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INVERSIONS

IAIN M. BANKS

PROLOGUE

The only sin is selfishness. So said the good Doctor. When she first expressed this

opinion I was young enough initially to be puzzled and then to be impressed at what I

took to be her profundity.

It was only later, in my middle-age, when she was long gone from us, that I began to

suspect that the opposite is just as true. Arguably there is a sense in which selfishness is

the only true virtue, and therefore that — as opposites are given to cancelling each other

out — selfishness is finally neutral, indeed valueless, outside a supporting moral context.

In later years still — my maturity, if you will, or my old age, if you wish — I have with

some reluctance again come to respect the Doctor's point of view, and to agree with her,

tentatively at least, that selfishness is the root of most evil, if not all.

Of course I always knew what she meant. That it is when we put our own interests before

those of others that we are most likely to do wrong, and that there is a commonality of

guilt whether the crime is that of a child stealing coins from his mother's purse or an

Emperor ordering genocide. With either act, and all those in between, we say: Our

gratification matters more to us than whatever distress or anguish may be caused to you

and yours by our actions. In other words, that our desire outranks your suffering.

My middle-years objection was that only by acting on our desires, by attempting to bring

about what pleases us because it feels agreeable, are we able to create wealth, comfort,

happiness and what the good Doctor would have termed in that vague, generalising way

of hers 'progress'.

Eventually, though, I came to admit to myself that, while my objection might be true, it is

insufficiently all-embracing to cancel out the Doctor's assertion entirely, and that while it

may sometimes be a virtue, selfishness by its nature is more often a sin, or a direct cause

of sin.

We never like to think of ourselves as being wrong, just misunderstood. We never like to

think that we are sinning, merely that we are making hard decisions, and acting upon

them. Providence is the name of the mystical, divinely inhuman Court before which we

wish our actions to be judged, and which we hope will agree with us in our estimation

both of our own worth and the culpability or otherwise of our behaviour.

I suspect the good Doctor (you see, I judge her too in naming her so) did not believe in

Providence. I was never entirely sure what she did believe in, though I was always quite

convinced that she believed in something. Perhaps, despite all she said about selfishness,

she believed in herself and nothing else. Perhaps she believed in this Progress that she

talked about, or perhaps in some strange way, as a foreigner, she believed in us, in the

people she lived with and cared for, in a way that we did not believe in ourselves.

Did she leave us better off or not? I think, undeniably, better. Did she do this through

selfishness or selflessness? I believe that in the end it does not matter in the least, except

as it might have affected her own peace of mind. That was another thing she taught me.

That you are what you do. To Providence — or Progress or the Future or before any other

sort of judgment apart from our own conscience — what we have done, not what we have

thought, is the result we are judged by.

So, the following is the collected chronicle of our deeds. One part of my tale is presented

as something I can vouch for, for I was there. As to the other part, I cannot confirm its

veracity. I stumbled across its original version by sheer chance, long after the events

described in it had taken place, and while I believe it forms an interesting counterpoint to

the story in which I was involved, I present it more as an artistic flourish than as a

judgment born of intense study and reflection. Nevertheless, I believe the two tales

belong together, and carry more weight united than they could separately. It was, I think

there is no doubt, a crucial time. Geographically the crux was divided, but — after all —

much was, then. Division was the only order.

I have tried in what I have written here not to judge, yet I confess that I hope the Reader

— a sort of partial Providence, perhaps — will do just that, and not think badly of us. I

freely admit that a specific of my motive (especially in amending and adding to my

earlier self's chronicle, as well as in refining the language and grammar of my co-teller) is

to try to make sure that the Reader will not think ill of me, and of course that is a selfish

desire. Yet still I would hope that such selfishness might lead to good, for the simple

reason that otherwise this chronicle might not exist.

Again, the Reader must decide whether that would have been the more fortunate

outcome, or not.

Enough. A young and rather earnest man wishes to address us:

1. THE DOCTOR

Master, it was in the evening of the third day of the southern planting season that the

questioner's assistant came for the Doctor to take her to the hidden chamber, where the

chief torturer awaited.

