The Diamond Throne (35 page)

‘Are you trying to be funny?’

He decided not to answer that.

The grounds of the University of Borrata were park-like, and students and members of the faculty strolled contemplatively across the well-kept lawns.

Sparhawk stopped a young man in a lime-green doublet. ‘Excuse me, neighbour,’ he said, ‘but could you direct me to the medical college?’

‘Are you ill?’

‘No. A friend of mine is though.’

‘Ah. The physicians occupy that building over there.’ The student pointed at a squat-looking structure made of grey stone.

Thank you, neighbour.’

‘I hope your friend gets better soon.’

‘So do we.’

When they entered the building, they encountered a rotund man in a black robe.

‘Excuse me, sir,’ Sephrenia said to him. ‘Are you a physician?

‘I am.’

‘Splendid. Have you a few moments?’

The rotund man had been looking closely at Sparhawk. ‘Sorry,’ he said curtly. ‘I’m busy.’

‘Could you direct us to one of your colleagues, then?’

‘Try any door,’ he said, waving his hand and walking quickly away from them.

‘That’s an odd attitude for a healer,’ Sparhawk said.

‘Every profession attracts its share of louts,’ she replied.

They crossed the antechamber and Sparhawk rapped on a dark-painted door.

‘What is it?’ a weary voice said.

‘We need to consult a physician.’

There was a long pause. ‘Oh, all right,’ the weary voice replied, ‘come in.’

Sparhawk opened the door and held it for Sephrenia.

The man seated behind the cluttered desk in the cubicle had deep circles beneath his eyes, and it appeared that he had forgone shaving some weeks ago. ‘What is
the nature of your illness?’ he asked Sephrenia in a voice hovering on exhaustion.

‘I’m not the one who’s ill,’ she replied.

‘Him, then?’ The doctor pointed at Sparhawk. ‘He looks robust enough to me.’

‘No,‘ she said. ‘He’s not ill either. We’re here on behalf of a friend.’

‘I don’t go to people’s houses.’

‘We weren’t asking you to do that,’ Sparhawk said.

‘Our friend lives some distance away,’ Sephrenia said. ‘We thought that if we described her symptoms to you, you might be able to hazard a guess as to the cause of her malady.’

‘I don’t make guesses,’ he told her shortly. ‘What are the symptoms?’

‘Much like those of the falling-sickness,’ Sephrenia told him.

That’s it, then. You’ve already made the diagnosis yourself.’

There’s a certain difference, however.’

‘All right. Describe the differences.’

There’s a fever involved – quite a high one – and profuse sweating.’

These two don’t match, little lady. With a fever, the skin is dry.’

‘Yes, I know.’

‘Have you a medical background?’

‘I’m familiar with certain folk remedies.’

He snorted. ‘My experience tells me that folk remedies kill more than they cure. What other symptoms did you notice?’

Sephrenia meticulously described the illness that had rendered Ehlana comatose.

The physician, however, seemed not to be listening, but was staring instead at Sparhawk. His eyes narrowed,
his face became suddenly alert and his expression sly. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said when Sephrenia had finished. ‘I think you’d better go back and take another look at your friend. What you just described matches no known illness.’ His tone was abrupt, even curt.

Sparhawk straightened, clenching his fist, but Sephrenia laid her hand on his arm. Thank you for your time, learned sir,’ she said smoothly. ‘Come along then,’ she told Sparhawk.

The two of them went back out into the corridor.

‘Two in a row,’ Sparhawk muttered.

‘Two what?’

‘People with bad manners.’

‘It stands to reason, perhaps.’

‘I don’t follow you.’

‘There’s a certain natural arrogance in those who teach.’

‘You’ve
never displayed it.’

‘I keep it under control. Try another door, Sparhawk.’

In the next two hours, they spoke with seven physicians. Each of them, after a searching look at Sparhawk’s face, pretended ignorance.

‘I’m starting to get a peculiar feeling about this,’ he growled as they emerged from yet another office. ‘They take one look at me, and they suddenly become stupid – or is that just my imagination?’

‘I’ve noticed that, too,’ she replied thoughtfully.

‘My face isn’t that exciting, I know, but it’s never struck anyone dumb before.’

‘It’s a perfectly good face, Sparhawk.’

‘It covers the front of my head. What else can you expect from a face?’

‘The physicians of Borrata seem less skilled than we’d been led to believe.’

‘We’ve wasted more time, then?’

‘We haven’t finished yet. Don’t give up hope.’

