance, he would come to distrust and despise himself. He would also begin to need more and more medicine to achieve the same effect. In fact he might need it merely to achieve the levels of calm he had enjoyed before he had started down this path.
All the time, beneath the false calm of the medicine, a worm would be burrowing. A little worm of doubt and shame, one that would whisper in his ear that he was not quite in control of what he was doing. Indeed, there might well be inexplicable gaps in time when he could not remember what he had done. Sooner or later his confused and guilty mind, already filled with gory images from surgery, would latch onto some terrible deed and convince him that he had carried it out. That he had come home with Felix’s blood on his hands. That the only way to avoid execution was to pretend his mind was completely gone and he was not responsible for his actions.
Thessalus had already ended his contract with the army because he knew he could not resist the poppy and he knew he was not fit to practice under its influence. In a way, that was an honorable course of action. Many other men in the same position would have hung on as long as possible and pretended all was well.
But how did he know about the head? Only four people knew about that. Audax, the prefect, Metellus, and himself. Five people including the murderer.
Ruso sighed. In the darkness, everything was too tangled. He wished he could talk it over with- No. He was not going to think about her.
“Is that Ruso?” said a voice from the direction of the couch. “Please. I need poppy.”
He said, “Tell me where the head is.”
“Haven’t you found it?”
Ruso sat up. “Tell me where it is, and I’ll believe you did it.”
“I remember looking into his eyes.” The voice was unsteady. “I remember asking him where he wanted me to put it.”
“You don’t know.”
“After that, nothing. Until I was back here with the blood-”
“Yes, we’ve been through that. You don’t know, because you didn’t do it. Who told you what happened?”
“No one. I only know what I can remember.”
“I have been trying to think this through logically,” said Ruso. “I realize poppy tears might confuse you. I suppose too much might give you bad dreams, or make you frightened or sick, and a big overdose would finish you off altogether. But I can’t find any record of poppy making patients violent. You were sensible enough on that night to bring Gambax back from Susanna’s. I imagine you were sensible enough to know that he wasn’t fit to be left in charge of the infirmary. But despite that, you went out. You explained quite clearly to the gate guards that you’d had a call to a civilian emergency. Emergency calls are the sort of things people remember. They like to think they’re helping. Yet I haven’t been able to track that message down.”
“I’ve told you-”
“I know what you’ve told me. Let me pass on what I’ve been told by somebody else. That Felix deserved to be punished and you were the instrument of the gods.”
Thessalus let out a long sigh of relief. “That explains it!”
“Of course it doesn’t explain it!” snapped Ruso. “I’m tired of being made a fool of, Thessalus.” He threw back the blanket. “Apart from thinking you’re Julius Caesar, you’ve demonstrated just about every symptom of madness in the book. Of course you have. You’ve read the books. What was it you said to Ingenuus that persuaded him to sneak medicine in here for you?”
“Please. Poppy is the only thing that works.”
Ruso sprang to his feet. “Enough of this don’t-touch-me rubbish about curing people by talking to them. You’re going to get up, and I’m going to fetch a couple of lamps. Then you’re going to get undressed and we’re going to have a proper look at exactly what’s wrong with you.”
“There’s no need,” came the reply. “I can tell you. But you must swear not to tell anyone else.”
By the light of the feeble lamp Ruso measured out a dose of poppy in wine and handed it to Thessalus. “That should ease it a little.”
Thessalus nodded his thanks. When he had downed the drink, he rested back on the couch. “When I was an apprentice,” he said, “I discovered I had quite a few fatal diseases.”
“So did I.”
“But then you learn to stop looking, don’t you? So when this began-” he indicated his emaciated body-“I told myself I was just tired.
Overworking. Out of balance.”
Ruso nodded. There was no need to comment on the injustice of it. Thessalus was only twenty-four years old. He had already tried every treatment Ruso would have suggested. “If you’d told me the truth in the first place instead of babbling on about fish and triangles, I might have been more helpful.”
“I kept it quiet because I was afraid they would discharge me, and I needed the money. Gambax just thinks I’m in love with the poppy tears. I had to tell Ingenuus because I was not brave enough to face the pain.”
“He won’t talk. He wouldn’t even tell me.”
“Have you ever thought,” continued Thessalus, “how useful it would be if each of us was born knowing the time of our death? How many different choices we would make?”
“We might waste our lives trying to change our fate.”
“I think we might spend them more wisely.”
“You have done a great deal of good,” Ruso assured him. “Men are alive now who would not be. The clinic patients speak highly of you.”
“All of them?”
“Most. You know how it is.”
Thessalus chuckled, then eased himself into a more comfortable position. “You have been good to me,” he said. “Do me one last honor. Make them believe me.”
“But I don’t believe you. Nobody does. You didn’t do it.”
“My last wish is that I should be found guilty of this crime and that the life of an innocent native should be spared.”
“But-”
“My liver is diseased-which I forbid you to tell them-but my mind is quite sound. If you testify otherwise, you will be lying.”
“Everyone I meet here seems to want me to tell some sort of lie. And always for the best possible reasons.”
“I’m sorry, Ruso. I know you mean well. But you’re so determined to do the right thing.”
“What’s the matter with that?”
