The Ruined City Read online

  The world changed again, and he found himself in some sort of chamber furnished with wall hangings, mossy velvet window draperies, a few small tables, chairs and benches plumped with cushions. The function of the room, with its ordinary décor, was not quite apparent, but function was not the point. What struck Rione forcibly was the realization that he now stood in a private dwelling. This room was not part of the Witch prison; it was part of somebody’s home.

  Whose? Scarcely a mystery. The residence of the prison’s governor adjoined the Witch at the south side of the building. They had brought him to the governor’s own house. Surely not for interrogation. The facilities within the prison itself were well designed to effect efficient extraction of information. They would not have brought him here for official questioning. Unofficial, then? The prison’s Governor Sfirriu, like so many others, wished to plumb the brain of a famous criminal? Possible, but why take the criminal out of the prison for it?

  Alternative possibilities?

  The famous criminal was also a physician of growing repute. That might have something to do with it.

  A young man entered—a skinny, slightly green-faced creature clad in the unassuming garments of a servant in a moderately affluent household.

  “This the one?” he demanded in a voice that matched his person.

  Ori replied affirmatively.

  “This way, then.” He marched out again. Guards and prisoner followed.

  The house was comfortable and solidly respectable-looking, but not large. Within seconds they came to a closed door upon which the servant rapped sharply. A man’s voice from within bade them enter.

  They walked into a small office or study, with a good coal fire blazing on the grate. And there behind a plain wooden desk sat the prison’s Governor Sfirriu—a middle-aged Taerleezi, running to fat, grey of hair, lined of face, tired and harried-looking. He gave the impression of having sat behind that desk for many unfulfilling years. The two guards saluted. Rione waited.

  “You are the physician Falaste Rione?” Sfirriu demanded.

  “Yes, Governor.” Rione inclined his head politely, but without servility.

  “You have been convicted of complicity in the assassination of the Governor Anzi Uffrigo, and accordingly condemned.”

  “Yes, Governor.”

  “You will no doubt wish to profess your innocence.”

  “I’ve done so at length and to no avail, Governor. There seems little point in repetition.” This bordered on insolence, but one of the few consolations of his present situation lay in the irrelevance of consequences.

  “You are correct,” Sfirriu agreed. Addressing the two guards, he commanded, “Wait outside.”

  Ori and Chesubbo traded surprised glances, but obeyed mutely. The door closed behind them.

  Rione’s sense of wonder deepened.

  Prison governor and prisoner surveyed one another. The governor broke the silence.

  “It’s said that you’re a man of parts,” Sfirriu observed at last. “They speak well of you at the Avorno Hospital.”

  Rione waited.

  “They describe you as a physician of exceptional gifts.”

  “I am a physician, Governor. I try to make best use of my abilities, such as they are.”

  “Certainly, certainly.” Sfirriu frowned upon the documents cluttering his desktop. “They say exceptional gifts. New ideas. New methods. Remarkable results. Almost magical.”

  “If I possessed magical power, Governor, then I would not be here now.”

  “I’m told that you’ve treated cases of the plague. Is this true?”

  “Yes.”

  “And they’ve recovered?”

  “Some of them.”

  “You claim power to cure the plague?”

  “I’ve a treatment that’s proven effective in some cases.”

  “How many?”

  “Ten or twelve, I believe.”

  “That’s all? Out of how many that have received this treatment?”

  “Perhaps a couple of dozen.”

  “Not good enough.”

  “I agree, Governor.”

  There was a comfortless pause, during which the governor appeared preoccupied with one of the papers on the desk. At last he looked up, met the prisoner’s eyes, and remarked abruptly, “What I say to you now is to be held in confidence. Repeat a word of it, and things will go far harder than need be for you and your sister alike. I leave it to your imagination to supply possibilities. You understand me?”

  Rione inclined his head.

  “Very well. I have decided to grant you the opportunity of employing your physician’s skills. Your patients are afflicted with the plague.”

