The Ruined City Page 36

  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.

  “In effect. Of course, there are ways around any quarantine. The big Taerleezi ports are guarded, but there are any number of quiet rural landing sites scattered along their coastline. Small boats could slide in easily. And of course, there’s always a world beyond the Veiled Isles.”

  “Has it come to that, then? To save our lives, we must abandon our homes and seek refuge in foreign lands? And we need to do it by stealth, sneak in by night, because they don’t want us?” She did not add the grim afterthought. And that’s the people with means to get away. The others will just sit here waiting to die.

  “Ah, Maidenlady Noro, don’t be so quick to consign us all to doom. The folk of the Veiled Isles have survived pestilence in ages past. I’m willing to hope that we can do it again.”

  “Do you believe that the plague is part of something bigger, something even worse?”

  “Don’t know. Doesn’t seem useful to sit around wondering and worrying about that when we’ve got solid, flesh-and-blood enemies with their boots on our neck to think of. Speaking of which, I’ve something for you.” Lousewort slipped her a packet wrapped in coarse cloth. “Better get that out of sight.”

  She obeyed, stowing the bundle away in the pocket of her cloak. “This is—?”

  “Just what you asked for. The documents have been prepared by one of our best men. The seals, the insignia, paper, ink, and penmanship—they’re all as good as you’ll find anywhere. The number of parties has been left open, so there’ll be no trouble there. And the other thing, the brownish powder—that’s a concentrate of kalkriole.”

  “Oh, yes, kalkriole.” She nodded. “Then I’ll need to mix a solution before I use it.”

  “You know kalkriole, I see.”

  “You might say so. And the people I need, the women?”

  “Two so far.”

  “A few more would be better. Boys would do, if they can be trusted to wear skirts and pretend.”

  “I know some very accomplished pretenders.”

  “Then it won’t be long, will it?” Jianna could hardly believe it. “Master Lousewort, I’m grateful for all that you’ve done. Of course, I’m ready here and now to make good on my debt to you. Tell me what I owe, and I’ll pay you.”

  “Owe? Nothing. It’s for Rione. He’s one of our best, we’d all do what we can for him, and gladly.”

  “Thank you.” The tears sprang to her eyes, blurring the world around her. Through the blur she discerned a figure approaching along the Lost Zorius Stroll. The individual moved haltingly, supported by a staff. Jianna was swept by a wave of revulsion that shamed her. It wasn’t his fault that he was lame, poor fellow, and it certainly wouldn’t do to stare. Turning away, she fixed her attention on Lousewort’s conversation, which was worth hearing.

  “… unchanged,” Lousewort was saying. “He’s still alive in the Witch, and receiving uncommonly good treatment. Ordinarily we’d just assume that a few palms had been greased, but Rione’s got no money to speak of, and no family or friends with such resources, so far as I know.”

  “He’s got his knowledge and talent,” Jianna suggested. “Do you think they might have need of a physician inside the Witch?”

  “Could be. That’s as likely an explanation as any I’ve heard. If true, though, you know what it suggests.”

  “Desperation?”

  “Mine.”

  The voice behind her was low an
d hoarse. A large hand closed on her shoulder. Startled, angry, and curiously terrified, Jianna spun to confront the cripple whose advance she had noted moments earlier. She looked up into a single eye the color of bloodied slush, and the hot words died on her lips.

  She was mad, else caught in a nightmare. A kind of sick, disbelieving horror froze her where she stood. Despite the dreadful burned-out eye socket, the scars, broken bones, and mutilations, she instantly recognized the ruined face of her husband, Onartino Belandor.

  For a moment she stood staring, then the paralysis broke, and she pulled violently away from him. The hand on her shoulder jerked her to a halt. She had forgotten how fearfully strong he was. She could not tear herself loose—she would never escape him.

  Her mouth worked, but no sound emerged. Her panicked gaze flew to Lousewort, who stood watching in patent surprise, and he responded at once.

