The Ruined City

by Brandon, Paula

  “I would not abuse Your Excellency’s hospitality by too free an encroachment upon your time and patience. You have granted me this audience, and I in turn have offered up promises, one of which involves the delivery of certain documents. Here they are.” From somewhere beneath her enveloping cloak she brought forth a small paper packet. Leaning forward in her chair, she placed it on the desk before him.

  Well. No pretty hesitation, no trace of shyness or uncertainty. Utterance direct, economical, to the point. The young lady was all business. Her almost masculine bluntness was not particularly attractive, but perhaps there was something to be said for clarity. He picked up the packet and saw that it was elaborately sealed with wax and bound with string. It would have been easy to break the seals and cut the string, but Uffrigo did neither. Taking up a letter opener as sharp as any dagger, he carefully shaved the waxen seals off one by one, preserving each whole. This done, he inserted the point into one of the many knots in the string, and gently, lovingly began to worry it loose.

  A stranger observing him might have thought that the governor took extraordinary pains to avoid damaging the packet’s contents. Some other stranger, fancifully analytical, might even have concluded that the unnecessary delay reflected some sort of unacknowledged reluctance or fear. Neither observer would have been correct. A connoisseur in all his pleasures, Anzi Uffrigo appreciated the flavor of anticipation, prolonged and reduced to an exquisite concentrate. He knew how to savor it in full.

  So absorbed in his delicate task was he that the governor did not immediately note the advance of the two Sishmindri brothers, Zayzi and Frayz. A subtle shifting shadow alerted him, and natural instinct warned him. With speed worthy of a viper, he dropped the packet, rose to his feet, and expertly thrust his dagger-pointed letter opener under the ribs of the nearest Sishmindri. Blue-green fluid gushed, and Zayzi or Frayz fell. Almost simultaneously, Uffrigo’s left hand stretched forth, found the bellpull beside the desk, and yanked.

  A large, web-fingered hand closed on the outstretched wrist. The captive arm was twisted behind its owner’s back. A second powerful greenish hand clamped over the governor’s mouth.

  Uffrigo could neither move nor speak, and he could hardly breathe, but he could see well enough. His visitor, Voro Coranna’s daughter, as she claimed to be, was on her feet, coming around the desk, and now she had a knife in her fist. She would never dare to use it; she was nothing more than a girl.

  She halted before him, and he saw no rage or hatred in her eyes, but only a cold purpose.

  Still he did not believe it.

  “Anzi Uffrigo, Taerleezi despot and murderer, thus my country frees itself of your tyranny.” She spoke as dispassionately as a judge pronouncing sentence, but her pretty face reflected stern exultation.

  The remark seemed melodramatic and artificial, like something from a bad play. He could imagine her standing before a glass, rehearsing intonation and expression. Ridiculous, really. But there was no time to consider such matters, for her hand, clasping the poniard, flashed toward him, and the blade sank into his throat.

  He saw the arterial spurt of his own blood, and felt little beyond shocked incredulity. She was still standing there, apparently calm and unmoved, but behind her the door was opening, and into the study stepped one of the servants, in obedience to the summoning bell. Uffrigo was unable to draw breath, much less call for aid. He knew that assistance had arrived too late to save his life, and it was the last thing he knew.

  Taking in the situation at a glance, the servant—evidently trained to double as impromptu bodyguard, as required—drew a dagger from his belt while lifting his voice in a great cry for help. The surviving Sishmindri, Frayz, released the governor’s body, which collapsed like disappointed expectation. Launching himself across the desk, the amphibian collided with the servant, his momentum sending the two of them crashing against the wall. As if wordlessly expressing the pent hatred of years, Frayz locked powerful hands about the human neck and squeezed.

  The servant plunged his blade once, twice, three times into the Sishmindri’s side. Frayz staggered, and his grip loosened perceptibly, but he did not let go. Springing to her ally’s aid, Celisse drove her poniard underhanded at the servant’s midsection. Twisting desperately, he managed to knock her arm aside. When she came at him again, he slashed, his blade opening a long, deep gash along her forearm. The weapon dropped from her grasp. Her arm was instantly soaked with blood.