I was sitting in the living room of the Doctor's apartments using a pestle and mortar to

grind some ingredients for one of the Doctor's potions. Concentrating on this, it took me a

moment or two fully to collect my wits when I heard the loud and aggressive knocking at

the door, and I upset a small censer on my way to the door. This was the cause both of the

delay in opening the door and any curses which Unoure, the questioner's assistant, may

have heard. These swear-words were not directed at him, neither was I asleep or even

remotely groggy, as I trust my good Master will believe, no matter what the fellow

Unoure — a shifty and unreliable person, by all accounts — may say.

The Doctor was in her study, as was usual at that time in the evening. I entered the

Doctor's workshop, where she keeps the two great cabinets containing the powders,

creams, ointments, draughts and various instruments that are the stock of her trade as well

as the pair of tables which support a variety of burners, stoves, retorts and flasks.

Occasionally she treats patients in here too, when it becomes her surgery, While the

unpleasant-smelling Unoure waited in the living room, wiping his nose on his already

filthy sleeve and peering round with the look of one choosing what to steal, I went

through the workshop and tapped at the door to the study which also serves as her

bedroom.

'Oelph?' the Doctor asked.

'Yes, mistress.'

'Come in.'

I heard the quiet thud of a heavy book being closed, and smiled to myself.

The Doctor's study was dark and smelled of the sweet istra flower whose leaves she

habitually burned in roof-hung censers. I felt my way through the gloom. Of course I

know the arrangement of the Doctor's study intimately — better than she might imagine,

thanks to the inspired foresight and judicious cunning of my Master — but the Doctor is

prone to leaving chairs, stools and shelf-steps lying where one might walk, and

accordingly I had to feel my way across the room to where a small candle flame indicated

her presence, sitting at her desk in front of a heavily curtained window. She sat upright in

her chair, stretching her back and rubbing her eyes. The hand-thick, fore-arm-square bulk

of her journal lay on the desk in front of her. The great book was closed and locked, but

even in that cave-darkness I noticed that the little chain on the hasp was swinging to and

fro. A pen stood in the ink well, whose cap was open. The Doctor yawned and adjusted

the fine chain round her neck which holds the key for the journal.

My Master knows from my many previous reports that I believe the Doctor may be

writing an account of her experiences here in Haspide to the people of her homeland in

Drezen.

The Doctor obviously wishes to keep her writings secret. However, sometimes she

forgets that I am in the room, usually when she has set me the task of tracking down

some reference in one of the books in her extravagantly endowed library and I have been

silently doing so for some time. From the little that I have been able to glimpse of her

writings on such occasions I have determined that when she writes in her journal she does

not always use Haspidian or Imperial — though there are passages in both — but

sometimes uses an alphabet I have never seen before.

I believe my Master has thought of taking steps to check with other natives of Drezen

regarding whether, in such instances, the Doctor writes in Drezeni or not, and to this end

I am attempting to commit to memory as much as I can of the Doctor's relevant journal

writings whenever I can. On this occasion, however, I was unable to gain a view of the

pages she had surely been working on.

It is still my wish to be able to serve my Master better in this regard and I would

respectfully again submit that the temporary removal of her journal would allow a skilled

locksmith to open the journal without damaging it and a better copy of her secret writings

to be taken, so allowing the matter to be settled. This could easily be done when the

Doctor is elsewhere in the palace, or better still, elsewhere in the city, or even when she is

taking one of her frequent baths, which tend to be prolonged (it was during one of her

baths that I procured for my Master one of the Doctor's scalpels from her medicine bag,

which has now been delivered. I would add that I was careful to do this immediately after

a visit to the Poor Hospital, so that someone there would be suspected). However, I do of

course how to my Master's superior judgment in this regard.

The Doctor frowned at me. 'You're shaking,' she said. And indeed I was, for the sudden

appearance of the torturer's assistant had been undeniably unsettling. The Doctor glanced

past me towards the door to the surgery, which I had left open so that Unoure might be

able to hear our voices and so perhaps be dissuaded from any mischief he might be

contemplating. 'Who's that?' she asked.

'Who's what, mistress?' I asked, watching her close the cap of the ink well.

'I heard somebody cough.'

'Oh, that is Unoure, the questioner's assistant, mistress. He's come to fetch you.'

'To go where?'

'To the hidden chamber. Master Nolieti has sent for you.'

She looked at me without speaking for a moment. 'The chief torturer,' she said evenly,

and nodded. 'Am I in trouble, Oelph?' she asked, laying one arm across the thick hide

cover of her journal, as if looking to provide, or gain, protection.

