‘They don’t. Only the Elash produces such toxins. And only our Diplomats make use of them.’
Archgeneral Sparus narrowed his eye and studied the man carefully. ‘You’re suggesting one of our own people did this to her?’
A precise shrug. ‘I’m a physician, nothing more. I can only report my findings.’
Sparus rubbed the bridge of his nose with his grimy fingers. It didn’t make sense to him.
‘Can you save her?’
The physician looked at his feet. ‘It’s hard to say. I’m treating her with Royal Milk, but the Milk itself… Our only supply of it is in that jar with Lucian’s head, and she is tetchy about me using it.’
‘Never mind that fool Lucian. Use as much of it as you need to. You have my authority on that.’
‘Thank you. But even so. The Milk is old, used up, not much good for anything more than preservation. We need a fresh supply, and even then… Black-foot you see, it’s used by Diplomats because Royal Milk has such little effect on it. King’s Worry, they call it.’
Sparus felt patronized by the physician’s assumption of his ignorance. He contained his frustration, though, focusing on the problem at hand.
‘What if you had a fresh supply of Milk?’
Klint shook his head sadly. ‘I suppose we could dispatch a skyship to Zanzahar, or Bairat. But I doubt there’s time for that. She’s failing fast now.’
‘Have you told her any of this?’
‘No. For now I think it’s best that she remains rested.’
‘Physician. If she’s dying, she should know of it.’
‘Yes. But perhaps it’s best if we do not tell her how.’
He assented to that, seeing the sense of it.
‘I need to see her.’
‘Yes, of course. You’ll need to follow some precautions, however.’
Klint led him towards the Royal Chamber. They passed the priestess Sool, the woman looking lost here in the depths of the rock. In the anteroom, the physician offered Sparus a silk mask to tie around his mouth and nose. It smelled of mint, and something much harsher than that.
‘Is it contagious?’ asked Sparus from behind the mask.
‘It’s known to be. Especially when it has taken hold. With such things it’s always best to be cautious.’ The man gave him a pair of sheep-gut mittens to wear.
In the main sleeping chamber, Sasheen lay on the bed with the sheets crumpled over her shivering body, lit by nothing more than the blue flickering light of the lake beyond the curving window. She was feverish and panting quickly. Sweat glistened on her face, which was inflamed like her arms and hands. A smell of bile hung strong in the air.
‘Matriarch,’ said Sparus as he stopped by her bed.
Sasheen blinked, confused for a moment. She focused on him weakly. ‘Sparus,’ she rasped, and tried to move, but gave up after a single effort. ‘I’m told I should not touch anyone. For fear I might catch something in my weakened condition.’
Sparus hesitated, then placed his hand on top of her own. Her skin felt hot against the sheep-gut that encased his own. It held a vague tint of blueness to it, as did her lips. The dressings on her neck were stained with patches of yellow.
The doctor busied himself around her. With gloved hands he checked her pulse and inspected the lesions on her body. When he lifted the bedsheets fully back, Sparus could see the blackness of her feet.
Dearest Passion, he thought in surprise, realizing then how far gone she really was.
‘What have you to report, General?’
He cleared his throat from behind the mask. ‘We’re still encountering some pockets of resistance in the south-west of the city. We should have them cleared out presently.’
‘And Romano?’
‘He complains he has not been allowed to enter the city yet with his men.’
‘Does he now?’ she breathed, and even in her condition he could see the rise of her anger. She gasped a few times, drawing the breath she needed to fuel it. ‘Let him complain. I will not risk allowing him into Tume with his men. He knows I am vulnerable. I would only be inviting a coup.’
Sparus bowed his head, keeping his thoughts to himself. He found it difficult to look at her. Already, his head was playing out the possible outcomes of his position now. Romano, with the backing of his family, was the strongest contender to be the next Patriarch of Mann. If Sasheen failed to recover, if she died here in Tume, Romano would declare himself Patriarch, never mind any successor she might name. He would demand to lead the Expeditionary Force himself, for the glory of taking Bar-Khos.
He could have it, he decided, if it meant Sparus could return to Q’os with his reputation intact. But he wasn’t certain even that was possible now. Romano would call for another purge, and Sparus could very well be at the top of the list.
I could approach him with an offer of loyalty now, he thought, and wondered who he could entrust with such an errand.
Sasheen was studying him closely, her gaze darting about his face.
‘I’m dying, Sparus, aren’t I?’
She sounded like a young girl, her voice frail and breaking.
Look at me. I plot my own survival even as she lies here fighting for breath.
‘There’s hope,’ Sparus tried. ‘We’re sending for a fresh supply of Milk.’
Her head settled back on the pillows. ‘Then make it fast. I can feel it worsening with every breath I take.’ She tilted her head to one side, watched the physician Klint unscrew the jar containing Lucian’s head. Within it, Sparus could see the man’s preserved scalp, the level of milk having been reduced that far.
‘Be sparing with it,’ said Sasheen as the physician lowered a small ladle into the jar.
Klint came to her and poured some of it into her open mouth. At once, her lips grew less pale, and colour returned to her face.
‘Let him stay out,’ she instructed him. ‘Next to me.’
Klint looked to Sparus as though he had any say in it. The physician removed the head from the jar and settled it on the bedside table next to her. His eyes were closed, and they flickered behind their eyelids as though he was dreaming.
‘Let us talk later,’ Sasheen said gently as her own eyes closed too.
‘Yes Matriarch,’ he replied, then turned and left the room with the physician following him.
Sparus felt relieved to be gone from there. ‘Keep her condition to yourself,’ he instructed Klint as they removed their masks and gloves. ‘And no mention of poison either.’
He strode for the stairwell that would take him up to daylight, his thoughts in disarray.
‘She’s dying. She has a matter of days at most.’
‘You’d certain of it?’ Romano demanded.
The physician Klint tried to hide his annoyance. ‘Of course. They have sent for more Royal Milk, though I doubt it will arrive in time to do much good.’
General Romano digested the news with a thrill of excitement. His uncle had been right all along. Give it enough time, enough patience, and all things came to those who desired them.
He looked down at the red-faced physician before him. ‘Your assistance shall be remembered.’
‘Thank you,’ replied Klint with a bow of his head. ‘I must return now, before I am missed.’
‘Then go,’ drawled Romano.
He watched the man climb onto his zel, and kick the flanks of the animal harshly until it was cantering back towards the Tume bridge.
Beside Romano, his second-in-command’s expression was as sombre as it always was. ‘It’s time, then,’ Scalp said in his rough voice.
‘It would seem so.’ He showed his teeth in a feral smile. ‘I hope that bitch suffers to the very last.’
The tent was open on one side, and as they stood there with the rotten breeze in their faces, taking in his men and the lake and the island city that floated upon it, Romano felt restored in every way he could be, his doubts scattering like so much chatter. How strange life could be at times. At home in Q’os, he hardly stood a chance of
