The Ruined City (49 page)

There was more. There was still the Other, always the Other, but now expressing Itself ever more insistently as They.

Many times he had nearly glimpsed Them with his eyes open. With his eyes closed and his mind receptive, They were closer yet, but still indefinite as to size and shape. He dreaded Them deeply, yet ached for knowledge. Here he sensed himself
trembling on the brink of great revelation, and the lure was irresistible.

Orlazzu opened his eyes, and the vibrant hidden world faded.
They
receded as well, but reluctantly, and not far. He cogitated briefly and reached his decision. This desolate spot, seemingly quiet and empty, reeked to the arcane skies of power, purpose, and danger. If he chose to remain, the risks were great. He would need to construct solid fortifications, and he would need to maintain ceaseless vigilance; a daunting prospect. And yet the potential rewards—the insight, the knowledge, the understanding of the Source’s essential nature—were too great to forgo. It might end in disaster, but he would make the experiment. He could hardly stop himself.

Accordingly Orlazzu prepared himself, ingesting a trio of lozenges. The task he contemplated was considerable. The power charging the atmosphere, though significant, was not enough in itself to sustain him—he needed more. He had not resorted to mental enhancement of any kind in days, and now the effect of a large dose was intense.

His mind broke free of its mundane shell, sprouted vast pinions, and flew. His trained power, heightened by means of the lozenges, buoyed by the energy infusing his surroundings, had never seemed so huge and so certain. The sense of rushing flight and unbridled potency was intoxicating. But for the discipline of a lifetime, he might have lost himself in stupid delight.

But discipline ruled yet. He steadied his breath, regulated his heartbeat, and prepared to commence creation of a vertical shaft destined to access an impregnable, stone-walled underground burrow.

Before the first yard of dirt and rock had been removed, however, an impingement caught his attention. His focus continued intact, but his vision shifted and he beheld a couple of undead humans standing a few feet away, staring at him with their milky eyes. Both male, barely covered in moldering rags; their age, condition, and origin unknowable.

His enhanced vision recognized vehicles of the Other—not nearly as pure and true as They, but capable of effecting Its desires. And It could hardly relish his presence in this place.

Orlazzu contained his surprise. He had seen animals of various species inhabited by the Other. He had seen a Sishmindri—an intelligent quasi-man—afflicted with the plague. But this was his first glimpse of truly human undead.

They were hideous and sad. Human bodies ought never to be subjected to such indignities. They were his own kind, and their exploitation represented his own potential ruin, together with that of every other man, woman, and child of the Veiled Isles. Moreover, they were dangerous. They would infect and absorb him, if they could.

No matter. He could rule them. A strong flick of his intellect shoved the undead pair back into the mists. They were out of sight, but hardly gone.

He could keep them out. Likewise he could keep Them out, and It out. Not easily, not without recourse to his best abilities, but he was equal to the challenge.

His full attention returned to the task at hand. Much remained to complete before the end of the day. Grix Orlazzu’s mind embraced the Source, and excavation recommenced.

The dim and tangled neighborhood of Vitrisi known as the Briar Patch had long been recognized as the haunt of rogue Sishmindris. Here the fugitive escapees from plague-stricken palace, mansion, and town house had sought refuge and a kind of safety in numbers. Here they had banded together and, under the leadership of the great amphibian calling himself Aazaargh, they had established a tiny enclave of their own, which they defended with vigor and determination. There was nothing remotely secure, much less legal in their occupation of the Briar Patch. They had gone largely unchallenged by the forces of human order for two reasons. The first—that the maze-like warren they now regarded as their
own was difficult to attack and easy to defend. The second—that the troops of the Deputy Governor Gorza were largely busied with the struggle to control the riotous human element of the city; the resistance fanatics, the ordinary criminal predators, the desperate and unhinged, the infectious diseased, and the dead Wanderers.

Beyond doubt the long term of nearly undisturbed success had bolstered amphibian confidence, perhaps to unrealistic levels. It may have been for this reason that a murky afternoon in early spring witnessed active implementation of the resolution restricting the Briar Patch to Sishmindri residency alone. The passage of such a resolution was never announced, but easily inferred.

There were still a few human denizens to be found lurking in odd corners and courtyards of the old neighborhood. Loath to abandon home despite all transformation of their surroundings, they were largely inclined to silence and extreme discretion. All efforts to achieve self-effacement, however, were futile.

Shortly after midday, dozens of Sishmindri patrol teams commenced sweeping the Briar Patch. Beginning at the perimeter and working inward toward the center, the patrols hurried through the narrow little streets, checking building after building. Any human encountered was immediately taken into custody, regardless of age, gender, state of health, piteousness of pleas, or vehemence of protest. No prisoner was needlessly harmed, but those who resisted were forcibly subdued. There were many bruises, but no blood.

When the sweep concluded in the late afternoon, some three dozen men, women, and children stood packed into a dense, scared mass at the center of the neighborhood. Their captors surrounded them closely and, upon a croaking command, began to herd them eastward.

It was not a long journey. Quite soon they reached Hay Street, which marked the boundary between the Briar Patch and its eastern neighbor, the New Houses. Out onto Hay
Street the humans were thrust—so firmly that more than one landed facedown in the gutter. Those remaining upright gazed about in confused alarm.

