Rivan Codex Series

by Eddings, David

  Perhaps a week after Balsca's largely unnoticed death, a man in a tarred sea coat came staggering into a rundown street in broad daylight. He was raving and clutching at his throat. He lurched along the cobblestone street for perhaps a hundred feet before he collapsed and died.

  The dreadful grin fixed on his foam‑flecked lips gave several onlookers nightmares that night.

  The tatooed proprietor of the Red Dog Tavern was found dead in his establishment the following morning.

  He lay amidst the wreckage of the several tables and chairs he had smashed during his final delirium. His face was twisted into a stiff, hideous grin.

  During the course of that day, a dozen more men in that part of the city, all regular patrons of the Red Dog Tavern, also died.

  The next day, three dozen more succumbed. The authorities began to take note of the matter.

  But by then it was too late. The curious intermingling of classes characteristic of a great city made the confining of the infection to any one district impossible. Servants who lived in that shabby part of town carried the disease into the houses of the rich and powerful. Workmen carried it to construction sites, and their fellow workmen carried it home to other parts of the city. Customers gave it to merchants, who in turn gave it to other customers. The most casual contact was usually sufficient to cause infection.

  The dead had at first been numbered in the dozens, but by the end of the week hundreds had fallen ill. The houses of the sick were boarded up despite the weak cries of the inhabitants from within. Grim carts rumbled through the streets, and workmen with camphor‑soaked cloths about their lower faces picked up the dead with long hooks.

  The bodies were stacked in the carts like logs of wood, conveyed to cemeteries, and buried without rites in vast common graves. The streets of Mal Zeth became deserted as the frightened citizens barricaded themselves inside their houses.

  There was some concern inside the palace, naturally, but the palace, walled as it was, was remote from the rest of the city. As a further precaution, however, the Emperor ordered that no one be allowed in or out of the compound. Among those locked inside were several hundred workmen who had been hired by Baron Vasca, the Chief of the Bureau of Commerce, to begin the renovations of the bureau offices.

  It was about noon on the day after the locking of the palace gates that Garion, Polgara, and Belgarath were summoned to an audience with Zakath. They entered his study to find him gaunt and hollow‑eyed, poring over a map of the imperial city. "Come in. Come in," he said when they arrived. They entered and sat down in the chairs he indicated with an absent wave of his hand.

  "You look tired," Polgara noted.

  "I haven't slept for the past four days," Zakath admitted. He looked wearily at Belgarath. "You say that you're seven thousand years old?"

  "Approximately, yes."

  "You've lived through pestilence before?"

  "Several times."

  "How long does it usually last?"

  "It depends on which disease it is. Some of them run their course in a few months. Others persist until everybody in the region is dead. Pol would know more about that than I would. She's the one with all the medical experience."

  "Lady Polgara?" the Emperor appealed to her.

  "I'll need to know the symptoms before I can identify the disease," she replied.

  Zakath burrowed through the litter of documents on the table in front of him. "Here it is." He picked up a scrap of parchment and read from it. "High fever, nausea, vomiting. Chills, profuse sweating, sore throat, and headache. Finally delirium, followed shortly by death."

  She looked at him gravely. "That doesn't sound too good," she said. "Is there anything peculiar about the bodies after they've died?"

  "They all have an awful grin on their faces," he told her, consulting his parchment.

  She shook her head. "I was afraid of that."

  "What is it?"

  "A form of plague."

  "Plague?" His face had gone suddenly pale. "I thought there were swellings on the body with that. This doesn't mention that." He held up the scrap of parchment.

  "There are several different varieties of the disease, Zakath. The most common involves the swellings you mentioned. Another attacks the lungs. The one you have here is quite rare, and dreadfully virulent."

  "Can it be cured?"

  "Not cured, no. Some people manage to survive it, but that's probably the result of mild cases of their body's natural resistance to disease. Some people seem to be immune. They don't catch it no matter how many times they've been exposed."

  "What can I do?"

  She gave him a steady look. "You won't like this," she told him.

