by Dave Duncan
As Poul slid below the roofs and shadows filled the court, she collapsed onto a bench and looked around her empty hostel with something very close to despair. Business had been bad since the war, but she had thought it was starting to pick up. Her reserves were dwindling. At least the odious Kolo represented money, real money, but how long would his father support an unprofitable business? Liam had promised her that she could continue to operate the hostel, but she could never trust his promises. Men had died making that mistake. She suspected that he was only interested in the building itself, planning to turn it back into a private home, his home, as soon as he obtained title. He made no secret of his nostalgic love for things imperial, and few of the great old mansions were as well preserved as this one.
Here she had lived since her marriage. Here she had loved her husband and their two babies. It held all her happy memories. It held unhappy ones also, of course, especially memories of the plague months. The day she had found the starry blue rash on Karn had been the worst day of her life. Naln had followed, inevitably. The two of them had died within an hour of each other. Gwin had found escape in work, turning the building into an emergency hospital for the neighborhood. Even then, the old place had dominated her life. It was her home. Without it, she would have nothing left at all.
"Almost time!" proclaimed a voice behind her.
She started violently. It was only Tibal, just another rabbit.
"Time for what?"
He grinned widely. "Tigers! No more rabbits." He sat down on a stool and stretched out his long shanks.
She gaped at him. Another of his miracles! "How can you possibly know—"
The bell on the outer door jangled. A group of Zardan countryfolk flowed in, nine or ten of them, male and female, young and old, all of them pulling off broad-brimmed hats and clutching them awkwardly as they peered around at the unfamiliar city building. The men sported bushy beards, the women wore their hair in long braids. Gwin knew the type well—solid, honest farmers on a visit to the city, bringing herds or crafts to sell in the market. Then she recognized the portly matron in front and her day brightened at last. Elim Panank, Bulion Tharn's oldest daughter! The Tharns were old friends, solid and dependable as the hills. They had been regulars at the hostel since long before Gwin met Carp. No tiger, but very welcome rabbits! She jumped up and hurried to greet them.
Six women and only four men? There must be more of them to come yet.
"Elim Saj! How wonderful to see you!" One glance showed that Elim was going to contribute yet another Panank to the Tharn Clan before winter, although she must be well over forty. Her smock and riding breeches were travel-stained, there was dust in the wrinkles around her eyes and in her graying hair, but these tough farmers' wives never let pregnancy slow them down. It was their normal condition.
"Gwin Saj!" Concern puckered the well-padded face. "We met Ogmith Saj just now and learned of your terrible loss! First Carp and now... Oh, Gwin Solith!" Elim enveloped Gwin in a rib-creaking embrace.
Gwin fought free, mumbling platitudes. She detested sympathy. Her heartbreak was too personal to share with others, even someone as warm and genuine as Elim Panak.
A dip-shouldered cripple came limping in behind her, and Gwin knew him too, although not well. He lacked a beard like the others, he was small for a Tharn, and he had the longest nose she had ever met outside a stable. She disliked him, but Carp had maintained that his disagreeable manner hid a shrewd and caring personality.
"Wosion Saj too! You are indeed welcome! How many rooms... Is something wrong?"
Yes, there was something wrong.
This hunt had found two tigers.
#
Out in the street, the missing Tharn men were unfastening a litter they had obviously cobbled together from rope, two saplings, and a couple of cloaks. Gwin hardly recognized the invalid. He was unconscious, his face grotesquely deformed, his skin soaked and inflamed by fever. Even in his coma, he panted like a runner. Sickness on that scale was mortal.
Doctors, the Tharns blathered, and surgeons, but Gwin knew better. No physic could treat that. They knew it too. Their patriarch would not see another dawn and their eyes were filled with dread because of it.
"Men like him are rain in a desert," Carp had said once, after one of Bulion Tharn's visits.
"I have no porter," Gwin babbled. "But of course you would rather carry him yourself anyway. The Peacock Room. Over here. This way."
Stout arms lifted the litter from the horses and followed her inside.
Niad?
