I kept my temper. Shrewd was not in his sitting room. The bedchamber?

“Will you truly bother him there? Well, why not? You’ve shown no other manners, why should I expect consideration now?” Wallace’s voice was full of snide condescension.

I gripped my temper.

Don’t just accept that from him. Turn and face him down now. This was not advice from Verity, but a command. I set the tray down atop a small table carefully. I took a breath and turned to face Wallace. “Have you a dislike of me?” I asked directly.

He took a step back but tried to keep his sneer in place. “A dislike? Why should I, a healer, mind if someone comes to disturb an ill man when he is finally resting?”

“This room reeks of Smoke. Why?”

Smoke?

An herb they use in the Mountains. Seldom for medicine, save pains nothing else will halt. But more often the burning fumes are breathed for pleasure. Much as we use carris seed at Springfest. Your brother has a liking for it.

As did his mother. If it is the same herb. She called it mirthleaf.

Almost the same leaf, but the Mountain plant grows taller with fleshier leaves. And thicker smoke.

My exchange with Verity had taken less than a blink of an eye. One can Skill information as fast as one can think it. Wallace was still pursing his lips over my question. “Are you claiming to be a healer?” he demanded.

“No. But I’ve a working knowledge of herbs, one that suggests Smoke is not appropriate to a sick man’s chambers.”

Wallace was still a moment as he formulated an answer. “Well. A King’s pleasures are not his healer’s area of concern.”

“Perhaps they are mine, then,” I offered, and turned away from him. I picked up the tray and pushed open the door to the King’s dimly lit bedchamber.

The reek of Smoke was heavier here, the air thick and cloying with it. Too hot a fire was burning, making the room close and stuffy. The air was still and stale as if no fresh wind had blown through the room for weeks. My own breath seemed heavy in my lungs. The King lay still, breathing stertorously beneath a mound of feather quilts. I looked about for a place to set down the tray of pastries. The small table close to his bed was littered. There was a censer for Smoke, the drifting ash thick on its top, but the burner was out and cold. Beside it was a goblet of lukewarm red wine, and a bowl with some nasty gray gruel in it. I set the vessels on the floor and brushed the table clean with my shirtsleeve before setting the tray down. As I approached the King’s bed there was a fusty, fetid smell that became even stronger as I leaned over the King.

This is not like Shrewd at all.

Verity shared my dismay. He has not summoned me much of late. And I have been too busy to call upon him unless he bids me to. The last time I saw him was in his sitting room, in an evening. He complained of headaches, but this…

The thought trailed away between us. I glanced up from the King to find Wallace peering ’round the door at us. There was something in his face; I know not whether to call it satisfaction or confidence, but it roused me to fury. In two steps I had reached the door. I slammed it, and had the satisfaction of hearing him yelp as he jerked his pinched fingers out. I dropped into place an ancient bar that had probably never been used in my lifetime.

I moved to the tall windows, jerked aside the tapestries that covered it, and flung wide the wooden shutters. Clear sunlight and fresh cold air spilled into the room.

Fitz, this is rash.

I made no reply. Instead, I moved about the room, dumping censer after censer of ash and herb out the open window. I brushed the clinging ash out with my hand to free the room from its reek. From about the room I gathered half a dozen sticky goblets of stale wine, and a trayful of bowls and plates of untouched or half-eaten food. I stacked them by the door. Wallace was pounding on it and howling with fury. I leaned against it and spoke through the crack. “Hush!” I told him sweetly. “You’ll waken the King.”

Have a boy sent with ewers of warm water. And tell Mistress Hasty that the King’s bed requires clean linens, I requested of Verity.

Such orders cannot come from me. A pause. Don’t waste time in anger. Think, and you’ll see why it must be so.

I understood, but knew also that I would not leave Shrewd in this dingy, smelly room any more than I would abandon him to a dungeon. There was half a ewer of water, stale, but mostly clean. I set it to warm by the hearth. I wiped his bed table clean of ash and set out the tea and pastry tray atop it. Rummaging boldly through the King’s chest, I found a clean nightshirt, and then washing herbs. Leftover, no doubt, from Cheffers’s time. I had never thought I would so miss a valet.