Inversions by Iain M. Banks Page B

these stairs,’ the strict-looking woman told her. ‘Others may hear.’
    The Doctor said nothing, but turned back to look at me again, her eyes wide and the corners of her mouth turned down.
    We were led into the rest of the house at the third storey. The corridor we found ourselves in was broad and plush. Paintings adorned the walls, and facing us were wall-high glass windows letting in the sight of the tops of the grand houses on the far side of the canal and the sky and clouds beyond. A series of tall, wide doors opened off the corridor. We were ushered towards the tallest and widest.
    The woman put her hand on the door’s handle. ‘The servant,’ she said. ‘On the dock.’
    ‘Yes?’ said the Doctor.
    ‘He talked to you?’
    The Doctor looked into the woman’s eyes for a moment. ‘I asked him a question,’ she said (this is one of the few times I have ever heard the Doctor directly lie).
    ‘I thought so,’ the woman said, opening the door for us. We stepped into a large, dark room lit only by candies and lanterns. The floor underfoot felt warm and furry. At first I thought I’d stepped on a hound. There was a perfume of great sweetness in the room and I thought I detected the scent of various herbs known to have a healing or tonic effect. I tried to detect a smell of sickness or corruption, but could not. A huge canopied bed sat in the middle of the room. It held a large man attended by three people: two servants and a well-dressed lady. They looked round as we entered and light flooded into the room. The light started to wane behind us as the severe-looking woman closed the doors from outside.
    The Doctor turned round and said through the narrowing gap, ‘The servant’
    ‘Will be punished,’ the woman said with a wintry smile.
    The doors thudded shut. The Doctor breathed deeply and then turned to the candle-lit scene in the centre of the room.
    ‘You are the woman doctor?’ the lady asked, approaching us.
    ‘My name is Vosill,’ the Doctor told her. ‘Lady Tunch?’
    The woman nodded. ‘Can you help my husband?’
    ‘I don’t know, ma’am.’ The Doctor looked round the shadowy, half-hidden spaces of the room, as if trying to guess its extent. ‘It would help if I could see him. Is there a reason for the curtains being drawn?’
    ‘Oh. We were told the darkness would reduce the swellings.’
    ‘Let’s take a look, shall we?’ the Doctor said. We crossed to the bed. Walking on the thick floor covering was an odd, disconcerting experience, like walking on the deck of a pitching ship.
    The Slave Master Tunch had, by repute, always been a huge man. He was bigger now. He lay on the bed, breathing quickly and shallowly, his skin grey and blotched. His eyes were closed. ‘He seems to sleep almost all the time,’ the lady told us. She was a thin little thing, scarcely more than a child, with a pinched, pale face and hands that were forever kneading each other. One of the two servants was mopping her husband’s brow. The other was fussing at the bottom of the bed, tucking in bed clothes. ‘He was soiled, just earlier,’ the lady explained.
    ‘Did you keep the stool?’ the Doctor asked.
    ‘No!’ the lady said, shocked. ‘We have no need to. The house has a water closet.’
    The Doctor took the place of the servant mopping the man’s brow. She looked into his eyes, she looked in his mouth and then she pulled back the coverings over the huge bulge of his body before pulling up his shirt. I think the only fatter people I have seen have been eunuchs. Master Tunch was not just fat (though goodness knows, there is nothing wrong with being fat!), he bulged. Oddly. I saw this myself, even before the Doctor pointed this out.
    She turned to the lady. ‘I need more light,’ she told her. ‘Would you have the curtains opened?’
    The lady hesitated, then nodded to the servants.
    Light washed into the great room. It was even more splendid than I had imagined. All the furniture was covered in gold