Niad's powers were as likely to kill the man as help him—Niad had no experience at using them. Could even an Ivielscath drag the old man back from the gates of death? To try was to risk betrayal, because there were Tharns all over the hostel already, more than a dozen of them. If the attempt worked, they would talk. If it failed, they would certainly talk. To harbor a Cursed was a major crime. This was no trivial favor Gwin was considering. It would put her in grave danger and Niad in worse.
She saw the invalid settled in the Peacock Room, which was the best in the house, bright and spacious. The huge featherbed stood in the center, allowing clear views of all the magnificent frescoes that gave the room its name. Leaving Elim and the other women to care for the invalid, she went out to organize more rooms, meals, and horses. Shuma was having hysterics at the need to prepare so much food at such short notice, but Shuma enjoyed nothing more than a good crisis.
Dare I mention Niad? Back to the court... Tibal was relaxing in his favorite seat. He waved cheerfully to her. The world was unfolding to his satisfaction, evidently.
"Polion!" Wosion barked. "The stable hand will need help with the horses."
The boy he was addressing was a lanky adolescent, all legs and arms and a dirty face—no, that was supposed to be a mustache. He scowled at Tob and muttered something that did not sound like disagreement.
"Gwin Saj," Wosion said, earnestly. "We want the best doctor in the city. We have gold. We will pay, pay anything." His long nose seemed to twitch like a dog's. "Father is very dear to all of us. Will you send a boy at once, please?"
The moment of decision... Iviel, giver of both health and sickness... One of the city priests would offer to intercede with God for her, asking God to send Iviel in her healer guise. But the Zarda walked with no gods, and Gwin suspected she agreed with them. The fates would blight or bless as they chose, and no god would stop them.
But Gwin was not so callous. She could not let a man die without at least trying to help.
"Wosion Saj, there is something I must tell you. I must first ask you to keep it se—"
His eyes seemed to flash in the twilight. "An Ivielscath?"
"Ah, yes..."
He gripped her arm fiercely. "We saw Ogoal last night! It was a sign, a portent. She told us to expect the unexpected! Please, please, where is this man?"
She detached his fingers before he broke bones. She eased back a little. He was not a prepossessing person, and he reeked of horse. "Not so fast! You understand that all the afflicted were ordered out of the city on pain of death? There are terrible penalties for sheltering them, too."
"We shall not breath a word! I will tell everyone not to talk. If you wish, we shall leave the city at dawn. Anything, Gwin Saj, anything!"
Anything? There was the answer to Niad's problem! Of course!
"Aha! I will hold you to that," she said. "The Ivielscath needs shelter, and she has nowhere to go."
He laughed shrilly. "She will be as welcome as springtime in Tharn Valley, lady! We met another of the Cursed yesterday, a Jaulscath, and Father promised to take that one home and cherish her. If he would accept a Jaulscath, can you not imagine how he will welcome a healer? They are precious beyond words."
"But..."
"You are still Qolians here in Daling, Gwin Saj!" Wosion said impatiently. "Zarda do not exile the Cursed like lepers as the empire did. We honor the Cursed and called them blessed."
She should have thought
of that sooner. These peaceable farmers were a far cry from their ferocious barbarian forebears who had toppled the empire, but they clung to many of the old ways. Niad could find refuge with them, perhaps even honor.
"But there is another risk," she protested. "The girl has had no practice, no experience. The sickness took all her family. Only she recovered. We saw no danger signals until one day the cook cut her hand. Niad was going to bandage it. Instead she just held it—and the wound closed."
"Of course it did!" He was less sure of himself now, though. "My father is very near to death already. I do not think he would hesitate to take a risk. What sort of a woman is this Ivielscath? Is she bitter, resentful? Does she rage at the fates for Cursing her?"
"No. She is... Well, 'sweet,' sounds terrible, but it's the best word I can think of. Kind. Anxious." Gwin thought of adding, "Grateful," and did not.
"Then I do not believe there is much danger. There are Ivielscaths who cannot control the direction of their powers, who will afflict when they strive to cure, but they are usually very ill-disposed people."
