The Ruined City (7 page)

“I’m no judge of such things.” His mind raced. Her point was already clear to him.

“No physician has been able to cure him, no treatment has restored him?”

“Not yet, but it’s only a matter of time.”

“Well, then. For your brother’s sake, will you not cut that time short?”

They exchanged glances of pure understanding. Nothing more needed to be said, and he recalled that few spoken words had ever really been necessary between the two of them, but he wished to prolong the interview, and therefore he invited, “You have reason to believe that your husband—?”

“An arcanist of the first rank. One of the finest in all Faerlonne, as even you must grant. Altogether capable of addressing arcane ills—I can attest to this. And quite probably the best hope open to your brother.”

“You personally pledge the best skills and efforts of Vinz Corvestri?”

“In exchange for his freedom and safety, yes.”

“What exactly do you expect me to do?”

“Succeed, Magnifico. Only that. On the day that my husband walks out of prison, he’ll present himself at your door.”

Her husband was unlikely to walk out of prison on his own two legs. More likely, he would have to be carried. And after that, he would need a long period of recuperation before he was fit to apply his arcane talents to any project, great or small. The thing was impractical. Aureste’s flash of interest began to wane. Aloud, he observed solicitously, “The Magnifico Corvestri will no doubt wish to rest and refresh himself at length before attempting arcane exertion.”

“That won’t be necessary. You are thinking that he’s been brutalized, unnerved, perhaps injured in prison, and thus rendered useless to you. Not so.”

“You seem certain. You’ve seen for yourself?”

“No, they’ve permitted him no visitors.”

Not a tear in her eye, not the smallest sign of distress. Aureste observed her detachment with distinct satisfaction.

“But I can be sure that he’s suffered no extreme mistreatment, as I’ve taken steps to spare him the worst of it.”

“Steps?” Aureste encouraged, fascinated by her coolness and ready comprehension.

“Large sums of money, properly distributed, protect my husband, up to a point.”

“That would be the best way, but I didn’t realize that you possessed the means.”

“I had the Steffa jewels. I showed them to you once, long ago. You probably don’t remember.”

“Of course I do. I recall a remarkably fine sapphire-and-diamond necklace. There were bracelets, several rings, brooches, shoulder stars, knee sparklers, a tiara—all very old, very splendid. You sold them?”

She nodded.

“They were family heirlooms, were they not? Prized property of House Steffa through many generations?”

“Very many, and we managed to hold them through the wars and after, until they came to me by direct descent. I had thought to bequeath them someday to one of my male cousins, thus restoring them to Steffa hands, where they belonged. But circumstances dictated otherwise, and now they’re gone. It was necessary.”

She spoke with her customary composure. A stranger would have thought her perfectly unmoved. To Aureste, her regret was obvious and poignant. Whereupon he found himself seized with an impulse worthy of some moonstruck adolescent, to track down the Steffa jewels, purchase them at any price, and return them to her on a golden charger. It was more than her dolt of a husband could possibly give her.

“So you see, both your brother and my husband stand to
benefit. It’s best for all.” Sonnetia paused in expectation of a reply. There was none, and she added, “I hope you agree.”

“I do agree.” The words came hard. Every particle of him longed to consign Vinz Corvestri to the rack and heated pincers. “I can’t promise success, but I’ll do all in my power to assist your husband.”

“Then he is as good as free, and your brother will soon be well. I believe we understand one another.”

We always did
. Aureste inclined his head.

“Magnifico, I thank you for your time and attention. You have been generous with both.” Sonnetia rose from her chair.

Aureste stood at once. She was about to leave, and for a moment he vigorously cast about for some means of holding her, but there was none. Their business was concluded—presumably for life. Once she walked out of the room, he would probably never exchange another word with her. He wanted to plant himself squarely athwart her path, blocking her exit. Instead he declared courteously, “I will see you to your carriage.”

“Thank you, no. I came on foot and alone. Best by far that my visit goes unnoted.”

“As you wish. Farewell, then. I’ve enjoyed speaking with you again, however briefly. Permit me to observe, Magnifica, that the years have scarcely touched you. You are remarkably unchanged.”

“You have not observed closely.” A slight smile touched her lips and then she was over the threshold, out of the room, and the door had closed behind her.

Gone again. And carrying with her his promise to rescue her damnable husband. He would keep that promise, for his brother’s sake. But then—when Innesq was well and strong again—perhaps it would not be too late to readdress the matter of Vinz Corvestri’s punishment. And it was not likely that Sonnetia Corvestri possessed a second set of heirloom jewels to sacrifice in her husband’s defense.

What a woman she was, and what a wife. Far too fine for Vinz Corvestri. Who would not enjoy his undeserved good fortune for very much longer—but that was a happy thought for the future. For the moment, Corvestri was reprieved, and the mechanics of his removal from prison had yet to be designed.
I want him freed, and the charges against him dropped
, Sonnetia had specified, which precluded a simple escape and flight. Corvestri’s name had to be cleared.
For the present
. Not the easiest task, but hardly impossible.

Aureste commenced pacing to and fro. The strongest evidence against the prisoner—in fact, the only real evidence, provided the craven hadn’t been terrorized into some sort of confession—resided in the forged documents, planted in his home, discovered by the Taerleezi guards, and currently reposing within a padlocked chamber deep in the heart of the Witch prison. Without them there was no remotely reasonable case, even by Taerleezi standards, against Vinz Corvestri. Those documents had to vanish.

How to reach them? Aureste’s strides lengthened. The schemes popped like small powder charges in the fire of his mind. A simple matter, really. No need of arcane wonders, gymnastic miracles, or mathematically precise planning. It was merely a question of petty bribery. A few coins in the pocket of a hungry turnkey or a corrupt official, and the thing was done. And he knew several thoroughly corrupt officials … Presently, a pungent odor blurred his cogitations. He became aware that it had been with him for some time, but it took another moment to identify the source.

