City of Hope and Despair (11 page)

  Just before Tom sank into the deep sleep of exhaustion, he determined to find Jezmina on his return to the city, once this daunting trip was out of the way; if only to make sure she was all right for his own peace of mind. Yet, even as the thought formed and was then brushed aside by sleep's soothing caress, part of his mind acknowledged that this resolve would probably not even be remembered come morning, and his very final thoughts before oblivion claimed him were not of Jezmina at all, nor even of Kat. They were of Mildra.

From the Medics' Row where lives are saved

To the streets of the Bankers where fortunes are made…

The prime master surveyed his image in the mirror with critical eye. He didn't dwell on the face, disliking the way time's passage had resculpted features he remembered as being more vigorous and youthful than cruel reflection insisted they now were. It was the overall impression that interested him. Gone were the ceremonial robes and the insignia of office; gone was any indication of either opulence or authority. Instead he wore simple, plain clothing, which made him seem somehow smaller and even frailer than usual. The figure who looked back was surely not a person worth paying attention to – which was exactly the effect he was seeking.

  There were parts of the metropolis, the City Below for example, where a simple shedding of his expected uniform would all but guarantee anonymity. The same wasn't true of the Medics Row, where he was headed tonight, but it would certainly help.

  Nobody could know of this imminent visit. Nobody. Not even the council guards, who at that very moment stood vigil outside his home and were charged with accompanying him everywhere, were to know that he was even gone. He could draw upon his talent to achieve that, selectively blinding them so that they wouldn't notice his coming or going, but such an exercise of power might be noted by anyone with reason to watch him and, besides, he shied from interfering with the minds of others unless strictly necessary. Thankfully in this instance there was a simpler, cleaner alternative.

  He moved into his study; the back wall dominated by a pair of matching floor-to-ceiling book cases, their shelves full of varied tomes, most of which he hadn't glanced at in decades. He approached the leftmost stand and removed from its third shelf a particularly weighty volume, the spine of which declared it to be
Hibelicus's
Guide to Intestinal Disorders, Volume Two (third revision)
. He then pushed the two books beside it to the left and replaced the
Hibelicus
on the shelf, pressing it firmly into its new position.

  The whole bookcase proceeded to move slowly forward, before sliding smoothly across to overlap its twin on the right. Behind stood an area of wall, blank apart from a single wooden door. When opened, the doorway revealed a spiral stairway leading downward. Melodramatic, perhaps, this secret passage, but it worked. Clearly whoever designed this residence had been an individual of considerable foresight.

  The way was dark, while the air both felt and smelt dank, reminding the prime master of how rarely he utilised this escape route. He wondered briefly what might have brought his numerous predecessors this way, whether their motives would have been altruistic or self-serving, perhaps even sinister. Given the number of individuals involved, doubtless the stairs had carried in their time people whose intentions fell into all three categories.

  He didn't bother with a light but concentrated on feeling his way with his thoughts, a very minor use of talent which ought to go unnoticed, particularly in these elevated Rows where practitioners proliferated. The fact that he even considered someone might be watching him was an indication of how paranoid he was beginning to feel. Overwork, stress; he knew the likely causes, but that didn't remove the feeling. Somewhere in the city lurked an unknown enemy, he was certain of it, and until the threat was identified, he wasn't about to take any chances.

  All of which meant that progress was slow, as he concentrated on not misstepping, and this was proving a great deal more tiring than anticipated. Dependence on instantaneous travel had made him lazy it would seem. Unfortunately, such time-saving jumps were possible only to specific points within the metropolis, such as the Thaissian temples he used when visiting the City Below, and none were located conveniently enough to be of any help on this occasion. So he was reduced to relying on man's most primitive form of travel: his own feet.

  Finally the passageway ended, having brought him down through the Heights and the Residences and the Bankers Row, to the Row of the Medics; though that title was perhaps a little misleading these days. He'd often thought that it should be renamed the Row of Research, since expertise in just about every conceivable scientific field had long since been concentrated here, not simply medicine.

  However, once you started messing around with the traditional names of the Rows, it would necessitate rewriting the levels verse, which so many children still learnt by rote, and he was hanged if he was going to open up that particular can of worms.

  The corridors were all but deserted at this hour, so he slipped unnoticed from the passageway's concealed exit and hurried to the designated address, along a route he was coming to know well. The only person likely to discover him was a patrolling Kite Guard, and he'd deal with that contingency if and when it arose.

  He arrived without incident and let himself in without knocking, the door opening to his touch. A stunted corridor lay before him, with five doors leading off, two to either side and one directly in front. The format and indeed the uniform functionality of the doors themselves cried 'workplace' rather than 'home'. He strode immediately to the furthest door and pushed it open, stepping into what was clearly a laboratory.

  Clean surfaces, white or smoothed wood, surrounded him, while mysterious glass cabinets and domes festooned walls and worktops, many of them containing objects of even more dubious purpose. Off to one side a small metal burner produced a constant blue-tinged flame. For an irreverent moment, the prime master wondered whether the burner served any practical purpose but was instead there merely to declare to a casual visitor that this was a place of serious research, in case they were in any doubt.

  The room had a single occupant; white coat turning her form almost androgynous, while her auburn hair was tied back in a simple band. She was titrating something yellow into a glass beaker, her back to him as he entered.

  "Come on in, PM," she said, without pausing or looking round.

  He refrained from pointing out that he already had.

  "Be with you in a minute."

  He shuffled closer, though not so close as to be a distraction, and tried to peer around her to see the beaker and fluid more clearly.

  "Does that have anything to do with why you called me?"

  "No, this is just routine," she replied. "But I thought that, since I was here anyway, I might as well finish this off while waiting for you."

