THE CREAK OF CART WHEELS
IN THE SILENT DARK.
DEAD MEN FALL BETWEEN THE WORLDS.
A TIME OF GREAT SORROWING.
--FROM THE URAKH’NIKAR
VV. 87-89
Atrus woke, strangely refreshed, the sunlit peacefulness of the room making the events of the previous evening seem strangely dreamlike. Beside him, Catherine slept on.
Slowly it all came back, and as it did the sunlight seemed to fade until there was a darkness underneath all things.
Even the birdsong seemed transformed.
Careful not to wake her, Atrus rose and pulled on his robe. He did not know what time it was, but from the way the shadows fell in the room, the sun was high, the day well advanced. That, too, was strange.
He began to cross the room, then stopped. There, on the desk where Catherine had been writing, was her equipment box. It had not been there when they had gone to sleep, but now it was. And beside it was a note.
Atrus went across. The note was addressed to him. He slit it open and unfolded the single sheet:
Atrus,
Eedrah has told me everything. It is hard to believe but I do not think he lies. He warns us to prepare for a hurried departure and that I have done. At a word from you the Books will be destroyed and the link between the Ages closed for good, but I shall not do this unless I must. I send both Irras and Carrad back to you with this, as well as medical supplies and equipment. Our thoughts are with you all.
Master Tamon
So Eedrah had gone himself to the plateau. Folding the note, Atrus slipped it into his pocket, then stepped outside, conscious now of the secret the massively thick walls held.
The corridor was empty, silent. No steward waited to do his bidding or anticipate his need.
Strange.
He walked from room to room, but it was as if the great house had been abandoned. There was no sound or sign of anyone. And then there came a shout, from the gardens outside. Going to a window, he threw it open and looked out. Marrim was down there. She seemed distressed. Seeing him, she waved furiously, then beckoned him to come.
“Wait there!” he called.
Marrim met him at the gate.
“What is it?” he asked, trying to calm her.
“It’s one of them. One of the slaves we saw. He’s just lying there. He won’t move. And his eyes…”
“Where, Marrim?”
She led him across an ornamental bridge and into a formal garden. There, on the other side of a small wall, not ten paces from what looked like a well, lay the slave.
Atrus crouched down beside him, feeling at the neck for a pulse. “He’s alive,” he said, looking up at Marrim. “Go ahead and warn Catherine. I’ll bring him up to our room.”
Marrim nodded then hurried off.
Atrus turned back. This one was but a boy—seven or eight years old at most—yet like the others he was scarred and bruised, and his anonymity was emphasized by the tight-fitting black clothes he wore and his closely shaven head.
Swallowing back the sudden anger he felt, Atrus put his arms beneath the child and lifted him up. It was not difficult, for the boy barely weighed a thing.
Cradling the child against his chest, Atrus walked back to the house, determined not to be stopped by any steward. But no one stopped him. The corridors and stairs of the house were empty, and when he reached his rooms, only Catherine and Marrim were there to greet him.
“But he’s only a boy,” Catherine said, astonished by how young this one was.
“You heard what Eedrah said,” Atrus answered, laying him carefully down on top of the covers. “They take them at four and five.”
Catherine sighed. Sitting on the bed beside the child, she opened her case and prepared some supplies. “Marrim,” she said, “I understand Irras and Carrad are back. Go fetch them. They can accompany me back to D’ni.”
Selecting a tool from within the case, she looked up at Atrus. “We need to know what this is. Perhaps we can find a cure.” Writing out a label, she fixed it to the side of a glass tube, then, taking a needle, took a sample of the boy’s blood from his arm.
“Do you think he’s dying?”
She did not answer, but that look said quite enough.
“We must do something,” he said. “We must bring back all of those who have medical skill. Oma will know who they are. Or ask for volunteers.”
Catherine nodded. Atrus stared at her a moment; only then did he realize that something was wrong.
“Are you all right, Catherine?”
She placed the sample tube into the slot in the case then closed the lid. Looking up at Atrus, she shrugged. “It’s nothing physical. It’s just…”
“I know,” he said, not wanting her to say it. “But let us do what we can. Let us take each moment as it comes.”
§
Nothing physical…
Catherine gazed at the sleeping child, then turned, looking about her at the room.