  “My patients?”

  “Two of them. Members of this household. There’s the need for discretion explained.”

  Well explained. The governor did not wish to find his home placed under quarantine.

  “Both female,” Sfirriu continued. “Thirty-eight and seventeen years of age, respectively. Ailing since last night. As of today, their malady had been identified as plague. You are the first physician to be consulted.”

  Indeed. A conveniently captive physician, unable to carry his knowledge beyond the prison walls.

  “Servants?” Rione queried.

  “My wife and oldest daughter. Note that your patients are persons of consequence. You will call upon your best abilities and exert yourself to the utmost.”

  “Will I? You overlook one detail. My exertions, if any, are scheduled to be cut short in a day or less. Not enough time to effect a cure.”

  “Time. Ah. Well. As far as that goes, there is perhaps some room for maneuvering.”

  “How much room, would you say?”

  “Difficult to judge. Within these walls, I wield considerable power, but I can’t offer miracles. I can’t, let it be clearly understood, offer you a pardon or a commutation of sentence. I can, however, order a stay of execution.”

  “How long a stay?”

  “That would depend on you.”

  “To borrow your own phrase, Governor—not good enough.”

  “Take care. You’re in no position to state terms.”

  “I’ve nothing to lose. What better position?”

  “Think again. As a doctor, you understand better than most the mechanics of execution. You know that death by torsion can take place in an instant, or it can be prolonged for hours, according to the whim of the executioner—or the instructions that the executioner has received. The agony of the experience may be intense and immediate—or it may be dulled and distanced by the administration of merciful draughts. No doubt you’re familiar with such draughts.”

  “I am. They’ve numbered among the most precious of the medications I once carried.”

  “In this?” From beneath his desk Governor Sfirriu produced a familiar leather bag. “Come, no need to hang back, you may take it. The sharp-edged and pointed metal instruments have been removed, but most of your supplies remain. I trust you’ll make good use of them.”

  His bag, his beloved paraphernalia, largely intact. His hand itched to grasp it, but he did not move.

  “Governor, let us understand each other. I can’t be constrained to serve you, I don’t fear threats. Rewards are the more effective incentive. What can you do for my sister and for me?”

  “I can promise your sister a quick and merciful death. Nothing more can be done—she’s too notorious, too conspicuous. In your own case, as I mentioned, there is some room to maneuver. I’ll do as much for you as I can, for as long as I can. That’s all I can pledge in good faith.”

  Rione believed him. His hand yearned for the bag. To be a doctor again, if only for a little while.

  “I want to see my sister,” he said.

  “Tend your two patients diligently through the day, and you may visit your sister tonight.”

  It was a remarkable privilege. More than he had ever really expected. He nodded and took up his bag.

  “My lad Tuza, who
admitted you, is the only servant in the house aware of the real situation. If the others knew, they’d run. Tuza will conduct you to the sickroom, and he’ll be there to carry your reports to me, or to fetch the items that your plan of treatment requires.” Sfirriu tugged the bellpull. “And one more thing—should either or both of your patients die, the news is to be carried to me alone. You understand? Only to me.”

  Rione nodded. The door opened and Tuza stuck his head in.

  “Take him to them,” the governor commanded.

  Rione followed Tuza from the study, and the two guards waiting outside the door fell into step behind them. A few paces along the hall, then up the nicely polished wooden stairway to the second-story hallway and an assortment of doors, most of them ajar, one firmly closed. Tuza arrowed for the closed door.

  “Here,” he said, and shot the physician a speculative sidelong glance.

  Rione went in alone, shutting the door behind him. The window curtains were drawn, and he allowed his eyes a moment to adjust to the low light. He stood in an ordinary bedchamber furnished with two cots, both occupied. Drawing a beak-nosed mask and impermeable gloves from his bag, he donned the protective garments before approaching his patients. A mature woman lay tossing and moaning in one bed. In the other was a similarly restless young girl who might, under happier circumstances, have been rather pretty. A cursory examination confirmed the accuracy of the governor’s diagnosis. His wife and daughter both displayed the tri-lobed carbuncles of the plague.

