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He’s to be king now, he’ll need you for that. If you ain’t here to keep him organized they might ask Willer, and that little sea slug couldn’t organize a piss-up in a brewery!”
    Darran tried to frown. His lips worked soundlessly for a moment, then he whispered, “Willer—my assistant— you show respect—”
    “That’s more like it,” he said, grinning with relief. “Just you lie there and breathe, Meister Scarecrow. In and out, in and out, and don’t you dare think of stoppin’.”
    Darran’s eyes fluttered closed, but his chest continued to rise and fall. Asher released the old man’s wrist and sat back on his heels. He could feel sweat trickling down his spine and gluing his hair to his scalp. He needed a bath. And food. His empty belly growled at the thought. But bloody Darran had sent the cook away. He’d have to risk her wrath and raid the kitchen for whatever was lying about. And he would, too … just as soon as he could be sure Darran wasn’t going to cause him even more trouble than usual by dying.
    Then he looked up, because the Tower doors were swinging open. It was Gar. On his own two feet and walking. A step behind him, Conroyd Jarralt. They saw Darran and halted.
    “Barl save me,” said Gar. Looking and sounding like a man who’d lost his last hope of happiness. “Is he—”
    “No,” he said, scrambling off the floor. “What are you doin’ here, you’re s’posed to be on your way to see Nix!”
    “I came to tell Darran what happened.”
    He spared Jarralt an accusing glance, then said, “Aye, well, I already told him. Can you get him to Nix? Now?”
    Not looking at Jarralt, Gar nodded. “My lord?”
    In searing silence Jarralt helped Asher get the groggy old man out to the waiting carriage. Gar followed behind, somehow managing to keep his own self upright.
    “You need me?” said Asher, once Darran was settled against the plush velvet cushions and Gar had climbed in beside him.
    “Yes,” said Gar.
    “Ride with the coachman,” said Jarralt curtly, and climbed into the carriage.
    Biting his tongue, Asher obeyed.
    The Royal Infirmary was located in a wing off the palace’s main building, with its own driveway and entrance and courtyard for privacy and peace. Willing hands assisted Darran inside. Offered to help Gar and were coldly rebuffed. No longer required, Jarralt departed with little more than a correct bow. Gar nodded austere thanks, Asher heaved a sigh of relief and the infirmary assistants barely noticed.
    A carry-chair was produced for the ailing old man to rest in and a couple of servants summoned to do the carrying. A spare pother, hastily produced, took one look at Darran and Gar, tut-tutted, and trotted them off to the person who knew best how to handle difficult patients.
    Asher, hovering close by Gar in case of another collapse, prayed hard under his breath for strength. The smells in this place were making his head swim. If he didn’t get out of here sooner rather than later the infirmary’s manky bone-botherers were going to have one more patient on their hands.
    After a short trip along narrow, quiet corridors they found Nix standing in some kind of three-sided reception area, complete with desk and chairs and several potted plants. There was a closed door in each wall, each painted a different color: blue, green and deep crimson. The Royal Pother stood before the crimson door, washing his bloodied hands in a basin held by one assistant, while dictating notes to another.
    “—twice hourly, with a goodly compound of urval, goatsfoot and stranglepus rubbed well into the unstitched wounds,” Nix recited, his eyes half-closed in thought. Reaching for the towel draped over the basin-holder’s forearm, he pursed his lips. “For the stitched wounds, dust every four hours with powdered grassle. In an hour we’ll—” Suddenly aware of a wider audience, he stopped drying his hands and refocused his attention. Saw Darran slumped in the carry-chair, tossed