Strange that I didn’t see it before…
Atrus had gone back to see Eedrah and the relyimah, leaving her to conduct her tests, but the tests were the last thing on her mind. For a moment earlier she had felt an abyss open beneath her—a vertiginous crack in reality that had threatened briefly to engulf her.
Words , she told herself; they were only words . But for that brief, ridiculous moment they had seemed the most meaningful, the most real , thing in the room, and yet they were only echoes in her head: the memory of two lines she had read in Gehn’s notebook, months ago, lines that were strangely duplicated in the Korokh Jimah , the Great Book of Prophecies used by the relyimah.
Discordant time. The smallest of enemies un-mans them all. Hidden within the hidden. A breath and then darkness.
For a moment she had felt the way she used to feel when she was writing—in a fugue unrelated to her rational self. Atrus had taught her to focus that part of her through her conscious mind, but for a moment back there, shocked by all that had happened, she had felt herself let go…and the connection had been made.
She had felt herself link to something deeper than the physical world. Something that lay beneath appearances.
Catherine turned back, looking at the child. But now she seemed to see beyond the flesh and bone, beyond the sickness that ravaged him.
There is a purpose to all this , she thought, and knew, even as the thought was framed, that it was true.
§
“Ah, Atrus, I wondered when you’d come.”
Eedrah looked drained. Beside him, on the bare swept floor of the slave infirmary, the number of pallet beds had risen to more than a hundred, and on at least six of those the sheet had been pulled up over the occupant’s head.
“Yes,” Eedrah said, answering the unspoken query. “Whatever it is, it’s killing them one by one.”
“Then we, too, are in danger.”
Eedrah smiled bleakly. “I have heard it has spread to other estates. And the stewards…they, too, have been struck down by it.”
“I wondered where they had got to.”
“Some of them fled, I’m told. Afraid. And Catherine?”
“She is returning to D’ni. She’s taking a sample with her to analyze.”
“Good.” Eedrah yawned. “I must get some rest, else I shall be no good for anything.”
“I agree. But before you go, tell me this, Eedrah. Has there ever been anything like this before? There must surely have been epidemics.”
“Long, long ago, perhaps, but most of those have been eradicated. They inoculate all of the relyimah on the Training Ages. Diseased slaves are poor slaves, after all. So what this is, heaven alone knows. All we do know is that they don’t seem to have any natural defenses against it.”
“Then let us hope that Catherine can come up with an answer.”
Eedrah nodded somberly. “Let us hope so, Atrus, before we all find ourselves grinning like the Lord of the Dead.”
§
Jethhe Ro’Jethhe had not slept well after the events of the previous evening; he had tossed and turned, wondering whether he had been right to hold his hand and await word from the king, or whether he should have followed instinct and had the book-worlders slaughtered to the last man—and woman!—for their great heresy. After all, these were special circumstances, and the king had clearly not meant to extend his protection to any who were ahrotahntee. Against which was the possibility that he might be thought to have acted beyond his authority as a common citizen. After all, to act so precipitately might be thought a snub to the king himself, and that was unthinkable. Yet what if they slipped away? What if, when the king’s word finally came, he could not carry out those high instructions?
And so it went on in his head, hour after hour into the night, until, exhausted, he had fallen into the deepest of sleeps and had overslept, so that now, at midday, he emerged from his room in a rage, bemused, not to say furious that Duura had not woken him earlier.
“Duura! Duu-ra!”
He was not properly dressed, and his hair was in a dreadful state, uncombed and tousled from sleep. Normally, it would all have been done long ago, and without him having to stand in an empty corridor and bellow.
Ro’Jethhe turned and went back into his suite of rooms, walking through to the great bathroom with its enormous sunken pool. On the far side of the empty pool, beyond the bathing chair—the great arm of which extended through a long slot in the wall—was his dressing room. He went there now, standing there and staring into the empty air, at a loss as to what to do. His eyes looked about the empty room, not seeing the young female slave who was slumped in one corner, his ears not registering her rasping breath.
“Where is the man?” he hissed. Then, hurrying from the room, he went out into the corridor again, bellowing down the echoing hallway.
“Duura! Du-u-uura!”
§
The main cavern of D’ni was dark and silent as the boat slid into the great harbor and tied up beneath the ancient steps. In the glow of the lamps that lined the harbor’s edge, Catherine stepped from the boat and quickly mounted the steps, Carrad following a moment later.
