The Ruined City Page 24

  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.

  The clots of citizens scattered about Cistern Street were swiftly coalescing into a crowd gathered before the Lancet Inn. Jianna stood frozen in body and mind. There were no thoughts in her head, no room for anything beyond terrible fear.

  There was little commotion or conversation. The crowd, sensing significant events, simply waited, and the minutes passed like silent centuries.

  The door was closed. Whatever passed on the other side wasn’t real so long as it stayed closed.

  But the eons expired at last, and the door opened. The guards emerged, and with them came Celisse and Falaste Rione, both in manacles. There was a collective intake of breath at sight of Celisse, with her youthful face, her bandaged arm, and her bloodstained dress.

  “Good work, lass!” someone called out.

  Glaring Taerleezi regard raked the crowd. But the audacious speaker, a masked man standing in the ranks of the masked, remained forever unidentifiable.

  Celisse’s head came up. A faint, fulfilled smile touched her lips.

  Jianna did not notice. Her eyes were fixed on Falaste Rione’s face. It’s not fair, he didn’t do anything wrong, he wasn’t part of his crazy sister’s plans, he was trying to stop her, he’s completely innocent, leave him alone, it’s not FAIR!

  Rione’s eyes ranged, and quickly found her. For a moment he stared hard, as if trying to imprint her image upon his memory for all time to come.

  I love you, she told him with her eyes. Now and always, I love you.

  Perhaps he read the message. She wanted beyond all things to believe that he did. His face turned away from her. Had the visual connection persisted, the guards would have noticed.

  Taerleezis and prisoners advanced, and the crowd parted before them. Falaste and Celisse passed within a few feet of Jianna, but neither glanced in her direction. Along Cistern Street they marched, around the corner, out of sight, and they were gone.

  They were gone.

  TWELVE

  For a long time Jianna stood frozen, blind stare fixed on the Lancet Inn. The crowd clustering about the place remained for a while to watch and speculate, but nothing more happened, and interest began to wane. The occurrence itself was obviously red-hot. An attempt upon the governor’s life—or perhaps his murder, nobody actually knew yet—followed by the arrest of an attractive, bloodstained young woman and her male accomplice, who looked remarkably like her, was certain to hold public attention for some time to come. For the moment, however, there was nothing more to see. A few resolute spectators loitered on in hope of new developments, but the majority of citizens gave up for the present and drifted away.

  Jianna was only marginally aware of the human mass thinning out around her. Her mind continued to malfunction, refusing to form coherent thoughts. Falaste had been taken away. He was a dead man, doomed beyond hope, and it was all his lunatic sister’s fault. That was all she knew.

  At last, however, she became aware that she stood alone in a public street, with the spring air raw on her skin, and the curiosity or impatience of passersby sharp on her perceptions. She needed to go somewhere, find something, do something to help Falaste.

  Absurd. There was nothing she could do, nothing anyone could do. Even the Magnifico Aureste, with all his wealth and influence, would be powerless to intervene in such a case as this.

  She became aware that tears were streaming down her cheeks. It seemed futile to wipe them away. Her feet were carrying her, apparently of their own accord, back into the Lancet Inn.

  Widow Meegri, seated as usual at her desk near the front door, looked up as Jianna entered. Her face clenched like a fist.

  “You,” she accused.

  Jianna jerked a wordless nod and headed for the stairs.

  “Stop there.”

  Jianna obeyed.

  “Yours.” From under the desk, Widow Meegri produced a familiar pillowcase, stuffed to bulging. “Everything you brought. Take it and clear out.”

  “I am no longer welcome here?”

  “Don’t look at me like that. You silly hussy, don’t you know when somebody’s trying to help you?”

  Jianna’s silent stare communicated incomprehension.

  “Do you think that all the Taers have vanished into thin air? Two of them are upstairs right now, ransacking your fine Dr. Rione’s room for anything they can use. And when they’ve done pillaging the place, what do you suppose comes next? Questioning the staff and guests, you may be certain. Mind you, I’m not one to blab, but there’s plenty hereabout with great, big, flappy mouths. And everybody from the ostler down to the spitboy knows about your … friendship with the doctor. How long exactly do you think it will be before the Taers hear all about it and come after you?”

  “I’m his assistant. I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “Assistant. Hmmph. That’s a new name for it. Listen, missy. I don’t approve of your carryings-on, I never have. Still, you’re Faerlonnish, and I’m not about to throw one of our own to the Taers, not even one of our worst. So be glad I’m a patriot, and be off with you. Quick, now.”

  Sound advice. Shouldering her sack, Jianna departed.

  Back out again on the smoky street. Alone, now; quite alone, as she had never been in her entire life. The totality of her new isolation struck her all at once, and suddenly she was very cold. Digging into the sack for her cloak, she wrapped herself in the woolen folds, but the internal chill persisted. She thought then of going home to Belandor House. Damages notwithstanding, it was still familiar and dear.

  No. No peace, no comfort, no home at Belandor House. Until such time as her father returned, there was nothing for her there.

  Where? What?

  Another inn, somewhere. Another room to sleep in, a hole to hide in. Yes, she must find one. And perhaps the search would occupy her mind, prying at least a few of her thoughts away from Falaste, and all that was happening to him now, and all that doubtless lay in store for him. She would lose all self-command if she let herself imagine it; she would go mad.

  That last look he had given her as they had taken him away was more immediate and vivid than the meaningless reality of Cistern Street. She carried it with her from the Lancet Inn.