  “Friend, you are in error,” Lousewort addressed the newcomer equably. “The young lady is with me.”

  “Mine. Wife.”

  “I think not.” Lousewort’s eyes turned to Jianna’s face, and what he saw there lifted his brows a fraction, but he continued smoothly, “Come, let’s have no trouble here.”

  Almost absently, Onartino touched the tip of his staff to the other’s chest, and shoved. Lousewort staggered back two or three paces, but kept his footing. Jianna attempted to wrench herself free, and Onartino’s hold tightened until she gasped with pain. Interested spectators began to gather around them.

  “Have a care, friend—you draw the Taerleezis down on us.” Lousewort was back again, and lying. He gestured urgently. “See, they come.”

  Onartino’s one eye followed the pointing finger. Instantly Lousewort’s foot shot out to kick the supporting staff aside. Onartino tottered, and Lousewort slammed a fist into his belly.

  The pressure on her shoulder eased a little. Jianna twisted with all her strength, and suddenly found herself free. Picking up her skirts, she fled at a run. She was sound and fleet. Her crippled husband could not hope to overtake her. As she went, she cast a look back over her shoulder, to spy Lousewort hastening in the opposite direction. Her rescuer was safe, and she would meet him again soon.

  She ran on without direction until exhaustion slowed her to a walk, and only then did she remember to don her vizard. She was anonymous again, invisible among Vitrisi’s masked multitudes. He would not find her now.

  He was a remarkably accomplished hunter. Determined, methodical, implacable. He would never rest until he tracked her down and reclaimed her—which, as her husband, he had every right to do.

  Jianna shivered. She was breathing in gasps and drenched in sweat, but shudderingly cold to the core. The world had altered in an instant. Onartino Belandor was still alive. And he still owned her.

  The Overmind was growing more insistent and obtrusive every day. The Magnifico Aureste felt it strongly. He was quite capable of excluding the Other indefinitely, or so he believed, but resented the necessity of continual effort. And it was continual; there was never an hour entirely free of that inquisitive, invasive, silently relentless pressure upon his mind. Sometimes it was immediate and demanding; sometimes it faded to the edge of detectability, but it was almost never entirely absent. He himself possessed the will and fortitude to resist, but what of the others, less richly endowed? Or perhaps burdened with the weakness of excessive sensitivity?

  He did not fear unduly for his brother. Innesq possessed strength to equal or exceed his own. But the others—those arcanist people? They were peculiar by nature, and now they were growing visibly more so. The girl Nissi—she was forever trailing around after Innesq like some starved white mouse angling for tidbits, and half the time lately she seemed lost in another world, head tilted to one side, eyes shut, lips moving to frame soundless inhuman syllables. The Taerleezi oddity, Littri Zovaccio—he seemed unable or unwilling to speak, and now his sight seemed to be going as well. In the evenings he stumbled about the camp, tripping over obvious obstacles, acknowledging no greeting, eyes wide and evidently blind. And the boy Vinzille muttered ceaselessly to himself, as if conducting unending internal debate.

  When the moment arrived, would this irregular band of rickety eccentrics stand any real chance of completing their mission?

  It was not a matter over which the Magnifico Aureste possessed an iota of control, and therefore he chose to ignore it.

  They traveled on into a region richly clothed in black-green conifers, whose somber boughs were brightly dotted with yellow-green globes—the nests of the giorri, already veined with the fissures that would soon split wide, releasing hundreds of thousands of dream-winged creatures into the world. Bronze-colored vines of northern strangler looped from tree to tree, enclosing the groves in a great living net. The mists here were uncommonly dense, completely obscuring the sky. It was easy to imagine that the light of the sun never touched the ground in this place.