  "I like the plague even less."

  "Seal up Mal Zeth. Seal the city in the same way that you've sealed the palace."

  "You can't be serious!"

  "Deadly serious. You have to keep the infection confined to Mal Zeth, and the only way to do that is to prevent people from carrying the disease out of the city to other places." Her face was bleak. "And when I say to seal the city, Zakath, I mean totally. Nobody leaves."

  "I've got an empire to run, Polgara. I can't seal myself up here and just let it run itself. I have to get messengers in and send orders out."

  "Then, inevitably, you will rule an empire of the dead. The symptoms of the disease don't begin to show up until a week or two after the initial infection, but during the last several days of that period, the carrier is already dreadfully contagious. You can catch it from somebody who looks and feels perfectly healthy. If you send out messengers, sooner or later one of them will be infected, and the disease will spread throughout all of Mallorea."

  His shoulders slumped in defeat as the full horror of what she was describing struck him. "How many?" he asked quietly.

  "I don't quite understand the question."

  "How many will die here in Mal Zeth, Polgara?"

  She considered it. "Half," she replied, "if you're lucky."

  "HaIf?" he gasped. "Polgara, this is the largest city in the world. You're talking about the greatest disaster in the history of mankind."

  "I know ‑and that's only if you're lucky. The death rate could go as high as four‑fifths of the population."

  He sank his face into his trembling hands. "Is there anything at all that can be done?" he asked in a muted voice.

  "You must burn the dead," she told him. "The best way is just to burn their houses without removing them. That reduces the spread of the disease."

  "You'd better have the streets patrolled, too," Belgarath added grimly. "There's bound to be looting, and the looters are going to catch the disease. Send out archers with orders to shoot looters on sight. Then their bodies should be pushed back into the infected houses with long poles and burned along with the bodies already in the houses."

  "You're talking about the destruction of Mal Zeth!" Zakath protested violently, starting to his feet.

  "No," Polgara disagreed. "We're talking about saving as many of your citizens as possible. You have to steel your heart about this, Zakath. You may eventually have to drive all the healthy citizens out into the fields, surround them with guards to keep them from getting away, and then burn Mal Zeth to the ground."

  "That's unthinkable!"

  "Perhaps you ought to start thinking about it," she told him. "The alternative could be much, much worse."

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  "Silk," Garion said urgently, 'you've got to stop it."

  "I'm sorry, Garion," the little man replied, looking cautiously around the moonlit atrium for hidden spies, "but it's already in motion. Sadi's bandits are inside the palace grounds and they're taking their orders from Vasca. Vasca's so brave now that he's almost ready to confront Zakath himself. General Bregar of the Bureau of Military Procurement knows that something's afoot, so he's surrounded himself with troops. The King of Pallia, the Prince Regent of Delchin, and the old King of Voresebo have armed every one of their retainers. The palace is sealed, and nobo
dy can bring in any outside help ‑not even Zakath himself. The way things stand right now, one word could set it off."

  Garion started to swear, walking around the shadowy atrium and kicking at the short‑cropped turf.

  "You did tell us to go ahead," Silk reminded him.

  "Silk, we can't even get out of the palace right now -much less the city. We've stirred up a fight, and now we're going to be caught right in the middle of it."

  Silk nodded glumly. "I know," he said.

  "I'll have to go to Zakath," Garion said. "Tell him the whole story. He can have his imperial guards disarm everybody."

  "If you thought it was hard to come up with a way to get out of the palace, start thinking about how we're going to get out of the imperial dungeon. Zakath's been polite so far, but I don't think his patience ‑or his hospitality‑ would extend to this." Garion grunted.

  "I'm afraid that we've outsmarted ourselves," Silk said. He scratched at his head. "I do that sometimes," he added.

  "Can you think of any way to head it off?"

  "I'm afraid not. The whole situation is just too inflammable. Maybe we' d better tell Belgarath."

  Garion winced. "He won't be happy."

  "He'll be a lot less happy if we don't tell him."

  Garion sighed. "I suppose you're right All right, let's go get it over with."

