The Ruined City (34 page)

“Certainly. It wants to invade, conquer, occupy, and own. What could be simpler or plainer?”

“It is neither simple nor plain. You express yourself in
purely human terms, but we confront an inhuman intelligence. Stop and consider. This being is ancient beyond measure, gigantic beyond imagining, and native to this world as we are—here before us, in fact. The depth of Its huge mind—the breadth of its experience—the very nature of Its incorporeal existence—”

“Innesq, must you always complicate matters?” Aureste drew an impatient breath. “We’ve an enemy that threatens us. We join forces, destroy it, and there’s an end.”

“Scarcely. I doubt that all the combined human force in our world could destroy the Overmind. And I cannot say that I am altogether sorry for that, for It is truly a most extraordinary—”

“Defeat It, then. Diminish It. Contain It. Will that do?”

Innesq’s silent nod conveyed reluctance.

“How long before I’ll be able to hear It for myself?”

“I do not know. Probably not long. I should not be so eager, if I were you. Enjoy your freedom while you can. Once the Other manifests Itself, there is no complete escape, except perhaps in unconsciousness deeper than sleep. The weight of Its presence grows burdensome, and those without the strength of will or the arcane technique to exclude It are apt to suffer.”

“Oh, I’ll manage well enough.”

“I daresay you will, but others may not fare so well.”

“The guards and servants, you mean.”

“They are the most likely to suffer, but they are not the only ones.”

“Yvenza’s girl—that Nissi. She strikes me as possibly weak-minded.”

“Think again. She has spent a lifetime learning how to conceal and protect herself. She is well prepared to resist the Overmind, provided she truly desires to do so. No, there are others for whom I fear more.”

Aureste continued to watch, and soon identified the object of his brother’s most immediate concern. The youngster Vinzille Corvestri was visibly failing. From day to day, the lad
was wasting away; weedy frame losing substance, flesh losing all color, greenish eyes dulling. He looked drained and sick, far older than his years.

Vinz Corvestri’s son might shrivel like a raisin, and welcome. The youth was arrogant and hostile. While technically correct in utterance, he nevertheless managed to convey his dislike of and contempt for the Magnifico Belandor.

Which was returned. What reason to suffer the thinly veiled insolence of an impertinent adolescent? As far as Aureste was concerned, young Vinzille Corvestri would have been altogether expendable, but for one consideration: The brat’s loss would surely trouble his mother.

Sonnetia Corvestri looked down at her son. Vinzille sat on the ground, back pressing a large rock, head sunk on his breast, fast asleep. The ground was damp and the rock was hard. It was late afternoon, and the sun hovered just above the horizon. There was no good reason for an active boy to sit there sleeping in such a place and at such a time.

The servants were busy setting up camp. Their voices rang, and the knock of mallets on tent pegs punctuated their activity, but Vinzille slept through it all. His slumber appeared deep, but not peaceful. Stirring continually, he frowned and muttered in his sleep. Sonnetia bent close to listen, noting his greyish pallor. His words were largely unintelligible, but she caught a few of them.

“Keep It out … send It a burn … a real burn …”

Her own brows contracted. She touched his forehead lightly, then his shoulder, but he did not wake. Shaking him a little, she urged, “Wake up, son.” There was no response, and she repeated the command.

Vinzille’s eyes opened and he stared into his mother’s face without recognition.

“You’re ill,” she told him. “You’re running a fever, and you shouldn’t be sitting on the wet ground. I want you in bed as
soon as your tent’s up. Until then, better go back to the carriage and—”

He mumbled something unintelligible, and then spoke clearly. “Back off. Keep out.”

“Please just do as I ask. Believe me, it’s for your own good.”

“Stay out.”

He dragged himself to his feet, glassy eyes fixed on the empty air, and she saw that he was not speaking to her. In fact he appeared unconscious of her presence. Ignoring her outstretched hand, he turned wavering footsteps away from the campsite.

Sonnetia issued a quiet command to the nearest Corvestri servant. Vinzille was promptly seized and bundled off to the carriage. The boy offered no resistance; indeed, seemed largely unaware. She followed to see him comfortably installed upon the cushioned seat, assigned watch duty to the servant, then hurried off in search of her husband.

Vinz Corvestri whipped his will as best he could. He stood alone in a small grove at some slight remove from the camp. He was perfectly still, face expressionless, and nothing in his outward aspect suggested mental turmoil. Inwardly, he struggled for control; or rather, he struggled for the courage to relinquish some control and admit entry of the Overmind. Only a very little, to be sure; just enough to permit the possibility of communication. It was the reasonable and necessary course, but difficult.

Instinct reinforced by years of training and experience bade him resist the invader. He had successfully done so for days on end, and might continue indefinitely. Harder by far to open the gates and bid the enemy welcome. That It was his enemy he did not doubt, despite Innesq Belandor’s belief in Its essential lack of malice. His own perceptions told him that gigantic purpose composed Its very essence. Nothing would turn It from Its goal while awareness existed. Still, It was doubtless
an intelligent entity, and the possibility of communication, however remote, demanded investigation.

Accordingly Vinz lowered his mental defenses to a very small degree, as much as he could bring himself to sacrifice, and the results were immediate.

It was there with him and in him. He could feel the exploratory pressure of Its huge presence, and he sensed Its interest and Its sense of purpose.