'Oh no,' I told her. 'You're to bring your bag. And medicines.' I glanced round at the door

to the surgery, edged with light from the living room. A cough came from that direction,

a cough that sounded like the sort of cough one makes when one wants to remind

somebody that one is waiting impatiently. 'I think it's urgent,' I whispered.

'Hmm. Do you think chief torturer Nolieti has a cold?' the Doctor asked, rising from her

chair and pulling on her long jacket, which had been hanging on the back of the seat.

I helped her on with her black jacket. 'No, mistress, I think there is probably somebody

being put to the question who is, umm, unwell.'

'I see,' she said, stamping her feet into her boots and then straightening. I was struck again

by the Doctor's physical presence, as I often am. She is tall for a woman, though not

exceptionally so, and while for a female she is broad at the shoulder I have seen fish-

wives and net-women who look more powerful. No, what seems most singular about her,

I think, is her carriage, the way she, comports herself.

I have been afforded tantalising half-glimpses of her — after one of her many baths — in

a thin shift with the light behind her, stepping in a coil of powdered, scented air from one

room to another, her arms raised to secure a towel about her long, damp red hair, and I

have watched her during grand court occasions when she has worn a formal gown and

danced as lightly and delicately — and with as demure an expression — as any

expensively tutored season-maiden, and I freely confess that I have found myself drawn

to her in a physical sense just as any man (youthful or not) might be to a woman of such

healthy and generous good looks. Yet at the same time there is something about her

deportment which I — and I suspect most other males — find off-putting, and even

slightly threatening. A certain immodest forthrightness in her bearing is the cause of this,

perhaps, plus the suspicion that while she pays flawless lip service to the facts of life

which dictate the accepted and patent preeminence of the male, she does so with a sort of

unwarranted humour, producing in us males the unsettlingly contrary feeling that she is

indulging us.

The Doctor leaned over the desk and opened the curtains and the shutters to the mid-eve

Seigen glow. In the faint wash of light from the windows I noticed the small plate of

biscuits and cheese at the edge of the Doctor's desk, on the far side of the journal. Her

old, battered dagger lay also on the plate, its dull edges smeared with grease.

She picked up the knife, licked its blade and then, after smacking her lips as she gave it a

final wipe on her kerchief, slipped the dagger into the top of her right boot. 'Come on,'

she said, 'mustn't keep the chief torturer waiting.'

'Is this really necessary?' the Doctor asked, looking at the blindfold held in questioner's

assistant Unoure's grubby hands. He wore a long butcher's apron of blood-stained hide

over his filthy shirt and loose, greasy-looking trousers. The black blindfold had been

produced from a long pocket in the leather apron.

Unoure grinned, displaying a miscellany of diseased, discoloured teeth and dark gaps

where teeth ought to have been. The Doctor winced. Her own teeth are so even that the

first time I saw them I naturally assumed they were a particularly fine false set.

'Rules,' Unoure said, looking at the Doctor's chest. She drew her long jacket closed across

her shirt. 'You're a foreigner,' he told her.

The Doctor sighed, glancing at me.

'A foreigner,' I told Unoure forcibly, 'who holds the King's life in her hands almost every

day.'

'Doesn't matter,' the fellow said, shrugging. He sniffed and went to wipe his nose with the

blindfold, then looked at the expression on the Doctor's face and changed his mind, using

his sleeve again instead. 'That's the orders. Got to hurry,' he said, glancing at the doors.

We were at the entrance to the palace's lower levels. The corridor behind us led off from

the little-used passage-way beyond the west-wing kitchens and the wine cellars. It was

quite dark. A narrow circular light-well overhead cast a dusty sheen of slaty light over us

and the tall, rusted metal doors, while a couple of candles burned dimly further down the

corridor.

'Very well,' the Doctor said. She leaned over a little and made a show of inspecting the

blindfold and Unoure's hands. 'But I'm not wearing that, and you're not tying it.' She

turned to me and pulled a fresh kerchief from a pocket in her coat. 'Here,' she said.

'But—' Unoure said, then jumped as a bell clanged somewhere beyond the flaking brown

doors. He turned away, stuffing the blindfold into his apron, cursing.