  It took quite some time to locate Belgarath. They finally found him standing at a window in a room high up in the east wing. The window looked out over the palace wall. Beyond that wall fires ranged unchecked in the stricken city. Sheets of sooty flame belched from whole blocks of houses, and a pall of thick smoke blotted out the starry sky. "It's getting out of hand," the old man said. "They should be pulling down houses to make firebreaks, but I think the soldiers are afraid to leave their barracks." He swore. "I hate fires," he said.

  "Something's sort of come up," Silk said cautiously, looking around to see if he could locate the spy holes in the walls of the room.

  "What is it?"

  "Oh, nothing all that much," Silk replied with exaggerated casualness. "We just thought that we'd bring it to your attention, is all." His fingers, however, were twitching and flickering. Even as he spoke quite calmly, improvising some minor problem with the horses for the edification of the spies they all knew were watching and listening, his dancing fingers laid out the entire situation for the old man.

  "You what!" Belgarath exclaimed, then covered the outburst with a cough.

  ‑ You told us to devise a diversion, Grandfather-Garion's hands said as Silk continued to ramble on about the horses.

  ‑A diversion, yes‑ Belgarath's fingers replied, ‑but not pitched battles inside the palace. What were you thinking of-

  ‑It was the best we could come up with‑ Garion replied lamely.

  "Let me think about this for a minute," the old man said aloud. He paced back and forth for a while, his hands clasped behind his back and his face furrowed with concentration. "Let's go talk with Durnik," he said finally. "He's more or less in charge of the horses, so we'll need his advice." Just before he turned to lead them from the room, however, his fingers flickered one last time. ‑Try not to walk too softly on the way downstairs‑ he told them. ‑I need to give you some instructions, and wiggling our fingers takes too long-

  As they left the room, Garion and Silk scuffed their feet and brought the heels of their boots down hard on the marble floor to cover Belgarath's whispering voice.

  "All right," the old man breathed, scarcely moving his lips as they moved along the corridor toward the stairs leading down. "The situation isn't really irretrievable. Since we can't stop this little brawl you've arranged anyway, let it go ahead and happen. We will need the horses, though, so, Garion, I want you to go to Zakath and tell him that we'd like to isolate our mounts from the rest of the stables. Tell him that it's to avoid having them catch the plague."

  "Can horses catch the plague?" Garion whispered in some surprise.

  "How should I know? But if I don't, you can be sure that Zakath won't either. Silk, you sort of ease around and let everybody know ‑quietly‑ that we're just about to leave and to get ready without being too obvious about it."

  "Leave?" Garion's whisper was startled. "Grandfather, do you know a way to get out of the palace ‑and the city?"

  "No, but I know someone who does. Get to Zakath with your request about the horses as quickly as you can. He's got his mind on so many other things right now that he probably won't give you any argument about it." He looked at Silk. "Can you give me any kind of idea as to when your little explosion is going to take place?"

  "Not really," Silk whispered back, still scuffing his feet on the stairs as they went down. "It could happen at any minute, I suppose."

  Belgarath shook his head in disgust. "I think you need to go back to school," he breathed irritably. "How to do something is important, yes, but when is sometimes even more important."

  "I'll try to remember that."

  "Do. We'd all better hurry, then. We want to be ready when this unscheduled little eruption takes place."

  There were a dozen high‑ranking officers with Zakath when Garion was admitted to the large, red‑draped room where the Emperor was conferring with his men. "I'll be with you in a bit, Garion," the haggard‑looking man said. Then he turned back to his generals. "We have to get orders to the troops," he told them. "I need a volunteer to go out into the city." The generals looked at each other, scuffing their feet on the thick blue carpet.

  "Am I going to have to order someone to go?" Zakath demanded in exasperation.

  "Uh ‑excuse me," Garion interjected mildly, "but why does anybody have to go at all?"

  "Because the troops are all sitting on their hands in their barracks while Mal Zeth burns," Zakath snapped.