“Ours.” The amphibian commander’s sweeping greenish arm claimed the Briar Patch. “Our ground. Sishmindri ground. This place is called Roohaathk. Ours now. No men here. Stay out.” He gestured, and the Sishmindris melted back into the foggy shadows.

The human ejecta of Roohaathk remained closely huddled. Many of them clasped hands. None had been permitted to carry even the simplest belongings from their erstwhile homes. Several had been plucked from their firesides, and these lacked even so much as warm outer garments. They had no money, no belongings, no idea where to go or what to do.

Their sudden arrival and the attendant commotion attracted the notice of the solid New Houses residents, who began to converge on the spot.

Others were likewise noticing and converging. A trio of Wanderers shuffled north along Hay Street. A second trio was traveling south. Two more appeared at the mouth of a side street, and a moldering quartet had sprung up out of nowhere. So sudden, swift, and sizable a confluence was too great a coincidence for belief. Almost it seemed that they had been drawn by human distress and vulnerability, and it all smacked unnervingly of deliberate intention. The warier among the human observers withdrew. Hardier souls remained to watch, positioning themselves within easy reach of clear escape avenues. Some shouted warnings.

As they drew near, the Wanderers spread out to surround the clustered Briar Patch/Roohaathk exiles. They did not possess great speed or agility. Many of the humans broke free and fled before the circle was complete. But the elderly, the infirm, and a couple of young women encumbered with small children remained.

The circle closed, and the undead performed an action never before witnessed. They linked hands.

Shouts arose among the living.

The circle tightened, forcing the captives into a tight clump at its center. When they had reached elbow–to–rib cage proximity, the Wanderers moved in perfect synchronization, each seizing a horrified victim in an uncanny embrace, each pressing dead lips firmly down upon a living mouth. The captives struggled uselessly. The screaming spectators pelted the Wanderers with rocks from a safe distance, but these efforts were useless.

The grisly scene seemed to continue for hours, but in actuality it was only a matter of seconds before the Wanderers released their prey and turned their attention upon the shrieking audience. Advancing in close formation, they were plainly unconscious of flying rocks. One of them, a woman with a few waist-length strands of golden hair clinging to her bald skull, took a stone full in the face without breaking stride. Seeing this, the living fled down Hay Street. The undead followed at a slower but unflagging pace.

The Briar Patch refugees were left in disarray. Several were sobbing hysterically, the children were screaming, and one of the older men had collapsed in a dead faint. Among the adults remaining awake and aware, there was none who could fail to recognize the inevitable consequences of contact. Within days, or possibly hours, all of them would sport the carbuncles of the plague. In the meantime, their minds remained clear to contemplate the implications of this change in the Wanderers, who had never before displayed such clear organization, persistence, and purpose.

The Lost Zorius Stroll was an elevated walkway with an observation deck affording a fine view of the harbor and much of the waterfront. Here, in happier times, the citizens had repaired to take the air while watching the ships come in and depart. Here on the deck, they could sit at little tables of wrought iron, gossip and play cards, eat lunch, throw crumbs to the gulls and the Scarlet Gluttons.

These days the Stroll’s popularity had declined, for the smoke-heavy, potentially plague-ridden outdoor air had lost much of its appeal. Even now, however, the place still had its devotees. A few young couples, walking arm in arm; a few sturdily active old people; a few boisterous youths. Most of them were masked; some were not.

Jianna had set her own mask aside, and felt almost naked without it. The acquired habit of concealing her face was difficult to break. Now she felt exposed, vulnerable—even hunted. Yes, her nerves tingled as if she were being watched and followed.

Ridiculous. She had worn that vizard too long, and it was beginning to warp her perceptions. Probably it would be good for her to go without it for a while; in any case, there was no choice. At the moment, recognizability was required.

The red feather lodged as if by chance beneath a stone at the foot of The Bellflower’s front steps had summoned her to this meeting. Once, the medium of communication would have struck her as highly fanciful. Now it was simply practical. She had been summoned for a reason. She was here, and must be visible to her correspondent.

Both hands resting on the guardrail, she gazed out over the water at the Searcher, whose great bronze face and form were veiled in mist and smoke. In his upraised hand the huge lantern glowed, its light diminished but not yet extinguished. Her eyes shifted from the statue to follow the wheeling gulls for a while, then moved to the dock to settle upon a vessel moored at the dock and currently disgorging passengers.

Passengers?
Surely not. Who would come to Vitrisi now? She knew little of conditions in the other great cities of the old Faerlonnish Alliance—Orezzia, Freni, Zicca Boste, and the rest—but she had heard that all suffered under Taerleezi domination, and that all had fallen prey to the plague. There seemed little to choose among them.

She studied the vessel, whose colors proclaimed Vitrisian origin. The name on the hull was
Swift Dispatch
.

“She was turned away from Posalli,” spoke a voice that she knew, at her elbow. “Third ship within the week. The Taerleezis are no longer permitting Faerlonnish vessels to dock at their wharves. They want to keep the plague out.”

“You mean, all of Faerlonne has been placed under a giant quarantine?” Jianna turned to face Lousewort. As always, his actual appearance failed to tally exactly with her recollections. It was all but impossible to keep his image in mind.