They came finally to a small, unpainted door set back in a shabby alcove. Sparhawk rapped, and a slurred voice responded, ‘Go away.’

‘We need your help, learned sir,’ Sephrenia said.

‘Go and bother somebody else. I’m busy getting drunk right now.’

That does it!’ Sparhawk snapped. He grasped the door handle and pushed, but the door was locked from the inside. Irritably, he kicked it open, splintering the frame.

The man inside the tiny cubicle blinked. He was a shabby little man with a crooked back and bleary eyes. ‘You knock very loudly, friend,’ he observed. Then he belched. ‘Well, don’t just stand there. Come in.’ His head weaved back and forth. He was shabbily dressed, and his wispy grey hair stuck out in all directions.

‘Is there something in the water around here that makes everybody so churlish?’ Sparhawk asked acidly.

‘I wouldn’t know,’ the shabby man replied. ‘I never drink water.’ He drank noisily from a battered tankard.

‘Obviously.’

‘Shall we spend the rest of the day exchanging insults, or would you rather tell me about your problem?’ The physician squinted myopically at Sparhawk’s face. ‘So you’re the one,’ he said.

‘The one what?’

The one we aren’t supposed to talk to.’

‘Would you like to explain that?’

‘A man came here a few days ago. He said that it would be worth a hundred gold pieces to every physician in the building if you left empty-handed.’

‘What did he look like?’

‘He had a military bearing and white hair.’

‘Martel,’ Sparhawk said to Sephrenia.

‘We should have guessed almost immediately,’ she replied.

‘Take heart, friends,’ the messy little man told them expansively. ‘You’ve found your way to the finest physician in Borrata.’ He grinned then. ‘My colleagues all fly south with the ducks in the fall going, “Quack, quack, quack.” You couldn’t get a sound medical opinion out of any one of them. The white-haired man said that you’d describe some symptoms. Some lady someplace is very ill, I understand, and your friend – this Martel you mentioned – would prefer that she didn’t recover. Why don’t we disappoint him?’ He drank deeply from his tankard.

‘You’re a credit to your profession, good doctor,’ Sephrenia said.

‘No. I’m a vicious-minded old drunkard. Do you really want to know why I’m willing to help you? It’s because I’ll enjoy the screams of anguish from my colleagues when all that money slips through their fingers.’

‘That’s as good a reason as any, I suppose,’ Sparhawk said.

‘Exactly.’ The slightly tipsy physician peered at Sparhawk’s nose. ‘Why didn’t you have that set when it got broken?’ he asked.

Sparhawk touched his nose. ‘I was busy with other things.’

‘I can fix it for you if you’d like. All I have to do is take a hammer and break it again. Then I can set it for you.’

‘Thanks all the same, but I’m used to it now.’

‘Suit yourself. All right, what are these symptoms you came here to describe?’

Once again Sephrenia ran down the list for him.

He sat scratching at his ear with his eyes narrowed. Then he rummaged through the litter piled high on his desk and pulled out a thick book with a torn leather
cover. He leafed through it for several moments, then slammed it shut. ‘Just as I thought,’ he said triumphantly. He belched again.

‘Well?’ Sparhawk said.

‘Your friend was poisoned. Has she died yet?’

A chill caught at Sparhawk’s stomach. ‘No,’ he replied.

‘It’s only a matter of time.’ The physician shrugged. ‘It’s a rare poison from Rendor. It’s invariably fatal.’

Sparhawk clenched his teeth. ‘I’m going to go back to Cimmura and disembowel Annias,’ he grated, ‘with a dull knife.’

The disreputable little physician suddenly looked interested. ‘You do it this way,’ he suggested. ‘Make a lateral incision just below the navel. Then kick him over backwards. Everything ought to fall out at that point.’

Thank you.’

‘No charge. If you’re going to do something, do it right. I take it that this Annias person is the one you think was responsible?’

‘Undoubtedly.’

‘Go ahead and kill him then. I despise a poisoner.’

‘Is there an antidote for this poison?’ Sephrenia asked.

‘None that I know of. I’d suggest talking with several physicians I know in Cippria, but your friend will be dead before you could get back.’

‘No,’ Sephrenia disagreed. ‘She’s being sustained.’

‘I’d like to know how you managed that.’

The lady is Styric,’ Sparhawk told him. ‘She has access to certain unusual things.’

‘Magic? Does that really work?’

‘At times, yes.’