Push It out. Shut the gate and lock it
. Vinz fought the natural impulse. Marshaling his will, he compelled himself to yield a little more, a very little, and his sense of Its vastness intensified at once. It was as great and as old as the world. In effect, It
was
the world, the living awareness of the totality.

This last impression he recognized as an echo of the Other’s sense of Itself. Excitement sparked across his mind. For the first time, he had glimpsed something more or less recognizable. Perhaps by dint of combined patience and courage, he might see more. Perhaps he might even initiate a conversation, thus revealing himself to the Other as something more than empty vitality awaiting occupation by Itself. He might glean insight exceeding anything so far discovered by any of the others, even Innesq.

He dared to relax his mental resistance a very little further, and even as the Other’s power pressed upon the apparent weakness, he advanced his mind to meet It. For a moment he believed that his overture had caught Its notice, but then the potential connection snapped, and he became aware of motion and noise—a voice, a summons, a demand.

Vinz blinked, and the world refocused. He felt a little sick and dizzy. His head hurt. The Other had withdrawn, leaving him free but disoriented. His wife stood beside him. She was shaking his arm and calling his name. She did not know what she had interrupted, she had no idea what had been lost. Typical. She did not understand, and more to the point, she did not care. She never had.

“Stop. Enough.” The words were indistinct. His tongue seemed thick and stiff.

“Magnifico, a word. A moment of your time.”

He winced. Her voice, while low and beautifully modulated as ever, somehow clanged like a bell.

“Not now.”

“Please. It’s about Vinzille. He’s ill.”

“What’s the matter with him?” Confusion receded. She had caught his attention.

“He’s running a fever. He seems delirious. When I told him to go to the carriage, he started to wander off in the opposite direction, as if he didn’t know where he was going.”

“He was on his feet and walking? Then he isn’t as sick as all that.”

She paused a moment as if to control a spontaneous response, then replied evenly, “I’ve never before seen him in such a state. I am troubled.”

“How long has he been ailing?”

“He’s not been himself for days. This afternoon is the first I’ve seen of definite illness, though.” No immediate reply was forthcoming, and she prompted, “Surely your skills will serve to restore him.”

Irritation popped, and it took Vinz a moment to identify the cause. His wife spoke with her customary courtesy and decorum. She addressed him with every outward sign of respect, yet something in her manner, her stance, her eyes, subtly suggested reproach—as if it were
his
fault that Vinzille had taken a chill or a minor ague.
His
fault, she silently seemed to accuse, for dragging an adolescent just barely past childhood off into the wilderness on a mission rightfully the province of seasoned arcanists; for exposing the boy to danger both mundane and supranormal, for failing in his duty to protect his son. Or perhaps she implied none of these things, perhaps it was his own conscience that chafed him. Either way, self-respect dictated self-justification. Vinz drew himself up.

“My skills, Magnifica, are a commodity to be carefully conserved at present,” he reminded her. “The success of our endeavor depends upon it.”

“Yes, I know that. But surely the protection of your son’s health represents a legitimate and necessary expenditure.”

“Necessary? That is the question. There’s little sense in taking alarm and resorting to extreme measures every time Vinzille sniffles. He’s a strong and healthy lad. He’ll be well again within hours without benefit of arcane intervention. It’s better that way.”

“I should like to believe that, but I can’t—and neither will you, once you see him. Trust me when I tell you that this is no ordinary malady. In fact, I think it must be arcane in origin.”

“And what makes you think so, exactly?”

“It isn’t easy to explain. The way he looks, the sound of his voice, his expressions, the way that he moves—all seem foreign and unnatural. But you must see for yourself. Will you come to him?”

Her manner was perfectly correct as ever, but Vinz’s sense of guilt and uneasiness sharpened. What right had she to blame him? He was not accountable to her; it was supposed to be the other way around. She should be made to understand that, here and now.

Crafting a tolerant smile, he spoke in kindly reassuring tones. “Magnifica, it’s only natural for a mother to fear for her son, and nobody can blame you for it. In this case, however, your maternal instincts have overridden reason. You perceive arcane influence, or you think you do, when in fact you are hardly qualified to judge. Come, now. You speak of ‘foreign and unnatural’ appearances, and it’s all very vague, very emotional, very imaginative. There’s no real evidence here of anything beyond ordinary physical affliction viewed through the lens of your fears. You see that for yourself, don’t you?”

He paused. She said nothing, and her expression came close to curdling his smile, but he soldiered on. “I hope that your own good sense will teach you the absurdity of your terrors.
But I truly wish to offer you all the support that a constant wife and mother deserves, and therefore I tender my promise—if our son’s hot humor fails to correct itself naturally within the next four and twenty hours, then I shall examine him and administer such arcane assistance as circumstance warrants. There, will that content you?”

At this point she should have assented, but she was silent. She was staring at him as if he were some sort of insect caught clinging to her skirts. At last she inquired simply, “You won’t use your powers to help our son?”

“When I’m certain that he needs my help, but not before. Consider the task at hand and try to think of the greater good. Forget personal concerns if you can—”

“Enough. Stop there.”

She had not raised her voice, but he muted himself at once, without thought. He had never seen such a look on her face before—eyes narrowed, jaw hard—and it was as if he faced a stranger.