  Both were feverish and only semiconscious, but their hearts still beat strongly and their lungs seemed sound. The disease had taken firm hold, but had not yet conquered. The sufferers might perhaps still be saved.

  He opened the bedroom door, and the two guards waiting in the hall instantly stepped forward to block his exit.

  “Tuza,” Rione requested.

  “Here.” The servant edged past the human barrier.

  “Here’s what I need.” Rione rattled off a list of items, all easily obtainable. As he spoke, his memory sped back to other days, other instructions issued to another listener. Into his mind flashed the image of her face; a pale, pure oval dominated by a pair of great dark eyes and startlingly strong black brows.

  Not the time to be dreaming of her. She was safe and free. With any luck, her sense of self-preservation would carry her back to her family home, obnoxious uncle notwithstanding. The fragrance of her hair filled his mind for an instant.

  “I’ll get them.” Tuza was gone.

  Crossing to the window, he pushed the curtain aside and looked down upon a flagstone terrace adjoining the garden that he had glimpsed earlier. A leap from the second story would land him in an enclosed private enclave that was itself embedded within the prison property surrounded by the high outer wall. No escape through the window.

  Muted whimpers drew his attention back to the task at hand. His patients suffered, but he could and would furnish relief within minutes. The procedures that he now contemplated—designed to suppress the physical senses, in hopes of wearying the invasive entity—were best performed upon unconscious subjects.

  A small writing desk and chair occupied one corner of the room. Rione seated himself. From his bag he withdrew a selection of vials, bottles, flasks, a measuring cylinder, and a miniature balance, all of which he placed on the desk before him. For a moment he eyed the items consideringly, then set to work.

  By early evening, much had been accomplished. The eyes of the patients had been blindfolded, their ears stopped with waxen plugs, their bodies wrapped in the dampened sheets that both restricted movement and cooled the heat of fever. For hours they had slumbered deeply, thanks to the power of narcotic potions. At twilight they began to stir, heads turning from side to side, bodies weakly twisting within the confines of their damp wrappings, whereupon Rione administered draughts created to kill pain and dull all sensation. Movement ceased.

  So far, both patients were responding in accordance with his experience of such cases. There was cause for guarded optimism, but the outcome remained very much in doubt. As he stood atomizing fresh, cool water over the linen bundle containing the governor’s wife, there came a cautious scratching at the door. He opened it to confront Tuza, who informed him that his meal was ready.

  Rione was mildly startled. Absorbed in his work, he had forgotten about food. Stripping off his mask and gloves, he set them aside on the tiny candle stand beside the door and stepped out into the hall. Ori and Chesubbo were immediately beside him. Their vigilant proximity suggested ignorance of the plague’s presence in the governor’s house. Tuza, on the other hand, maintained a careful distance.

  At the end of the hall, a door opened on a very narrow stairway leading up to an unfinished attic. The slanting ceiling with its bare rafters was high enough at the center for a man of moderate height to stand upright. Crates, barrels, and bulging sacks lay everywhere, but the place was bare of furniture other than a small table of unfinished wood and a three-legged stool. A lighted candle in a tin dish stood on the table, together with a pitcher, a cup, spoon, and a covered dish.

  “Yours.” Tuza gestured.

  Rione sat down.

  “Anything else you need?”

  Rione shook his head, and Tuza exited hurriedly. Ori and Chesubbo followed at a more leisurely pace. Their heavy footsteps clumped to the foot of the attic stairs, where the sound halted. He could imagine them standing there, waiting for the physician-prisoner to finish eating, and wondering at the extreme peculiarity of the situation.