  The wounds that the Sishmindri had received were mortal. Frayz sank to his knees, clearly in extremis, yet somehow maintaining a grip on his enemy’s throat. Seeing this, Celisse straightened. There was nothing she could do for him. Pausing briefly to survey herself, she found that her cloak was sprayed with blood and blotched with two or three spots, inconspicuous against the dark fabric. With any luck, the marks would go unnoticed. She drew her wounded arm back out of sight beneath the woolen folds, then cast a final deliberate glance about her and walked out of the room.

  She had noted the route from the Cityheart entrance to the governor’s apartment with care upon arrival, and she remembered it perfectly now. Walking briskly but without the least appearance of haste, she retraced the path that she had followed with her Sishmindri companions scant minutes earlier. As she went down the corridor, she encountered a trio of armed guards hurrying in the opposite direction, toward Uffrigo’s study. As they passed, she contrived to throw them a glance of mild curiosity, as if wondering at their air of urgent purpose. They, for their part, scarcely noted the existence of the plainly clad, quietly respectable-looking young woman.

  She passed them, and continued along the hall; down a curving stairway to the ground floor, then on along an endless mirror-lined gallery to the grandly columned entrance hall, teeming with servants, guards, sentries, messengers, liveried Sishmindris, tradesmen, petitioners, and even the occasional person of quality. She crossed the endless expanse of marble floor to the tall doorway, and always she listened for the shouting voices and the pounding of pursuit behind her, but there was none.

  Through the door and out into cool springtime air clouded and scratchy with smoke. Down the broad marble stairs to the paved drive, and still no commotion behind her.

  At the end of the drive, the great gate stood open. The sentries on guard nodded affably to her as she went through, passing from the Cityheart grounds out into the Plaza of Proclamation.

  The plaza was alive with citizens, many of them masked against contagion. She had considered this beforehand, and a full-face black velvet vizard reposed in the pocket of her grey gown. She could not put it on, however. The right arm hidden beneath her cloak was bathed in spreading wet warmth. An experimental flex informed her that her right hand was useless. She was bleeding profusely, in pain, and in need of a physician’s care.

  She knew where to find a doctor—the most able and trustworthy doctor in all the world. He was here in Vitrisi looking for her, and the name of his inn had been dropped in her ear several times during the last few days. She had seen fit to ignore it, but no longer.

  And now came the sound she had been waiting for from the moment she had exited Governor Uffrigo’s study: the shouts, the public alarm. She cast a glance behind her to behold a party of Taerleezi guards charging from the Cityheart.

  Picking up her skirts with her one good hand, Celisse Rione fled for the Lancet Inn.

  “Are you telling me,” Jianna demanded, wide-eyed and awestruck, “that you’ve found a cure for the plague?”

  “Oh, if only life were that easy. No, it isn’t a cure,” Rione replied.

  “But I thought you just said—”

  “I said that I’ve been developing a treatment that shows promise.”

  “Cure—treatment—there’s a difference?”

  “Much, I’m sorry to say.”

  The two of them sat at a small table in the Lancet Inn’s pleasantly old-fashioned common room. It was midafternoon, too early for dinner, and the place was relatively empty. Therefore th
e fire had been allowed to dwindle to embers, and the lamps remained unlit, despite the gloom of the smoke-suppressed daylight. Jianna did not mind. To her, this chamber with its age-darkened beams overhead, its narrow windows with tiny leaded-glass panes, its massive stone mantel, was purely beautiful. She sat here drinking cups of warm herbal infusion with Falaste Rione, who was enjoying a brief respite from his labors at the neighboring Avorno Hospital. She could listen to his voice and watch his face. There was nowhere she would rather have been.

  And now he had dropped a conversational bombshell.

  “Well—what is it, then?” she prodded. “Tell me.”

  “It’s difficult to explain. It starts with the observation that the plague is singular in its manifestation. Its victims display the symptoms that we all know, but there’s something more that I’ve never before encountered. The only way I can express it is to say that the malady seems less conventional disease than demonic possession.”