I tied the scented kerchief across the Doctor's eyes while Unoure unlocked the doors. I

carried the Doctor's bag with one hand and with my other hand led her into the corridor

beyond the doors and down the many twisting steps and further doors and passageways to

the hidden chamber where Master Nolieti waited. Halfway there, the bell rang again from

somewhere ahead of us, and I felt the Doctor jump, and her hand become damp. I confess

my own nerves were not entirely settled.

We entered the hidden chamber from a low doorway we each had to stoop under (I

placed my hand on the Doctor's head to lower her head. Her hair felt sleek and smooth).

The place smelled of something sharp and noxious, and of burned flesh. My breathing

seemed to be quite beyond my control, the odours forcing their way into my nostrils and

down into my lungs.

The tall, wide space was lit by a motley collection of ancient oil lamps which threw a

sickly blue-green glow over a variety of vats, tubs, tables and other instruments and

containers — some in human shape — none of which I cared to inspect too closely,

though all of them attracted my wide-open eyes like suns attract flowers. Additional light

came from a tall brazier positioned underneath a hanging cylindrical chimney. The

brazier stood by a chair made from hoops of iron which entirely enclosed a pale, thin and

naked man, who appeared to be unconscious. The entire frame of this chair had been

swivelled over on an outer cradle so that the man appeared caught in the act of

performing a forward somersault, resting on his knees in mid-air, his back parallel with

the grid of a broad light-well grille above.

The chief torturer Nolieti stood between this apparatus and a broad workbench covered

with various metal bowls, jars and bottles and a collection of instruments that might have

originated in the workplaces of a mason, a carpenter, a butcher and a surgeon. Nolieti was

shaking his broad, scarred grey head. His rough and sinewy hands were on his hips and

his glare was fastened on the withered form of the encaged man. Below the metal

contraption enclosing the unfortunate fellow stood a broad square tray of stone with a

drain hole at one corner. Dark fluid like blood had splattered there. Long white shapes in

the darkness might have been teeth.

Nolieti turned round when he heard us approach. 'About fucking time,' he spat, fixing his

stare on first me, then the Doctor and then Unoure (who, I noticed, as the Doctor stuffed

her kerchief back into a pocket in her jacket, was making a show of folding the black

blindfold he had been told to use on her).

'My fault,' the Doctor said in a matter-of-fact manner, stepping past Nolieti. She bent

down at the man's rear. She grimaced, nose wrinkling, then came to the side of the

apparatus and with one hand on the iron hoops of the frame-chair brought it squeaking

and complaining round until the man was in a more conventional sitting position. The

fellow looked in a terrible state. His face was grey, his skin was burned in places, and his

mouth and jaw had collapsed. Little rivulets of blood had dried under each of his ears.

The Doctor put her hand through the iron hoops and tried to open one of the man's eyes.

He made a terrible, low groaning sound. There was a sort of sucking, tearing noise and

the man gave a plaintive moan like a kind of distant scream before settling into a ragged,

rhythmic, bubbling noise that might have been breathing.

The Doctor bent forward to peer into the man's face and I heard her give a small gasp.

Nolieti snorted. 'Looking for these?' he asked the Doctor, and flourished a small bowl at

her.

The Doctor barely glanced at the bowl, but smiled thinly at the torturer. She rotated the

iron chair to its previous position and went back to look at the caged man's rear. She

pulled away some blood-soaked rags and gave another grimace. I thanked the gods that

he was pointing away from me and prayed that whatever the Doctor might have to do

would not require my assistance.

'What seems to be the problem?' the Doctor asked Nolieti, who seemed momentarily

nonplussed.

'Well,' the chief torturer said after a pause. 'He won't stop bleeding out his arse, will he?'

The Doctor nodded. 'You must have let your pokers get too cold,' she said casually,

squatting and opening her bag and laying it by the side of the stone drain-tray.

Nolieti went to the Doctor's side and bent down over her. 'How it happened isn't any of

your fucking business, woman,' he said into her ear. 'Your business is to get this fucker

well enough to be questioned so he can tell us what the King needs to know.'

'Does the King know?' the Doctor asked, looking up, an expression of innocent interest

on her face. 'Did he order this? Does he even know of the existence of this unfortunate?

Or was it guard commander Adlain who thought the Kingdom would fall unless this poor

devil suffered?'