"You know about the Cursed?"
"I am a pastor. We still treasure the old lore. Please, Gwin Saj? There is no time to waste!"
She nodded agreement. "I shall go and ask, then. I cannot promise. I will not try to force her if she is not willing."
He sniggered mockingly. "No, you must not antagonize an Ivielscath. Offer her anything in our power to give."
Gwin turned and headed for the kitchen again. She noted gratefully that Tibal had appointed himself porter for the moment, in that he was going around lighting the torches. Candles gleamed through windows as the Zarda settled into their rooms.
The kitchen was bright with lamps, suffocatingly hot, very loud. Shuma seemed to be all over it, yelling and clattering, and yet somehow controlling another eight people. Niad was chopping onions on a corner of the butcher block. Gwin caught her eye and beckoned. She led the girl out into the evening cool of the court.
"The old man is very sick," Niad said in a small voice.
"You know?"
"Mai told me, Saj."
Mai knew everything, an incredible busybody, but that was not magic. She had always been like that.
"His name is Bulion Tharn. I have known him a long time and he is a good man. If you will try to help him, then these people would be willing to give you refuge. They are many, but they have much land and I think they live quite well. You could be safer there, with them, than anywhere."
"And you safer also with me gone, Gwin Saj."
"I did not mean that!"
"But it matters to me," the girl whispered. "So I will try." She was shivering.
Gwin put a comforting arm around her and led her toward the Peacock Room. They passed Tibal, bearing a torch. He flashed a wink. Anyone would think he had planned this whole emergency.
At the door they met other family members coming out, being sent away by the pastor. Only Elim remained at her father's bedside.
"Wosion Saj, this is Niad."
The pastor bowed awkwardly to the housemaid. "I honor you, Niad Saj. You bear a great burden." His efforts to appear gracious were probably well-intended, but they seemed pompous and phony.
"Gwin Solith!" bellowed a voice right behind her. "Where is my beautiful lovebird, my passion flower, my rich landowning bride?"
She spun around with a gasp of dismay. It was Kolo, of course—Kolo Gurshith, emerging unsteadily from the shadows like a nightmare. It was Kolo almost too drunk to stand. It was Kolo in an elaborate tunic of creamy hue, bedecked with embroidered flowers and butterflies, but also bedraggled and soiled. His hair was in disarray, he had only one shoe. He staggered toward her with a vacuous leer on his moon face and flabby arms outstretched. He was tall, he was obese, he was utterly odious.
The tiger.
The healing? An Ivielscath? Kolo Gurshith! Gwin's mind seemed to explode into fragments. Why did he have to arrive exactly now? How could she keep the secret? How was she going to handle this lout?
The lout handled her. Before she could speak or move a muscle, he enfolded her in his embrace and a suffocating miasma of wine. He slobbered a kiss on her lips. She gagged and twisted her head and struggled to free herself. They staggered off-balance. She cried out in disgust.
A young male Tharn—an unusually large one, even for that family of oversized males—detached her assailant with one meaty hand and swung a punch with the other. The impact must have been audible in the street outside. Kolo Gurshith rose from the mosaic floor, traveled a short distance backward, and then returned to it—heavily, horizontally, and emphatically.
"Not a friend of yours, I hope?" her rescuer inquired in his rough country voice. "Oh, I am Jukion Tharn, Gwin Saj—Brankion's eldest."
"Thank you, Jukion Saj. Not a close friend, no."
"Should I continue his lessons, or just throw him out in the street for you, Saj?"
Gwin stared down at her prostrate suitor, who was groaning piteously but making no serious effort to sit up. She could not imagine how she could even start to explain. Her fiancé? His touch had sickened her; she felt his unclean odor clinging to her. Could life with that trash ever be worth living?
Throw him out and good riddance!
She spun around to see who had spoken.
"As you wish," the giant said cheerfully. "Farion, give me a hand mucking out."