  “I thought you didn’t believe in such things.”

  “I don’t. I wasn’t speaking literally, although there is something uncanny about it. What I mean is that the plague patients seem almost—transformed, lost to themselves.”

  “Delirious?”

  “Often, but not in the usual sense. It’s as if their bodies and minds have been invaded and occupied by some alien entity.”

  “If your patients are strangers to you, and you didn’t know them before they fell ill, how can you be certain that they’ve changed so greatly?”

  “Because the invading entity that I speak of isn’t human.”

  “They turn into wild animals? Werewolves?”

  “No, they don’t resemble anything known or recognizable. It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen. And yet I’d swear there’s intelligence there, but of a sort that I can’t fathom.”

  “I can’t imagine it. What do they do or say that seems so inhuman?”

  “Hard to define it. It’s in their eyes, their voices, their inexplicable words, the way they use their bodies. I’ve a host of impressions, but nothing tangible to offer.”

  “The only way I could really understand would be to see for myself. And that’s exactly what I should do. Come, Falaste. I’m a good and useful assistant. You accomplish more when I’m there to help, and you know it. Take me with you next time you treat the plague patients. Don’t you owe it to them to make use of my abilities?”

  “No. I don’t owe my patients your life.”

  “Only your own?”

  “I take steps to protect myself. I wear the oilcloth coverings, the beaked mask, lenses, and gloves. I breathe medicinals and swallow decoctions before leaving the hospital.”

  “I could do the same.”

  “No. We’ve already spoken of this. I won’t bring you into contact with the plague. You’ll stay away from it, if I have to order you barred from the Hospital Avorno.”

  “That’s rather dictatorial.” Her frown was halfhearted at best. In reality, his protectiveness pleased her.

  “Humor me. It’s for the best.”

  “Oh, all right. Then at least be so good as to tell me how you battle this alien invader that you won’t allow me to see.”

  “ ‘Battle’ isn’t quite right. ‘Influence’ would be more accurate. Or perhaps ‘persuade.’ ”

  “You talk with it? Engage in debate?”

  “Nothing nearly that civilized. Essentially I try to render the occupied territory so inhospitable that the invader will sometimes abandon it.”

  “You can’t mean that you torture the sick and dying!”

  “Nothing nearly that uncivilized. I wrap the patients in heavy canvas that restricts all movement, in the manner of swaddling clothes. I bandage their eyes and plug their ears. I set up barriers of screens or hanging blankets designed to keep the air about them as still as possible. Those capable of taking nourishment receive the blandest gruel, as nearly devoid of taste or texture as I can concoct.”

  “You wouldn’t call all that torturous?”

  “Perhaps it would seem so to a normal, healthy individual. But these patients—I believe that their human perceptions are largely suppressed. They’re absent or unconscious.”

  “And the other—thing?”

  “I can’t know its mind. But I suspect—thwarted, wearied, dissatisfied with inactivity.”

  “Bored?”

  “In human terms. And sometimes, so much so that it withdraws, granting the victim a chance of survival.”

  “As simple as that?”

  “No, there’s more. The bathing and cooling of fevered bodies, the administration of fluid, the cleansing vapors, the powdered medicinals, the liquid decoctions—all that you might expect. But none of it offers the slightest hope unless the invader has first been expelled—or rather, motivated to depart.”

  “Which you’ve actually succeeded in doing?”

  “A few times, yes. My success rate has improved since I started using shernivus.”

  “I want to see.”

  “I thought we just agreed—” Rione broke off. His eyes locked on something behind her.

  “What is it?” Jianna turned in her seat to follow his gaze. She saw a cloaked figure standing in the doorway.

  “My sister.” He was already on his feet and hurrying toward her.

  Jianna stood up and followed. A few steps carried them to Celisse.

  She looked dreadful; grey-faced, tight-lipped, glass-eyed. She leaned against the doorjamb as if for support, and her breathing was labored.

  “I’ve been hurt,” she informed her brother, breathless but calm as always.