  They had come to a dank and melancholy region, where the remnant of the road wound among mud-rimmed pools of black water shaded by countless low-hanging branches festooned with loops of trailing grey moss. Here the dark water offered the sky’s reflection in tones of lead and steel. Here the embrace of the moss slowly choked the li
fe out of the trees. And here the character of the world began to alter.

  It had been going on for some time before Aureste really noticed the change in his brother. Innesq had always been eccentric, given to sudden silences and unpredictable abstractions. His demeanor throughout such interludes remained calm and benevolent, but markedly distant. The episodes were unsettling but familiar, and Aureste had long since learned to ignore them. This time, however, the symptoms were extreme.

  Never had the abstractions seemed so profound. At certain moments Innesq appeared lost to the world; lost beyond recovery, though still physically present. The first time that he had confronted the white face and stony dead eyes, Aureste had paid little heed. His brother’s peculiar arcanisms were unsettling but generally of brief duration. And sure enough, the fit or whatever it was had passed quickly, and Innesq had returned, composed and good-humored as always, but reluctant to discuss the matter.

  Aureste had dismissed the incident as a fluke, unlikely to recur.

  But it had recurred, within hours. This time Aureste had pressed for an explanation, only to receive a mild and maddening reply.

  “I shall explain as best I can, when the time is right.”

  Innesq was unbendable, further questioning useless, and Aureste had been forced to content himself with observation alone. Over the course of the next forty-eight hours he kept close watch, and thrice more witnessed his brother’s brief descent into staring insensibility. Eventually it dawned on him that Innesq was anything but insensible. His faculties were concentrated to the utmost and directed—elsewhere.

  Somehow, Aureste fancied the object of attention unappetizing. He could hardly have said why. But once or twice, while observing his brother’s colorless lips framing silent syllables, a shuddery qualm took him; a stab of horror that he suppressed instantly and without analysis.

  It was no longer possible to ignore or dismiss Innesq’s symptoms. Aureste waxed unwillingly attentive, and soon noted similar manifestations on the part of every arcanist in the group. All of them, from flamboyant Ojem Pridisso down to odd little Nissi, were periodically … absent. Even the boy, Sonnetia’s son Vinzille, could sometimes be seen, blank gaze fixed on nothingness, inner ear attuned to—what?

  He watched and he listened. He glimpsed fear in the eyes of Vinz Corvestri. He saw inexplicable, inappropriate smiles curving the silent lips of Littri Zovaccio. He saw the girl Nissi periodically alter in expression; her eyes, gait, and gestures all assuming an indefinably alien aspect. And once he caught a snatch of conversation between Pridisso and young Vinzille Corvestri.

  I say we get together and send It a real burn, something to teach It that we don’t like trespassers. Vinzille’s voice, youthfully defiant.

  And then Pridisso, mildly amused, Going a little too fast there, my lad. We ignore It. We exclude It. That’s all for now.

  He had seen and heard enough. Aureste returned to his brother.

  “It’s here among us—the thing you call the Overmind,” he accused. “Don’t trouble to deny it.”

  “I do not intend to,” Innesq returned equably.

  They sat in the stationary carriage. The servants were setting up camp for the night. Yvenza and Nissi had wandered off somewhere, affording Aureste the rare opportunity to speak to his brother in privacy and comfort.

  “Why the secrecy, then?”

  “No secrecy. I did not wish to speak without understanding, that is all.”

  “And now?”

  “And now I begin to fear that true understanding will always elude us. Its intelligence is too unlike our own; we may never bridge the gap. My efforts to communicate have failed. Either It does not hear me, else ignores me, or perhaps I myself am at fault and cannot hear It. Nonetheless, I have acquired shreds of knowledge, enough to see that peace between us is impracticable, for the universe that supports and sustains either one of our races ruins the other.”

  “Races?”

  “Yes, those ancient Inhabitants were and are a race—not like our own, of course, for they are not composed of flesh or even of solid substance as we know it. Yet they are individual sentient entities capable of joining with others of their own kind to form a whole being. That is, what we humans strive for by any and all means, but never successfully achieve for more than moments.”

  “Cozy.”

  “Indeed. Their accomplishment is astonishing. To savor it in full, however—to live and function freely—they must restore their own world. That is another way of saying that they wish to take back their home.”

  “You’re telling me that this regiment of monsters means to exterminate us.”

  “I do not think so, although their victory will produce that effect. My general impression is rather of an ambition to absorb and encompass all into the living whole. I could be mistaken, but I believe that there is no malice, no anger, no desire to destroy, but rather, to build. They—or rather It, the collective Overmind—seeks to inhabit all living matter.”

  “All? Plants, too?”

  “I believe so. Eventually.”

  “They—It—has a disappointment in store. I presume that you and the other arcanists are the only people here able to hear It.”

  “So far.”

  “You sound as if you expect a change.”

  “I fear that it is inevitable.”

  “I hope you’re right. It’s best to know the enemy. I look forward to hearing Its voice.”

  “You may come to change your mind. You see, when you hear—or rather, experience—the voice of the Overmind, it will seem to come from within yourself. That is to say, It will communicate to the extent that It has successfully gained entry. You will sense clearly, quite insistently in fact, that It wants more. It wishes to permeate your entire being, to fill you with Itself. In short, to more than own you—to be you, to make you a functioning part of Itself. Do you understand me?”

  “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.”