Nolieti stood up. 'None of that is your business,' he said sullenly. 'Just do your job and get

out.' He bent down again and stuck his mouth by her ear. 'And never you mind the King

or the guard commander. I'm king down here, and I say you'd best attend to your own

business and leave me to mine.'

'But it is my business,' the Doctor said evenly, ignoring the threatening bulk of the man

poised over her. 'If I know what was done to him, and how it was done, I might be better

able to treat him.'

'Oh, I could show you, Doctor,' the chief torturer said, looking up at his assistant and

winking. 'And we have special treats we save just for the ladies, don't we, Unoure?'

'Well, we haven't time to flirt,' the Doctor said with a steely smile. 'Just tell me what you

did to this poor wretch.'

Nolieti's eyes narrowed. He stood up and withdrew a poker from the brazier in a cloud of

sparks. Its yellow-glowing tip was broad, like the blade of a small flat spade. 'Latterly, we

did him with this,' Nolieti said with a smile, his face lit by the soft yellow-orange glow.

The Doctor looked at the poker, then at the torturer. She squatted and touched something

at the encaged man's rear.

'Was he bleeding badly?' she asked.

'Like a man pissing,' the chief torturer said, winking at his assistant again. Unoure quickly

nodded and laughed.

'Better leave this in, then,' the Doctor muttered. She rose. 'I'm sure it's good you enjoy

your job so, chief torturer,' she said. 'However, I think you've killed this one.'

'You're the doctor, you heal him!' Nolieti said, stepping back towards her, brandishing the

orange-red poker. I do not think he intended to threaten the Doctor, but I saw her right

hand begin to drop towards the boot where her old dagger was sheathed.

She looked up at the torturer, past the glowing metal rod. 'I'll give him something that

might revive him, but he may well have given you all he ever will. Don't blame me if he

dies.'

'Oh, but I will,' Nolieti said quietly, thrusting the poker back into the brazier. Cinders

splashed to the flag stones. 'You make sure he lives, woman. You make sure he's fit to

talk or the King'll hear you couldn't do your job.'

'The King will hear anyway, no doubt,' the Doctor said, smiling at me. I smiled nervously

back. 'And guard commander Adlain, too,' she added, 'perhaps from me.' She swung the

man in the cage-chair back upright and opened a vial in her bag, wiped a wooden spatula

round the inside of the vial and then, opening the bloody mess that was the man's mouth,

applied some of the ointment to his gums. He moaned again.

The Doctor stood watching him for a moment, then stepped to the brazier and put the

spatula into it. The wood flamed and spluttered. She looked at her hands, then at Nolieti.

'Do you have any water down here? I mean clean water.'

The chief torturer nodded at Unoure, who disappeared into the shadows for a while

before bringing a bowl which the Doctor washed her hands in. She was wiping them

clean on the kerchief which had been her blindfold when the man in the chair cage gave a

terrible screech of agony, shook violently for a few moments, then stiffened suddenly and

finally went limp. The Doctor stepped towards him and went to put her hand to his neck

but she was knocked aside by Nolieti, who gave an angry, anguished shout of his own

and reached through the iron hoops to place his finger on the pulse-point on the neck

which the Doctor has taught me is the best place to test the beat of a man's vitality.

The chief torturer stood there, quivering, while his assistant gazed on with an expression

of apprehension and terror. The Doctor's look was one of grimly contemptuous

amusement. Then Nolieti spun round and stabbed a finger at her. 'You!' he hissed at her.

'You killed him. You didn't want him to live!'

The Doctor looked unconcerned, and continued drying her hands (though it seemed to me

that they were both already dry, and shaking). 'I am sworn to save life, chief torturer, not

to take it,' she said reasonably. 'I leave that to others.'

'What was in that stuff?' the chief torturer said, quickly squatting to wrench open the

Doctor's bag. He pulled out the open vial she had taken the ointment from and brandished

it in her face. 'This. What is it?'

'A stimulant,' she said, and dipped a finger into the vial, displaying a small fold of the soft

brown gel on her finger tip so that it glinted in the light of the brazier. 'Would you like to

try it?' She moved the finger towards Nolieti's mouth.

The chief torturer grabbed her hand in one of his and forced the finger back, towards her

own lips. 'No. You do it. Do what you did to him.'