‘All right, then. Maybe you do have time.’ The seedy-looking doctor ripped a corner off one of the papers on his desk and dipped a quill into a nearly dry inkpot. ‘The first two names here are those of a couple of fairly adept
physicians in Cippria,’ he said as he scrawled on the paper. ‘This last one is the name of the poison.’ He handed the paper to Sparhawk. ‘Good luck,’ he said. ‘Now get out of here so I can continue what I was doing before you kicked in my door.’

‘Because you don’t look like Rendors,’ Sparhawk told them. ‘Foreigners attract a great deal of attention there – usually unfriendly. I can pass for a native in Cippria. So can Kurik. Rendorish women wear veils, so Sephrenia’s appearance won’t be a problem. The rest of you are going to have to stay behind.’

They were gathered in a large room on the upper floor of the inn near the university. The room was bare with only a few benches along the walls and no curtains at the narrow window. Sparhawk had reported what the tipsy physician had said and the fact that Martel had attempted subterfuge this time rather than a physical confrontation.

‘We could put something on our hair to change the colour,’ Kalten protested. ‘Wouldn’t that get us by?’

‘It’s the manner, Kalten,’ Sparhawk explained. ‘I could dye you green, and people would still know that you’re an Elenian. The same’s more or less true of the rest of you. You all have the bearing of knights. It takes years to erase that.’

‘You want us to stay here, then?’ Ulath asked.

‘No. Let’s all go down to Madel,’ Sparhawk decided. ‘If something unexpected comes up in Cippria, I can get word to you there faster.’

‘I think you’re overlooking something, Sparhawk,’
Kalten said. ‘We know that Martel’s moving around down here, and he’s probably got eyes everywhere. If we all ride out of Borrata in full armour, he’ll know about it before we cover half a league.’

‘Pilgrims,’ Ulath grunted cryptically.

‘I don’t quite follow you,’ Kalten said, frowning.

‘If we pack our armour in a cart and dress in sober clothes, we can join a group of pilgrims, and nobody’s going to give us a second glance.’ He looked at Bevier. ‘Do you know very much about Madel?’ he asked.

‘We have a chapterhouse there,’ Bevier replied. ‘I visit it from time to time.’

‘Are there any shrines or holy places there?’

‘Several. But pilgrims seldom travel in winter.’

‘They do if they get paid. We’ll hire some – and a clergyman to sing hymns as we go along.’

‘It’s got possibilities, Sparhawk,’ Kalten said. ‘Martel doesn’t really know
which
way we’re going when we leave here, so his spies are going to be spread fairly thin.’

‘How will we know this Martel person?’ Bevier asked. ‘Should we encounter him while you’re in Cippria, I mean?’

‘Kalten knows him,’ Sparhawk replied, ‘and Talen has seen him once.’ Then he remembered something. He looked over at the boy, who was making a cat’s cradle to entertain Flute. Talen,’ he said, ‘could you draw pictures of Martel and Krager?’

‘Of course.’

‘And we can conjure up the image of Adus as well,’ Sephrenia added.

‘Adus is easy,’ Kalten said. ‘Just put armour on a gorilla and you’ve got him.’

‘All right, we’ll do it that way, then,’ Sparhawk said. ‘Berit.’

‘Yes, Lord Sparhawk?’

‘Go and find a church somewhere – a poor one. Talk with the vicar. Tell him that we’ll finance a pilgrimage to the shrines in Madel. Ask him to pick a dozen or so of his neediest parishioners and to bring them here tomorrow morning. We’ll want him to come with us as well – to be the caretaker of our souls. And tell him that we’ll make a sizeable contribution to his church if he agrees.’

‘Won’t he ask about our motives, my Lord?’

Tell him that we’ve committed a dreadful sin and want to atone for it,’ Kalten shrugged. ‘Just don’t be too specific about the sin.’

‘Sir Kalten!’ Bevier gasped. ‘You would lie to a churchman?’

‘It’s not exactly a lie, Bevier. We’ve all committed sins. I’ve sinned at least a half-dozen times this week already. Besides, the vicar of a poor church isn’t going to ask too many questions when there’s a contribution involved.’

Sparhawk took a leather pouch from inside his tunic. He shook it a few times, and a distinctive jingling sound came from it. ‘All right, gentlemen,’ he said, untying the top of the pouch, ‘we’ve reached the part of this service you all enjoy the most – the offertory. God appreciates a generous giver, so don’t be shy. The vicar will need cash to hire pilgrims.’ He passed the pouch around.

‘Do you think God might accept a promissory note?’ Kalten asked.

‘God might. I won’t. Put something in the pouch, Kalten.’