  “Come with me.” Drawing her from the doorway, he led her across the foyer and up the stairs.

  Jianna trailed close behind. She had noted spots of blood on Celisse’s cloak.

  What’s happened? And the question arose unbidden, What has she done?

  Up the stairs to the landing, and through the arched door on the left into Rione’s room. At once he undid the fastenings of his sister’s cloak, slipped the garment from her shoulders, and tossed it aside.

  Jianna’s breath caught. Celisse’s right hand and forearm were drenched in blood. Her bodice and skirt were liberally splotched. Her sleeve was torn, the gashed flesh beneath bleeding plentifully.

  “Any wounds other than the arm?” Rione was already busy rolling her sleeve back.

  She shook her head.

  “Good. Nasty cut, but it will heal, if treated properly. Here, sit down.” He placed her in a chair, then turned to Jianna. “Noro, please bring a basin of water, soap, and my bag.”

  Jianna obeyed. She returned in time to hear his next question.

  “How did you get this? What happened?”

  “I think you already know.”

  “Were you followed here?”

  Celisse’s eyes, iced with animosity, rose to Jianna’s face, then turned away. “Get rid of her,” she commanded. “I’ll tell you everything, but I won’t have that wide-eyed little honeykitty of yours hanging about.”

  Little honeykitty? Jianna clamped down on her outrage. She was an experienced and skilled assistant. And more. Rione would surely spring to her defense. Confidently, she looked to him.

  “Noro.” His expression conveyed mild regret. “Set those things down, and then you may go.”

  “But—”

  “Please. My sister and I want a moment alone. Step outside and take a breath of fresh air.”

  “I see. Certainly. Just as you wish.” Depositing her burden on the table beside him with exaggerated care, Jianna turned and stalked to the door. Her spine was very straight, her demeanor very dignified, and inside she boiled with fury. You may go. He might have been speaking to some serving wench. At a word from his sister he’d dismissed her, even told her to leave the building, as if simply leaving the room weren’t enough. He should have supported her, informed Celisse that his assistant’s presence was essential, and so he would have done if he truly valued her, as he had so often claimed.
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  Obviously she was altogether dispensable.

  The tears rose to her eyes, and she blinked them away. Celisse Rione would not see her tears. Although, just possibly, Celisse’s attention was otherwise engaged at the moment. As she exited Rione’s room, she shut the door behind her, resisting the impulse to slam it, then hurried down the stairs at an angry clip. At the bottom, she hesitated. She could go back into the common room, order another mug of herbal infusion, and sit there drinking it. Alone. No. Better to take his suggestion, go outside, and come back—whenever she felt like it. If she felt like it. Let him knock on her door when he wanted her help, and find her absent. Let him not know where she was or when she would return, if ever. Let him see how he liked that.

  She walked out through the front door, and the chill struck her at once. She had not thought to bring her cloak or vizard, but the thought of going back inside and up those stairs to collect them was insupportable. She would do without; the air was not that cold.

  The streets were smoke-veiled, as usual. The sky was lost, as usual. The pedestrians were muffled and masked, as usual. But the arrangement and activity of the citizens out on the street were unusual.

  Numbers of them stood about in clumps, conversing with exceptional animation. Her curiosity ignited. She drifted near a group of three masks, hoping to catch an informative word.

  “Dead,” proclaimed a mask.

  “No. Wounded. Nothing serious,” returned another.

  “I heard dead.” The third hooded head nodded.

  “Twaddle,” opined the first. “It’s just not that easy to kill a—Taerleezi governor.”

  Jianna fancied that he verged on the use of some other, choicer descriptive term, but reined himself in, and with good reason. In this time of masks and anonymity, no one could know who might overhear an unguarded word on the street, and free expression could cost dearly indeed. But she scarcely noted the near indiscretion, for she finally understood.

  She had been almost willfully blind. She had never allowed herself to entertain the remotest possibility that Celisse Rione would accomplish her self-appointed mission. Celisse might succeed in stirring up all sorts of unnecessary trouble, but—assassinate the Governor Uffrigo? Nonsense.