The Doctor shook her hand free of Nolieti's and calmly put her finger to her mouth,

spreading the brown paste along her top gum. 'The taste is bitter-sweet,' she said in the

same tone she uses when she is teaching me. 'The effects last between two and three bells

and usually have no side effects, though in a body seriously weakened and in shock, fits

are likely and death is a remote possibility.' She licked her finger. 'Children in particular

suffer severe side effects with almost no restorative function and it is never recommended

for them. The gel is made from the berries of a biennial plant which grows on isolated

peninsulae on islands in the very north of Drezen. It is quite precious, and more usually

applied in a solution, in which form, too, it is most stable and long-lasting. I have used it

to treat the King on occasion and he regards it as one of my more efficacious

prescriptions. There is not much left now and I would have preferred not to waste it on

either those who are going to die anyway, or on myself, but you did insist. I am sure the

King will not mind.' (I have to report, Master, that as far as I am aware, the Doctor has

never used this particular gel — of which she has several jars — on the King, and I am

not sure she had ever used it to treat any patient.) The Doctor closed her mouth and I

could see her wipe her tongue round her top gum. Then she smiled. 'Are you sure you

won't try some?'

Nolieti said nothing for a moment, his broad, dark face moving as though he was

chewing on his tongue.

'Get this Drezen witch out of here,' he said eventually to Unoure, and then turned away to

stamp on the brazier's foot-bellows. The brazier hissed and glowed yellow, showering

sparks up into its sooty chimney. Nolieti glanced at the dead man in the cage-chair. 'Then

take this bastard to the acid bath,' he barked.

We were at the door when the chief torturer, still working the foot-bellows with a regular,

thrusting stroke, called out, 'Doctor?'

She turned to look at hire as Unoure opened the door and fished the black blindfold from

his apron. 'Yes, chief torturer?' she said.

He looked round at us, smiling as he continued to fire the brazier. 'You'll be here again,

Drezen woman,' he said softly to her. His eyes glittered in the yellow brazier light. 'And

next time you won't be able to walk out.'

The Doctor held his gaze for a good while, until she looked down and shrugged. 'Or you

will appear in my surgery,' she told him, looking up. 'And may be assured of my best

attention.'

The chief torturer turned away and spat into the brazier, his foot stamping on the bellows

and breathing life into that instrument of death as we were ushered out of the low door by

the assistant Unoure.

Two hundred heartbeats later we were met at the tall iron doors which led into the rest of

the palace by a footman of the royal chamber.

'It's my back again, Vosill,' the King said, turning on to his front on the wide, canopied

bed while the Doctor rolled up first her own sleeves and then the King's tunic top and

shift. And we were in the principal bed-chamber of King Quience's private apartments,

deep within the innermost quadrangle of Efernze, the winter palace of Haspide, capital of

Haspidus!

This has become such a regular haunt of mine, indeed such a regular place of work, that I

confess I am inclined to forget that I am honoured indeed to be present. When I stop to

consider the matter though, I think, Great Gods, I — an orphan of a disgraced family —

am in the presence of our beloved King! And regularly, and intimately!

At such moments, Master, I thank you in my soul with all the vigour that is mine to

command, for I know that it was only your kindness, wisdom and compassion that put me

in such an exalted position and entrusted me with such an important mission. Be assured

that I shall continue to try with all my might to be worthy of that trust, and fulfil that task.

Wiester, the King's chamberlain, had let us into the apartments. 'Will that be all, sir?' he

asked, bending and hunching over as well as his ample frame would allow.

'Yes. That's all for now. Go.'

The Doctor sat on the side of the King's bed and kneaded his shoulders and back with her

strong, capable fingers. She had me hold a small jar of rich-smelling unguent which she

dipped her fingers into every now and again, spreading the ointment across the King's

broad, hairy back and working it into his pale gold skin with her fingers and palms.

As I sat there, with the Doctor's medicine bag open at my side, I noticed that the jar of

brown gel which she had used to treat the wretch in the hidden chamber was still lying

opened on one of the bag's ingeniously fashioned internal shelves. I went to stick my own

finger into the jar. The Doctor saw what I was doing and quickly took hold of my hand

and pulled it away from the jar and said quietly, 'I wouldn't, Oelph, if I were you. Just put

the top back on carefully.'

Iain Banks - Inversions

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