Inversions

journal, then we had visited the spice market and nearby bazaars while the storm was still just a dark brew on the western horizon. She had met with some merchants and other doctors at the house of a banker to talk about starting a school for doctors (I was consigned to the kitchen with the servants and so heard nothing of consequence and little of sense), then we walked smartly back up to the palace while the sky clouded over and the first few rain squalls swept in over from the outer docks. I fondly and quite mistakenly congratulated myself for escaping back to the comfort and warmth of the palace before the storm set in.

A note on the door to the Doctor's rooms informed us that the King desired to see her and so it was off towards his private apartments as soon as we'd put down our bags full of spices, berries, roots and earths. A servant intercepted us in the Long Corridor with news that the King had been wounded in a practice duel and — hearts in our mouths — we made quickly for the game halls.

'Sire, a leech! We have the finest! The rare Emperor leech, from Brotechen!'

'Nonsense! A burn-glass veining is what is required, followed by an emetic!'

'A simple letting will suffice. Your majesty, if I may-'

'No! Get away from me, you wittering purple rogues! Away and become bankers the lot of you — admit what you really love! Where's Vosill? Vosill!' the King cried up the broad stairs as he started up them, left hand clutched round his right upper arm. We were just starting down.

The King had been injured in a duelling round and it seemed as if every other doctor of repute in the city must have been in the duelling chamber that day, for they were clustered round the King and the two men at his side like purple-coated chasers round a beast at bay. Their own masters followed at their heels, holding duelling swords and half-masks, with one large, grey-faced individual isolated near the rear presumably being the one who'd cut the King.

Guard Commander Adlain was to one side of the King, Duke Walen on the other. Adlain, I will record only for posterity, is a man the nobility and grace of whose features and carriage are matched only by our good King, though the Guard Commander's appearance is swarthy where King Quience's is fair — a faithful, loyal shadow ever at the side of our splendid ruler. But what monarch could wish for a more glorious shadow!

Duke Walen is a short, stooped man with leathery skin and small, deeply recessed eyes which are slightly crossed.

'Sir, are you sure you won't let my physician tend to that wound?' Walen said in his high, grating voice, while Adlain shooed away a couple of the harrying doctors. 'Look,' the Duke cried, 'it's dripping! The royal blood! Oh, my word! Physician! Physician! Really, my lord, this doctor fellow is quite the best. Let me just-'

'No!' the King bellowed. 'I want Vosill! Where is she?'

'The lady would appear to have more pressing engagements,' Adlain said, not unreasonably. 'Lucky it's just a scratch, eh, my lord?' Then he looked up the steps to see the Doctor and myself descending. His expression became a smile.

'Vo-!' the King roared, head down as he bounded up the curve of steps, briefly leaving both Walen and Adlain behind.

'Here, Sir,' the Doctor said, stepping down to meet him.

'Vosill! Where in the name of all the skies of hell have you been?'

'I-'

'Never mind that! Let's to my chambers. You.' (And the King addressed me!) 'See if you can hold off this pack of bloodsucking scavengers. Here's my duelling sword.' The King handed me his own sword! 'You have full permission to use it on anyone who looks remotely like a physician. Doctor?'

'After you, sir.'

'Yes of course after me, Vosill. I am the King, dammit!'

It has always struck me how well our glorious King resembles the portraits one sees displayed of him in paintings and in the profiles which grace our coins. I was fortunate enough to have the opportunity to study those magnificent features that mid-Xamis, in the King's private apartments, while the Doctor treated the duelling wound and the King stood, clad in a long gown with one sleeve rolled up, in silhouette against the luminous expanse of an ancient plaster window, face raised and jaw set, as the Doctor worked at his out-held arm.

What a noble visage! What a regal demeanour! A mane of majestically curling blond hair, a brow of intelligence and stern wisdom, clear, flashing eyes the colour of the summer sky, a sharply defined, heroic nose, a broad, gracefully cultured mouth and a proud, brave chin, all set on the frame both strong and lithe which would be the envy of an athlete in his prime (and the King is in his most magnificent middleage, when most men have started to go to fat). They do say that King Quience is excelled in his appearance and physique only by his late father, Drasine (whom they are already calling Drasine the Great, I am happy to report. And rightly so).

'Oh, Sir! Oh dear! Oh my goodness! Oh, help! Oh, what a calamity! Oh!'

'Leave us, Wiester,' the King said, sighing.

'Sir! Yes, Sir. Immediately, Sir.' The fat chamberlain, still alternately waving and kneading his hands, left the apartments, muttering and moaning.

'I thought you had armour to stop this sort of thing happening, sir,' the Doctor said. She wiped the last of the blood away with a swab which she then handed to me for disposal. I handed her the alcohol in exchange. She soaked another swab and applied it to the gash on the King's bicep. The wound was a couple of fingers long and a couple of pinches deep.

'Ouch!'

'I'm sorry, sir.'

'Aow! Aow! Are you sure this isn't some quackery of your own, Vosill?'

'The alcohol kills the ill humours which can infect a wound,' the Doctor said frostily. 'Sir.'

'As does, you claim, mouldy bread,' the King snorted. 'It has that effect.'

'And sugar.'

'That too, sir, in an emergency.'

'Sugar,' the King said, shaking his head.

'Don't you, sir?'

'What?'

'Have armour?'

'Of course we have armour, you imbecile- Aow! Of course we have armour, but you don't wear it in the duelling chamber. In the name of Providence, if you were going to wear armour you might as well not duel at all!'

'But I thought it was a practice, sir. For real fighting.' 'Well, of course it's a practice, Vosill. If it wasn't a practice the fellow who cut me wouldn't have stopped and damn near fainted, he'd have leapt in for the kill, if it was that sort of duel. Anyway, yes, it was a practice.' The King shook his magnificent head and stamped one foot. `Damn me, Vosill, you ask the most stupid questions.'

'I beg your pardon, sir.'

'It's only a scratch, anyway.' The King looked around, then gestured at a footman standing by the main doors, who quickly went to a table and drew his majesty a glass of wine.

'How much less than a scratch is an insect bite,' the Doctor said. 'And yet people die from those, sir.'

'They do?' the King said, accepting the wine goblet.

'So I've been taught. A poisonous humour transmitted from the insect to the bloodstream.'

'Hmm,' the King said, looking sceptical. He glanced at the wound. 'Still just a scratch. Adlain wasn't very impressed.' He drank.

'I imagine it would take a great deal to impress Guard Commander Adlain,' the Doctor said, though not I think unkindly.

The King gave a small smile. 'You don't like Adlain, do you, Vosill?'

The Doctor flexed her brows. 'I don't regard him as a friend, sir, but equally I don't regard him as an enemy, either. We both seek to serve you in our appointed ways according to the skills at our command.'

The King's eyes narrowed as he considered this. 'Spoken like a politician, Vosill,' he said quietly. 'Expressed like a courtier.'

'I shall take that as a compliment, sir.'