As Catherine came up over the lip of the harbor, a figure—stooped and ancient—made its way across to her. She did not notice him until he hailed her.
“Catherine…I am surprised to see you back.”
She turned and gave a tiny bow. “Master Tergahn…it’s rather late for you to be up isn’t it?”
Tergahn stepped closer, his heavily lined face coming into the light. “Not at all. The older you are, the less sleep you need. Until…” Tergahn blinked, owl-like, then gestured toward the case she was carrying. “Is that it?”
“The sample?” Yes. I suppose you know what’s happening.”
“I know.”
She waited, but Tergahn said nothing more.
“Forgive me, Master Tergahn. I must press on. We need answers and we need them quickly.”
“Then let me not keep you any longer.”
Later, alone at the bench in the special sealed-and-sterile workroom, she watched the ancient centrifuge whirl round and round, separating the elements in the tube for examination by the Guild Healers who had been summoned. Catherine found herself wondering why the old man had bothered to make himself known to her. He had advised them strongly against setting off on this venture, certainly, and now that he’d been proved “right” he might be justified in crowing, in saying “I told you so,” but there had been no sign of that in his rheumy eyes. Indeed, if she had seen anything there, it had been concern.
In a rack to the Healer’s left were nine similar tubes, in two groups of four and five—tested and untested. To his right stood the great brass-and-stone viewing lens. The results so far were inconclusive. The sample seemed relatively harmless— normal , one might say. As the centrifuge slowed, he took the tube and, spilling a little into the transparent dish, placed it beneath the viewing plate and put his eye to the lens.
The Healer studied it a while, watching the strange microscopic dance of the living cells, fascinated by it. But this sample too seemed normal. His notebook was open on the bench beside him. Moving his eye away, he picked up his pen and began to write. The results made little sense as yet, but there were still a number of tests to make.
The Healer worked on, silent and methodical, content to wait patiently for the answer he knew must come. It was simply a matter of exhausting all the probabilities.
The centrifuge slowed. He took another tube from its grip and spilled a little of the precious liquid into the dish.
This time, the Healer’s response was different as his eye reviewed the magnified specimen. He spoke briefly with Catherine and she quickly walked over to the air lock. Outside, Carrad operated the locks and she stepped through, into the isolation chamber.
Catherine felt the air flow over her arms and face as the filters switched on. A moment later the outer door opened with a hiss.
She stepped out. Carrad was standing there, his eyes expectant. “Have you…?”
She walked past him, her face closed. “Come,” she said simply. “We must get back.”
§
Ro’Jethhe stood at the top of the great sweep of steps, his right hand slickly gripping the rail. Beneath him, the whole stairway seemed to be pulsing; growing and then shrinking again, while the walls flickered grainily on every side.
He shook his head, but it didn’t help. Sweat dripped from his forehead and ran down the side of his nose.
Something was wrong.
“Guu-reh…” he slurred. “Guh…”
He staggered, then turned, his back slamming against the wall. For a moment he stayed there, as if pinned to the wall, his eyes closed, the blackness pulsating madly about him. Then the fit passed and his eyes popped open once more.
The library. Duura would be in the library. Of course.
He pushed himself away, unsteady now, each step like a drunkard’s, his legs far away from him suddenly. Crossing the enormous hallway, he lurched into the room, then swayed back, steadying himself against the massively thick doorway, his neck moving up and back in an exaggerated motion as he tried to focus on the room.
“My eyes,” he said, with a quiet puzzlement. “Something’s wrong with my eyes…”
Duura was at his desk on the far side of the room. For a moment Ro’Jethhe wondered what was wrong; wondered why the man had not come across the instant he had appeared in the doorway.
The arch of the door seemed to hold his hand like a sticky web. Ro’Jethhe turned his head, staring past his own shoulder at his hand, then forced it— commanded it—to push him out, away from the door.
He staggered slowly across the room, the pulsing at his temples and just behind his eyes making it seem as though the room were expanding and contracting. He was sheened in sweat now, and each breath was a shuddering effort, but the desk was not far away now. He was almost there.
“Duura,” he said, straightening up, his voice at least sounding clear. “Duura!”
But the steward was ignoring him.
