The Ruined City (32 page)

At the end of the drive, the great gate stood open. The sentries on guard nodded affably to her as she went through, passing from the Cityheart grounds out into the Plaza of Proclamation.

The plaza was alive with citizens, many of them masked against contagion. She had considered this beforehand, and a full-face black velvet vizard reposed in the pocket of her grey gown. She could not put it on, however. The right arm hidden beneath her cloak was bathed in spreading wet warmth. An experimental flex informed her that her right hand was useless. She was bleeding profusely, in pain, and in need of a physician’s care.

She knew where to find a doctor—the most able and trustworthy doctor in all the world. He was here in Vitrisi looking for her, and the name of his inn had been dropped in her ear several times during the last few days. She had seen fit to ignore it, but no longer.

And now came the sound she had been waiting for from the moment she had exited Governor Uffrigo’s study: the shouts, the public alarm. She cast a glance behind her to behold a party of Taerleezi guards charging from the Cityheart.

Picking up her skirts with her one good hand, Celisse Rione fled for the Lancet Inn.

“Are you telling me,” Jianna demanded, wide-eyed and awestruck, “that you’ve found a cure for the
plague
?”

“Oh, if only life were that easy. No, it isn’t a cure,” Rione replied.

“But I thought you just said—”

“I said that I’ve been developing a treatment that shows promise.”

“Cure—treatment—there’s a difference?”

“Much, I’m sorry to say.”

The two of them sat at a small table in the Lancet Inn’s pleasantly old-fashioned common room. It was midafternoon, too early for dinner, and the place was relatively empty. Therefore the fire had been allowed to dwindle to embers, and the lamps remained unlit, despite the gloom of the smoke-suppressed daylight. Jianna did not mind. To her, this chamber with its age-darkened beams overhead, its narrow windows with tiny leaded-glass panes, its massive stone mantel, was purely beautiful. She sat here drinking cups of warm herbal infusion with Falaste Rione, who was enjoying a brief respite from his labors at the neighboring Avorno Hospital. She could listen to his voice and watch his face. There was nowhere she would rather have been.

And now he had dropped a conversational bombshell.

“Well—what is it, then?” she prodded. “Tell me.”

“It’s difficult to explain. It starts with the observation that the plague is singular in its manifestation. Its victims display the symptoms that we all know, but there’s something more that I’ve never before encountered. The only way I can express it is to say that the malady seems less conventional disease than demonic possession.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in such things.”

“I don’t. I wasn’t speaking literally, although there
is
something uncanny about it. What I mean is that the plague patients seem almost—transformed, lost to themselves.”

“Delirious?”

“Often, but not in the usual sense. It’s as if their bodies and minds have been invaded and occupied by some alien entity.”

“If your patients are strangers to you, and you didn’t know them before they fell ill, how can you be certain that they’ve changed so greatly?”

“Because the invading entity that I speak of isn’t human.”

“They turn into wild animals? Werewolves?”

“No, they don’t resemble anything known or recognizable. It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen. And yet I’d swear there’s intelligence there, but of a sort that I can’t fathom.”

“I can’t imagine it. What do they do or say that seems so inhuman?”

“Hard to define it. It’s in their eyes, their voices, their inexplicable words, the way they use their bodies. I’ve a host of impressions, but nothing tangible to offer.”

“The only way I could really understand would be to see for myself. And that’s exactly what I
should
do. Come, Falaste. I’m a good and useful assistant. You accomplish more when I’m there to help, and you know it. Take me with you next time you treat the plague patients. Don’t you owe it to them to make use of my abilities?”

“No. I don’t owe my patients your life.”

“Only your own?”

“I take steps to protect myself. I wear the oilcloth coverings, the beaked mask, lenses, and gloves. I breathe medicinals and swallow decoctions before leaving the hospital.”

“I could do the same.”