A spattering of viscous fluid moistened the edge of his right sleeve. He inhaled deeply and his nostrils flared in distaste. He was wet with Sishmindri blood, fresh from Zirriz’s wounds. The stains were nearly invisible against the dark quilted fabric of his doublet, and yet he could not help but wonder whether Sonnetia Corvestri had noticed them.

It was a bitter winter’s day, but the denizens of that rancid section of Vitrisi known as the Spidery did not have to suffer the cold. Not that many of them could afford the price of fuel to heat their rented rooms or squatters’ dens, but this year there was no need to purchase wood or coal. This year, the city provided plenty of warmth at no cost.

At the western edge of the Spidery yawned the Pits, ancient quarry and site of major disposal. Throughout the centuries of Vitrisi’s life, the Pits had swallowed huge quantities of waste. The deep natural limestone craters seemed limitless in their capacity; no offering had ever truly taxed them. This year, however, matters had changed. This year, the largest public pyre in the city burned at the bottom of one of the shallower excavations.

The fires blazed incessantly, by necessity. There were so many bodies. So many victims of the plague, such huge quantities of meat, fat, fabric, and bone. So much matter to consume, and such great stores of fuel required. The spectacle was grim and the stench troubling, but the audience was always large. The men, women, and children of the Spidery huddled day and night about the public pyre. Some had even constructed tiny makeshift shelters or pitched small tents about the perimeter.

All present knew the dangers of smoke-borne contagion, and all were willing to accept the risk for the sake of the delicious warmth.

Throughout the morning, the day’s business proceeded normally. A mule-drawn cart laden with corpses arrived at the customary hour. The Deadpickers—odd figures in their masks,
gauntlets, and protectively padded garments—disembarked to lead their reluctant team along the steep rocky path that circled its gradual way down to the floor of the excavation.

By this time, the fire was burning low. The Deadpickers took advantage of the lull to heap their cargo onto the pyre in layers of corpses alternating with layers of straw, oily rags, and kindling. This done, they grabbed faggots and logs lying at the bottom of the wagon and tossed them onto the blaze, which roared into renewed life. The drain upon local and civic resources required to maintain these perpetual fires was vast—a matter never considered by shivery Spidery denizens. Someday, perhaps in the near future, the supplies of timber, coal, and peat were bound to fail. But it had not happened yet and, for the present, the locals basked.

The flames cavorted, the corpses blackened, the Deadpickers prepared to depart. All followed the usual pattern, as the Vitrisians had learned to expect. And then came an unwelcome innovation.

One of the corpses lying at the top of the heap sat up slowly. Several spectators screamed. Those nearest the pyre milled in confusion, torn between the urge to assist a hapless victim prematurely consigned to the flames, and the natural fear of fire and pestilence.

The individual, whose gender was impossible to judge, presented a shocking spectacle. His or her hair was gone, facial features lost, digits charred to bony sticks, winding sheet ruddy with fire. He or she was clearly beyond help, and it could only be hoped that a swift death would cut the wretch’s agonies short.

But death seemed unwilling to oblige. As the citizens watched in mounting terror, the object of attention swung his or her legs carefully out to the side and then, like a child at play, slid down the human heap. Straight through the roaring flames he or she bumped and bounced, with never a cry of pain. At the bottom the barely human figure hauled itself laboriously upright, to stand hesitating among the fiery logs.
For the moment, the wonder of the spectators superseded alarm, and they watched in paralyzed silence.

The ruined individual turned what had once been its face and eyes this way and that. After a moment, it lurched from the fire to advance upon the crowd. Small flames danced along its shoulders and licked the remnants of its winding sheet. Fine flakes of blackened skin and fabric drifted from its limbs in miniature storm clouds. The citizens retreated. Many turned and sprinted for the path. Among those remaining, fresh screams broke forth as a second corpse sat up amid the flames. This one was identifiably female, with streaming grey hair frizzled by the heat, and sober garments half burned away, but otherwise almost intact. As she slid down from the summit of the pyre, then stood to follow in the halting footsteps of her predecessor, it could be seen that only the whites of her eyes showed beneath her drooping lids. Her jaw hung slack, and the cast of her face was distinctly blue. Her inclusion in the pickers’ cargo had been no mistake. She was unmistakably dead, or perhaps more properly termed undead. Such was the expression used in the accounts of the worst of all plagues, the pestilence of legend known as the “walking death.”

The tales were so ancient, so shrouded in myth and superstition, so rife with exaggeration and impossibility that many contemporary rationalists had simply dismissed them. The skepticism had persisted through weeks of rumor, speculation, and increasingly frequent claims of undead sightings. The present spectacle dictated reconsideration, however. And if it was true that the dead plague victims could rise and walk, then other aspects of the old stories might also be true. The apparent intent of the undead to spread disease, for example—perhaps a reality. The stubborn animation of the corpses, proof against almost any damage short of utter dissolution—perhaps true. And then, those unsettling stories of silent, shared understanding among the walkers—perhaps even they, too, contained some truth.

When a third smoking remnant dragged itself from the
pyre, the courage of the witnesses failed and nearly all fled the scene. Only a handful of the coolest ascended to the rim of the excavation and there remained to watch at a safe remove.

For a time, the three undead stumbled about in apparent aimlessness, their steps wavering and uncertain. But soon their mastery of their bodies increased and their movements acquired assurance. When they could walk without faltering, the three turned as one and made for the path. Though their pace lagged, their aspect was oddly purposeful.