"Who?" Gwin said. "I mean—" Already the two Tharns were towing Kolo away by the ankles. "Wait!" But they did not hear her. She opened her mouth again and then snapped it shut. So be it! She had more urgent problems to worry about than Kolo Gurshith. An hour in the gutter would do him no harm.
"Splendid!" said Tibal from the shadows.
Ah! Gwin shot him an angry glance. "Was that you who said to throw him out?" It had sounded like the mysterious, disembodied voice she had heard the previous morning, just when he arrived. It was not Tibal's normal voice, but obviously Jukion had heard it as well, so this time she could be sure she had not imagined it.
"No."
Distrusting the look of puzzled innocence on his face, she made a mental note that Tibal Frainith might be a gifted ventriloquist with a very warped sense of humor. Meanwhile... the healing. She hurried into the Peacock Room, closing the door behind her. She would fuss about the Gurshiths tomorrow.
In the soft light of a single lantern, Bulion Tharn lay unmoving, half submerged in the feather bed. Niad was hunched on a chair at his side, one arm stretched out, her hand against his swollen face. Elim and Wosion stood behind her, watching intently. Gwin tiptoed over, fighting to calm her racing heart. She could see no change.
Niad glanced up at her with a terrified expression; Gwin tried to smile encouragement.
"Nothing?" she whispered.
Elim chewed her lip.
Wosion shook his head. "Not yet," he whispered. "But the hurt is very deep. It may—"
His expression changed. Gwin looked down at the patient. Bulion Tharn's eyes had opened. He uttered a long sigh.
11
Polion was very impressed by the stables. He had never been in a building that big in his life before. The walls and floor were marble. He could not tell how high the ceiling was, because the lantern beams would not reach up there. He hoped Butterfly and his friends appreciated such quarters.
He was not at all impressed by Tob the stableboy, and did most of the work himself to make sure it was done right.
If Daling was typical, he did not think much of cities. There had been far too many people in the streets, even if everyone else in the family party had kept insisting that there were fewer than usual. There were too many decaying buildings, lining the streets like giant skulls. Not enough grass. The air smelled wrong.
Daling had only one thing he was interested in, and it looked as if that would have to wait until another night. He was saddle sore, starved like a springtime bear, and reeking of stable. By the time he had cleaned up and eaten, the vice shops would surely have closed.
Thick Tob showed him the way back to the hostel proper, through the kitchens. As he emerged into the courtyard, he was astonished to hear a roar of Tharn laughter. A raucous party was underway at the far end, which must mean that the Old Man was improving. Had improved! Considerably! Everyone was sitting around in torchlight, and eating, drinking wine, celebrating. His mouth watered painfully. He couldn't join them until he had cleaned up, obviously, and he wasn't even sure which room was his.
Then his view was blocked as if a barn had moved in front of him. It was the largest of all Tharns, Big Brother Jukion.
"Hi, there!" Jukion said, a little unsteadily. "You been out in the stable all this time, Runt?"
"Now that you mention it, yes. The Old Man's better?"
"The Old Man's all better! Grandfather's cured! Prancing like a yearling." Jukion peered around, and then drew Polion aside with a hand like a ham, cuddling close to a statue. He dropped his voice to a whisper. "They had an Ivielscath!"
Polion was not sure which surprised him more—that an Ivielscath should turn up just when they needed one so badly, or that his brother would be so obviously embalmed. Even his breath was lethal. Jukion was normally the very soul of discretion. He had collected all the brawn and all the virtue in the family. From the day of his birth, Polion had suffered by having Big-big held up to him as an example.
He did not comment on that, though. "Great news! Of course, we knew something like that would happen, because of the portents."
Jukion hiccuped discreetly. "'Spect so. The other news is that we're heading back home at first light!"
Polion used a word that Jukion probably did not know.
But Jukion chuckled as if he did know it. "Had some plans in that direction, did you, Runt?"
"Why? All of us? I mean, if one man wanted to stay over a couple—"
"All of us! There may be a bit of trouble brewing."
"What sort of trouble?"
The big oaf squirmed and glanced around uneasily. "Well, a man got punched up here tonight, and it turns out his daddy's important. Could be trouble."