“No. We’ve already spoken of this. I won’t bring you into contact with the plague. You’ll stay away from it, if I have to order you barred from the Hospital Avorno.”

“That’s rather dictatorial.” Her frown was halfhearted at best. In reality, his protectiveness pleased her.

“Humor me. It’s for the best.”

“Oh, all right. Then at least be so good as to tell me how you battle this alien invader that you won’t allow me to see.”

“ ‘Battle’ isn’t quite right. ‘Influence’ would be more accurate. Or perhaps ‘persuade.’ ”

“You
talk
with it? Engage in debate?”

“Nothing nearly that civilized. Essentially I try to render the occupied territory so inhospitable that the invader will sometimes abandon it.”

“You can’t mean that you torture the sick and dying!”

“Nothing nearly that uncivilized. I wrap the patients in heavy canvas that restricts all movement, in the manner of swaddling clothes. I bandage their eyes and plug their ears. I set up barriers of screens or hanging blankets designed to keep the air about them as still as possible. Those capable of taking nourishment receive the blandest gruel, as nearly devoid of taste or texture as I can concoct.”

“You wouldn’t call all that torturous?”

“Perhaps it would seem so to a normal, healthy individual. But these patients—I believe that their human perceptions are largely suppressed. They’re absent or unconscious.”

“And the other—thing?”

“I can’t know its mind. But I suspect—thwarted, wearied, dissatisfied with inactivity.”

“Bored?”

“In human terms. And sometimes, so much so that it withdraws, granting the victim a chance of survival.”

“As simple as that?”

“No, there’s more. The bathing and cooling of fevered bodies, the administration of fluid, the cleansing vapors, the powdered medicinals, the liquid decoctions—all that you might expect. But none of it offers the slightest hope unless the invader has first been expelled—or rather, motivated to depart.”

“Which you’ve actually succeeded in doing?”

“A few times, yes. My success rate has improved since I started using shernivus.”

“I want to see.”

“I thought we just agreed—” Rione broke off. His eyes locked on something behind her.

“What is it?” Jianna turned in her seat to follow his gaze. She saw a cloaked figure standing in the doorway.

“My sister.” He was already on his feet and hurrying toward her.

Jianna stood up and followed. A few steps carried them to Celisse.

She looked dreadful; grey-faced, tight-lipped, glass-eyed. She leaned against the doorjamb as if for support, and her breathing was labored.

“I’ve been hurt,” she informed her brother, breathless but calm as always.

“Come with me.” Drawing her from the doorway, he led her across the foyer and up the stairs.

Jianna trailed close behind. She had noted spots of blood on Celisse’s cloak.

What’s happened?
And the question arose unbidden,
What has she done?

Up the stairs to the landing, and through the arched door on the left into Rione’s room. At once he undid the fastenings of his sister’s cloak, slipped the garment from her shoulders, and tossed it aside.

Jianna’s breath caught. Celisse’s right hand and forearm were drenched in blood. Her bodice and skirt were liberally splotched. Her sleeve was torn, the gashed flesh beneath bleeding plentifully.

“Any wounds other than the arm?” Rione was already busy rolling her sleeve back.

She shook her head.

“Good. Nasty cut, but it will heal, if treated properly. Here, sit down.” He placed her in a chair, then turned to Jianna. “Noro, please bring a basin of water, soap, and my bag.”

Jianna obeyed. She returned in time to hear his next question.

“How did you get this? What happened?”

“I think you already know.”

“Were you followed here?”

Celisse’s eyes, iced with animosity, rose to Jianna’s face, then turned away. “Get rid of her,” she commanded. “I’ll tell you everything, but I won’t have that wide-eyed little honeykitty of yours hanging about.”

Little honeykitty?
Jianna clamped down on her outrage. She was an experienced and skilled assistant. And more.
Rione would surely spring to her defense. Confidently, she looked to him.

“Noro.” His expression conveyed mild regret. “Set those things down, and then you may go.”