  "They have to start tearing down houses to make fire breaks, or we'll lose the whole city. Someone has to order them out."

  "Have you got troops posted outside the palace walls?" Garion asked.

  "Yes. They have orders to keep the populace away."

  "Why not just shout at them from the top of the wall?" Garion suggested. "Tell one of them to go get a colonel or somebody, then yell your orders down to him. Tell him to put the troops to work. Nobody can catch the plague from a hundred yards away ‑I don't think."

  Zakath stared at him and then suddenly began to laugh ruefully. "Why didn't I think of that?" he asked.

  "Probably because you weren't raised on a farm," Garion replied. "If you're plowing a different field from the man you want to talk to, you shout back and forth.

  Otherwise, you do an awful lot of unnecessary walking."

  "All right," Zakath said briskly, looking at his generals, "which one of you has the biggest mouth?"

  A red‑faced officer with a big paunch and snowy white hair grinned suddenly. "In my youth, I could be heard all the way across a parade ground, your Majesty," he said.

  "Good. Go see if you can still do it. Get hold of some colonel with a glimmer of intelligence. Tell him to abandon any district that's already burning and to tear down enough houses around the perimeter to keep the fire from spreading. Tell him that there's a generalcy in it for him if he saves at least half of Mal Zeth."

  "Provided that he doesn't get the plague and die," one of the other generals muttered.

  "That's what soldiers get paid for, gentlemen ‑taking risks. When the trumpet blows, you're supposed to attack, and I'm blowing the trumpet ‑right now."

  "Yes, your Majesty," they all replied in unison, turned smartly, and marched out.

  "That was a clever idea, Garion," Zakath said gratefully. "Thank you." He sprawled wearily in a chair.

  "Just common sense." Garion shrugged, also sitting down.

  "Kings and Emperors aren't supposed to have common sense. It's too common."

  "You're going to have to get some sleep, Zakath," Garion told him seriously. "You look like a man on his last legs."

  "Gods," Zakath replied, "I'd gi
ve half of Karanda right now for a few hours' sleep ‑of course, I don't have half of Karanda anymore."

  "Go to bed, then."

  "I can't. There's too much to do."

  "How much can you do if you collapse from exhaustion? Your generals can take care of things until you wake up. That's what generals are for, isn't it?"

  "Maybe." Zakath slumped lower in his chair. He looked across at Garion. "Was there something on your mind?" he asked. "I'm sure this isn't just a social visit."

  "Well," Garion said, trying to make it sound only incidental, "Durnik's worried about our horses," he said.

  "We've talked with Aunt PoI ‑Lady Polgara‑ and she's not really sure whether horses can catch plague or not.

  Durnik wanted me to ask you if it would be all right if we took our animals out of the main stables and picketed them someplace near the east wing where he can keep an eye on them."

  "Horses?" Zakath said incredulously. "He's worried about horses at a time like this?"

  "You sort of have to understand Durnik," Garion replied. "He's a man who takes his responsibilities very seriously. He looks on it as a duty, and I think we can both appreciate that."

  Zakath laughed a tried laugh. "The legendary Sendarian virtues," he said, "duty, rectitude and practicality." He shrugged. "Why not?" he said. "If it makes Goodman Durnik happy, he can stable your horses in the corridors of the east wing if he wants."

  "Oh, I don't think he'd want to do that," Garion replied after a moment's thought. "One of the Sendarian virtues you neglected to mention was propriety. Horses don't belong inside the house. Besides," he added, "the marble floors might bruise their hooves."

  Zakath smiled weakly. "You're a delight, Garion," he said. "Sometimes you're so serious about the littlest things."

  "Big things are made up of little things, Zakath," Garion replied sententiously. He looked at the exhausted man across the table, feeling a peculiar regret at being forced to deceive somebody he genuinely liked. "Are you going to be all right?" he asked.

  "I'll survive, I expect," Zakath said. "You see, Garion, one of the big secrets about this world is that the people who desperately cling to life are usually the ones who die. Since I don't really care one way or the other, I'll probably live to be a hundred."