  He poured himself a drink and swallowed a mouthful—cider, fresh and hinting of cinnamon. He took the cover off the dish to reveal a bowl of stew, still warm, with nuggets of meat and assorted root vegetables; a quantity of brown bread; two apples and a pear, the fruit worm-free. It was better food, more plentiful and nourishing, than he had tasted since the day of his arrest. Not that he had suffered much from hunger; trial and condemnation had done little to stimulate his appetite. It was clear, however, that Governor Sfirriu wished to keep him healthy and active so long as his usefulness continued.

  He ate his dinner and departed the attic. Tuza was nowhere in evidence, but Ori and Chesubbo still waited in the second-story hallway.

  “This way,” Ori commanded.

  They hustled him along the hallway, past the closed sickroom door, down the stairs, and back the way they had come hours earlier. He assumed at first that they were returning him to his cell for the night, but soon found himself mistaken.

  Back along the walkway, back into the stone heart of the Witch, but not back to the spiral staircase leading to his tower cage. They took him by a different route to a low, sad gallery lined with iron-strapped oaken doors; all closed, all blind, all anonymous. They came to the door, indistinguishable from its fellow doors, at the far end of the gallery, and there they stopped.

  “You’ve got fifteen minutes,” Chesubbo announced. “Make the most of it. She’s for it tomorrow morning.”

  “Your sister.” Ori answered the prisoner’s look of silent inquiry. “Your knife-slinging, Sishmindri-corrupting, sedition-spouting little sister.”

  “She’s a one,” Chesubbo conceded, not without admiration. He slid the heavy bolt and opened the door.

  Rione walked in. The door thudded shut.

  Her cell was considerably larger than his own. She had a cot, a plain table and chair, a bucket tactfully equipped with a lid, and a tiny grease lamp, by whose smoky yellow light the scene was visible.

  Celisse was seated at the table, an untouched meal before her. As the door opened, she turned to face it. Her eyes widened at sight of her brother, and she rose to her feet.

  Rione was conscious, for the first time in days, of his unshaven face, his unwashed and doubtless malodorous person and clothing. Celisse had somehow contrived to keep herself clean, or at least to maintain the appearance of cleanliness. Her dark hair was neatly ordered, her dress unspotted, her fingernails surprisingly free of grime. Her face, always light of compl
exion, was a shade paler than usual, her sole outward manifestation of unease. So she appeared on the last evening of her life.

  Across his mind wheeled a hundred recollections of the past that they shared. Celisse, as an infant and then a toddler, growing and learning in the halls of Ironheart. Celisse, an orphan, turning to the Magnifica Yvenza for guidance, instruction, and adult affection. Celisse, sitting at the feet of Yvenza, absorbing the magnifica’s attitudes and convictions. Celisse, trained and indoctrinated from earliest childhood, methodically forged and shaped. When he himself had come to Ironheart, he had been old enough to recall the face and words of his father. Celisse had known only Yvenza.

  “You’ve come to say good-bye,” she observed, voice clear and manner composed as always.

  Something inside him seemed to be breaking. For a moment he doubted his own ability to frame a reply, then managed to utter a few unsteady words. “Oh, my dear. We’ve only a very little time.”

  “It’s more than I ever expected. Come, Falaste, take heart. I am not afraid, nor should you be. Remember, we die for Faerlonne.”

  “That comforts you?”

  “More than comforts. It fills me with joy and gratitude. I only wish that I might share this sense with you. Tomorrow, if we go together, then I’ll hold your hand if I can. If that isn’t permitted, then you must keep your eyes fixed on mine, and what you see there will ease your way.”

  “Celisse, I’ll not be with you. I don’t go tomorrow.”

  “No? What has happened?”

  “I’ve been granted a stay. I don’t know how long.”

  “But how? Why? Instinct bids me rejoice for you.” She curved a faint smile belied by frowning brows. “Reason dictates otherwise. What we both face is best concluded quickly.”