  Apparently satisfied, she turned off the flow from the fragile-seeming burette, carefully pushed the metal stand holding the slender glass wand back against the wall and sealed the beaker with a stopper. Only then did she turn around to smile at him, the crows-feet at the corner of her eyes merely emphasising the bright warmth of the expression.

  "Thaiss, you look awful," she said, the smile transforming into a concerned frown.

  "Thank you; and there was me about to comment on how lovely you look."

  "Go right ahead. Don't let my candidness stop you."

  And she was lovely. The flashes of grey in her hair and the laughter lines around her eyes did nothing to diminish that; rather they were indications that the prettiness of the young woman he could still picture so clearly had matured into a deeper, more profound beauty.

  Her frown was still there, though. "You're working too hard as usual, aren't you? You've got to ease up."

  "I would love to; in fact, I determined only today to have an early night of uninterrupted sleep and recuperation, but then…"

  She held up an apologetic hand. "I know, I know… I'm sorry."

  "Jeanette," he said softly, "when have I ever complained if you're the one summoning me, whatever the hour?"

  For a moment their eyes locked, memories of what they'd almost shared passing between them in a glance. Then she looked away.

  "Right," he said, trying not to sound in any way awkward or embarrassed, "so what's the latest?"

  Her expression darkened. "Not good news, I'm afraid."

  He'd guessed as much, or she wouldn't have troubled him at such an hour. Before Jeanette could continue, however, there was a discreet knock at the door. She looked startled, clearly not expecting anyone.

  "Sorry," the prime master said quickly, "I forgot to mention, I gave one of my colleagues the address and told him to meet me here." He then raised his voice and called out, "Come through, Thomas."

  The door opened and the young master stepped in.

  "Thomas, I'd like you meet Jeanette, one of my dearest friends, Jeanette, this is…"

  "…our newest master. Delighted to meet you, Thomas."

  Her smile took in first the younger man and then the older. The prime master could well imagine just how delighted she would be. Jeanette was always going on at him to share the burden of office and to not take on so much responsibility himself, so this development would please her no end.

  "Jeanette, would you mind bringing Thomas up to speed before sharing your latest news?"

  "Certainly." She then slipped into a toned-down version of the lecture mode which the prime master had seen her adopt so often when addressing a roomful of attentive students or arkademics in training. "It began in the Artists' Row," she explained. "Several people succumbing to a mysterious malady which local healers seemed unable to treat. As more fell victim, we were called in to try and identify the cause and provide an antidote. Meanwhile, the number of victims began to rise alarmingly and we were forced to impose a quarantine to prevent this from becoming an epidemic."

  Thomas looked shocked. "I haven't heard anything at all about this."

  "Good," the prime master said. "We've attempted to keep a lid on it but you never know how successful you've been, especially given the way word of mouth travels around here."

  "Why keep quiet about it at all?" Thomas asked.

  "Because of the nature of the disease." The Prime Minister looked towards Jeanette, who gave a shallow nod and picked up the story again.

  "What we're dealing with here is not simply a fever; it's worse than that, much worse. The disease physically attacks people, transforming them, killing them in the process."

  "Attacks them how?"

  The woman looked at the prime master, who nodded. She moved to the back of room, where a large shuttered window dominated the far wall. At a touch of her hand, the shutters started to lift. The prime master took a deep breath; he knew what was to come.

  A single table occupied the centre of the small room. On it lay a body, which, despite being the shape and size of a human, could never actually have been human, surely. So the brain insisted. The supine figure appeared to have been crudely chiselled from some form of rock or perhaps bone. Where there should have been skin and hair, there was instead a seamless film of an off-white substance that looked to have been dug from the ground rather than being anything that once breathed. Nor was this coating smooth and skin-like; instead it was lumpy and covered with bumps, like some interrupted statue which the sculptor had yet to return to and complete.

  "Gods," Thomas murmured. "Was that ever human?"

  "Oh yes," Jeanette assured him. "A few days ago this was a living, breathing man."

  "It's hideous." Thomas seemed to be searching for a more dramatic description without being able to find it.

  The prime master knew exactly how the other felt. He'd seen this several times before and still found it disturbing in the extreme; words, any words, were inadequate.

  "For reasons that should be obvious, we call this disease bone flu." Jeanette continued. "The hands are the first to go, and then the arms. Sufferers complain of a tingling sensation, then an itching to the skin. This is swiftly followed by a loss of feeling to the affected limb which is accompanied by a process we've dubbed calcification. Calcium starts to permeate the skin, apparently drawn from the bones. Soon the skin is transformed into the brittle and inflexible sheath you see before you. The depositing of the calcium isn't entirely regular, hence the gnarly bumps and protrusions you see here. From the transformed limb the infection spreads, rapidly. As the process progresses across the body, it starts to attack the vital organs as well. Once that happens the end isn't far away, though sufferers would doubtless wish it to be even nearer. Left to face the consequences unaided, they die in excruciating agony."

  Thomas was staring at the body on the other side of the glass and shaking his head, as if to deny such a thing could happen. "I never imagined…" His voice trailed off.

  "Now do you see why we're keeping this quiet until we've found a way to combat this abomination?" The prime master said quietly.

  Thomas nodded, and then surprised his older colleague by saying, "I wouldn't have thought there was enough calcium in the entire body to do this."

  Not for the first time, the prime master found himself impressed by this latest colleague's perception. Even in the face of such horror, the man's brain continued to function with remarkable clarity. "There isn't, and that provides our disease with a final wicked twist. As far as we can tell, bone flu attacks only those with a smattering of talent, and it's somehow able to draw on that talent, using it to manufacture additional calcium within the body in order to complete the transformation process. Bone flu turns a person's own talent against them."