  On they went, the mists turning afternoon into twilight, and Aureste felt the pressure upon his mind intensify. It, the Other, was here in force, perhaps stronger and more demanding than ever before. The press was so heavy that the demands of self-preservation drove all other considerations from his mind, for a while. Time passed—he had no idea how much time—and the internal struggles continued. He scarcely took note of the world around him. He ate once, without tasting. People spoke to him, and he answered mechanically. At last came a moment when some instinctive mental twist or leverage that he had stumbled upon by chance thrust the invasive presence from his mind. He did not understand quite how he had done it. Probably Innesq would know and would explain. He did know, however, that It had not retreated far. It no longer impinged upon his consciousness, but surely remained close at hand, infusing the very atmosphere.

  A great stir, shouts, imprecations, whinnying from the horses, and the world was with him again. The expedition had come to a halt. The reason was apparent.

  Directly before them, only a few yards ahead of the front riders and a few inches above the ground, hovered a pair of spectral figures. They were tall, perhaps a couple of heads higher than a sizable man, and they appeared to consist of grey fog or mist, dark and dense, yet weightless. Their shape was impossible to judge, for it was infinitely mutable, now thin and attenuated, now squat and disk-like; sometimes similar to humanity in outline and disposition of limbs, sometimes reminiscent of a sea anemone with countless elongated tentacles, sometimes cloud-like and amorphous, but continually changing. Throughout the incessant metamorphoses, two features remained constant. The substance of the figures always displayed a confusing quality of slow, nearly imperceptible revolution. And every shape possessed a set of dark, almost black indentations, suggestive of eyes, but fathomless and empty.

  Aureste knew beyond doubt that the forms he beheld were visible manifestations of the Overmind. This recognition had nothing to do with rationality. It was something that thrilled along every nerve in his body.

  There was scarcely time for wonder or terror. The horse beneath him was plunging, rearing, and shrilling in a frenzy of fear. All the skill that he possessed was needed to keep his seat and to bring the animal under some semblance of control. Every horse present displayed similar terror. Their riders were occupied and, in several cases, thrown. One self-liberated, riderless creature turned and galloped away, vanishing into the mists within seconds. Nobody was able to give chase.

  The carriages were immobilized. The expedition would bog down here and now if something were not done.

  Aureste had regained tolerable command of his horse. Now turning to the nearest two guards, he issued orders. The guards took up their crossbows and fired. Two bolts sped for two hovering specters. Both were well aimed. Both struck their targets, and both passed through foggy insubstantiality. The visitants floated in place, unaffected and unchanged.

  But no, there was a change. Ignoring the guards, both of Them turned the fathomless voids corresponding to eyes directly upon Aureste.

  Their regard en
gulfed him. He was cold and lost in Their eyes, drowning in the empty dark.

  With effort, he turned his face away from Them, and the world returned to him.

  The two hovering figures vanished. Whether they had literally disappeared or simply withdrawn into the fog was impossible to judge.

  In the aftermath of the apparition, the horses continued terrified and unruly. When urged forward, several of them balked, refusing the haunted mists. There would be no further progress that day. The afternoon was well advanced, and it was agreed to make camp in that spot.

  Brimming with questions, Aureste sought out his brother.

  “Yes, I have heard of Them and read of Them,” Innesq explained. “They are a manifestation of the Overmind, and for some days past I have felt Their presence.”

  “You never said anything about it.”

  “To what purpose? I was not certain that They would choose to reveal Themselves in visible form. If They did not, and Their proximity was sensed only by me and a few other members of our party, what point in spreading useless alarm among all?”

  “With adequate warning, we might better have prepared ourselves—there’s the point.”

  “A just argument, but how would you have done so?”

  “Perhaps there’s little we could have done, but we wouldn’t have been so taken by surprise. There would have been less confusion, less disruption. Tell me, did you catch a clear view of those things from the carriage?”

  “Quite good.” Innesq’s nod conveyed a connoisseur’s appreciation. “It was a rare sight indeed that I was privileged to witness. They were not communicative, however. They would not respond to my greeting or my queries.”

  “What are They?”

  “It is difficult to say. They are beings neither flesh nor spirit.”

  “Can They be killed?”

  “I think not. Nor would I kill Them if I could.”