“But—”

“Please. My sister and I want a moment alone. Step outside and take a breath of fresh air.”

“I see. Certainly. Just as you wish.” Depositing her burden on the table beside him with exaggerated care, Jianna turned and stalked to the door. Her spine was very straight, her demeanor very dignified, and inside she boiled with fury.
You may go
. He might have been speaking to some serving wench. At a word from his sister he’d
dismissed
her, even told her to leave the building, as if simply leaving the room weren’t enough. He should have supported her, informed Celisse that his assistant’s presence was essential, and so he would have done if he truly valued her, as he had so often claimed.

Obviously she was altogether dispensable.

The tears rose to her eyes, and she blinked them away. Celisse Rione would not see her tears. Although, just possibly, Celisse’s attention was otherwise engaged at the moment. As she exited Rione’s room, she shut the door behind her, resisting the impulse to slam it, then hurried down the stairs at an angry clip. At the bottom, she hesitated. She could go back into the common room, order another mug of herbal infusion, and sit there drinking it. Alone. No. Better to take his suggestion, go outside, and come back—whenever she felt like it. If she felt like it. Let him knock on her door when he wanted her help, and find her absent. Let him not know where she was or when she would return, if ever. Let him see how he liked
that
.

She walked out through the front door, and the chill struck her at once. She had not thought to bring her cloak or vizard, but the thought of going back inside and up those stairs to collect them was insupportable. She would do without; the air was not that cold.

The streets were smoke-veiled, as usual. The sky was lost, as usual. The pedestrians were muffled and masked, as usual. But the arrangement and activity of the citizens out on the street were unusual.

Numbers of them stood about in clumps, conversing with exceptional animation. Her curiosity ignited. She drifted near a group of three masks, hoping to catch an informative word.

“Dead,” proclaimed a mask.

“No. Wounded. Nothing serious,” returned another.

“I heard dead.” The third hooded head nodded.

“Twaddle,” opined the first. “It’s just not that easy to kill a—Taerleezi governor.”

Jianna fancied that he verged on the use of some other, choicer descriptive term, but reined himself in, and with good reason. In this time of masks and anonymity, no one could know who might overhear an unguarded word on the street, and free expression could cost dearly indeed. But she scarcely noted the near indiscretion, for she finally understood.

She had been almost willfully blind. She had never allowed herself to entertain the remotest possibility that Celisse Rione would accomplish her self-appointed mission. Celisse might succeed in stirring up all sorts of unnecessary trouble, but—assassinate the Governor Uffrigo? Nonsense.

She had seriously underestimated Falaste’s little sister.

She’s actually done it. She’s killed him. That fanatical lunatic!

“A woman, I’ve heard,” one of the masks announced.

“No. Rogue Sishmindri.”

“Woman
and
Sishmindri.”

“Twaddle. Do you believe that?”

Jianna believed it completely. Her first thought was to warn Rione, and she even took a step back toward the Lancet Inn, then halted. Rione already knew. By this time, his sister would have confessed all.
I’ll tell you everything, but I won’t have that wide-eyed little honeykitty of yours hanging about
. Almost certainly he had known before she had spoken a word,
perhaps from the moment he had spied her there in the doorway.
Were you followed here?
He knew exactly the risk he undertook in assisting the governor’s assassin. No wonder he had proved so ready and willing to send Noro Penzia away. No wonder he had urged Noro Penzia to get out of the building. No wonder.

And petulant Noro Penzia hadn’t understood anything.

She wanted to run back inside; but he didn’t want her there. Or perhaps he really did.

While she stood vacillating, a party of Taerleezi guards sporting the purple-and-gold cockades of the governor’s household came rushing into Cistern Street. They paused briefly to accost the first group of civilians they encountered, and words were exchanged, inaudible to Jianna. A masked individual pointed at the Lancet Inn. The guards made for the inn at a run. They reached it within seconds and went in.