Doctor Who_ Bad Therapy - Matthew Jones [50]
She started to doubt her own abilities. She’d spoken to Ala’dan of this when he visited her at lunchtime, bringing food – which she’d accepted – and a servant – whom she’d refused. Ala’dan hadn’t commented on her behaviour directly – to presume to judge the queen would be an act of treason. But Ala’dan had reported that he’d never seen the king more angry and upset; 83
that the king thought that she was deliberately choosing to humiliate him.
Gilliam chewed morosely on some of the food that the old chancellor had brought for her. Why was she doing this? Who did she think she was to single-handedly undertake an archeological project? She had a college kid’s knowledge of archeological theory; her only claim to practical experience were the two college digs she’d attended all those years ago.
She turned back to the screen. At the top, the translation from the previous day still sat. She’d cleaned it up a bit, or rewritten it, depending on your point of view.
My name is Petruska, First Queen of Kr’on Tep, Ruler of the Seven Systems, and I am a prisoner in this place.
I know how you feel, Gilliam thought, and then set to work. After a few fruitless hours of word-play she abandoned the translation software, dug out a notepad and struck out on her own. By the time the sun was sinking below the horizon, she had filled a quarter of her pad, and the next section of the hieroglyphs on the wall were – well, translated no longer accurately described her work. Interpreted was probably closer to the truth.
She was reading through the paragraphs of text, when she heard someone politely cough behind her. She knew it was her husband before she turned and saw him.
He was standing by the entrance to the chamber, looking healthy and strong and as huge as ever in the deep orange light of the evening. He was wearing the simple robes of business; he’d probably come straight from a state meeting. His face was carefully neutral. Expressionless.
Any minute now he was going to start bellowing at her.
But he didn’t. Instead, he made a show of considering the ancient chamber.
‘This is my home,’ he said. ‘I can trace my family back through the generations to this room. I am descended from Moriah and Petruska’s first born. I am king, because of them.’ He sounded as if he were reciting by rote, but it wasn’t any speech Gilliam knew. He looked at her directly for the first time. ‘Just as you are queen.’
‘That’s –’ she started, but had to clear her throat. Would she always feel so intimidated by him? ‘That’s why I’m here.’
‘Oh?’ He raised an eyebrow. A bitter smile flickered uncertainly across his face. ‘And I thought you were running away from me. No?’
Gilliam didn’t know what to say. Not once since she had fled the Jewelled Sword had she considered that the king might take her leaving personally.
She’d assumed he would be angry at her disobedience. Angry, but not hurt.
She sighed, sat down heavily and put her head in her hands. ‘I’ve been such a selfish bas–’
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‘Ssh.’ He gently silenced her apologies, and sat down beside her. He picked up her notepad and scanned a couple of pages. ‘Tell me what you’ve been up to here,’ he asked in a husky whisper.
‘You’re not going to like it.’
‘Funny, Ala’ dan said the same thing.’
Gilliam took her notepad from her husband and told her story. When she explained about her discovery of Petruska’s secret diary hidden in her love song, he looked genuinely interested. Interested and impressed.
She read the last section of her reconstruction: ‘“These hidden words that I paint on the walls of my room are my only voice,”’ Gilliam quoted. She paused after scanning the sentence that followed: ‘“I live in terror of Moriah.”
’ Out of the corner of her eye she saw the king flinch as if the words were describing him and not his ancient ancestor. She continued: “He allows me to do nothing, to go nowhere, to meet no one, to talk to no one. Before