Ro’Jethhe blinked. There was a book open in front of the man and he seemed to be reading it intently. Lurching over to him, Ro’Jethhe grabbed the man’s arms and shook him.
“Duura!”
He let go. Slowly the body toppled back, then slumped and slid, clattering to the floor in an ungainly heap, the chair beneath it.
Ro’Jethhe stepped back, horrified. Dead. Even he could see that Duura was dead.
“Eedrah…” he said softly. Then, turning, he began to shout. “Eedrah! Eedrah, where are you?”
§
Eedrah sat back, away from the dying slave, then wiped his forearm across his brow. He wasn’t feeling well. He had tried to persuade himself that it was only tiredness, but he knew now—he, too, had the disease.
Across the now-crowded room, Atrus was tending to one of the recently stricken. He wondered briefly if he should call to him and tell him what he suspected, then let the idea drop. Atrus had enough on his hands.
He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up, to find Marrim crouching over him. “Eedrah? Are you all right?”
The concern in her eyes warmed him. ‘I’m not sure. I think…well, I think I’m coming down with it.”
Marrim nodded. “I’ve been watching you.”
“Watching me?”
“Yes, I didn’t think you looked well. I think you should go and rest now.”
He made to get up. “There isn’t time to rest.” But Marrim’s hand kept him down. He stared up at her again, surprised.
“Maybe you should return to the house,” she said.
“To lie down?” Eedrah shook his head. “No, here will do. If I must share their fate I will share their circumstances.”
She smiled fondly. “Did you hear they found several of the stewards…the P’aarli as you call them.”
“Dead?”
Marrim nodded.
“It’s as I said,” Eedrah went on. “The relyimah were all inoculated. I don’t know whether that was so for the P’aarli. Maybe not.”
“And the Terahnee?”
Eedrah closed his eyes. “I keep seeing it, Marrim. Two hundred million dead. Not to speak of the relyimah. What is it? What in the Maker’s name is this cursed thing?”
At the far end of the infirmary a door opened and two figures stepped inside.
“Catherine!” Eedrah sat forward, even as Marrim straightened up and went across, threading her way between the pallets that now covered the entire floor.
Atrus, too, had straightened and, turning, had seen Catherine and had begun to make his way across to her. They met close by the doorway.
She stared at Atrus, a strange expression in her eyes. “I think we had better talk.”
“Then talk.”
“Not here.
Atrus blinked, surprised, then nodded. “Okay. We’ll speak in Hersha’s room.”
§
“This isn’t a disease,” she said. “At least, not in its natural form.”
“Catherine?”
“Harmless bacteria,” she said. “That’s what’s doing this. They live in our stomachs.”
“I don’t follow you…Harmless? Then why…”
Atrus’s voice dropped away. There was a tiny motion of understanding in his face. When he spoke again, the words were almost a whisper. “D’ni bacteria, you mean. Harmless to us as we’ve become immune to it over the years.”
“But not to the relyimah.”
“Nor the P’aarli, it seems.”
“They have it, too?”
Atrus nodded, yet it was clear he was in shock. He shook his head. “ We brought this thing here. We released it. The Maker help us!”
“Brought what?” Eedrah asked. He had come in silently.
Catherine turned, a slightly guilty look on her face, but Atrus faced the matter squarely.
“The sickness. It came from D’ni.”
Eedrah stared, shocked.
“It’s a stomach bacteria,” Catherine explained. “Harmless to us, harmful to the relyimah.”
“And to the Terahnee,” Eedrah said.
“The Terahnee?” Atrus sat forward. “Is your father ill?”
“And my brother…” Eedrah stopped and looked down, for the first time close to tears. Taking control of himself again, he looked back at Catherine. But there was no sign of hope in Catherine’s face.
“We cannot cure this, Eedrah.”
“Then we all must suffer.”
“We shall do what we can,” Atrus said. “We shall bring in help from D’ni to tend and nurse the sick. Some will die.”
“Yes,” Eedrah said, a flicker of bitterness in his face. Then that was gone. “Yes,” he said, more clearly.
Catherine, noting suddenly how drawn and pale Eedrah looked, reached out and gently held his arms. “Let us get you to a bed. I shall have Marrim come and nurse you.”
Eedrah smiled gratefully, yet there was a bleakness in his eyes—the bleakness of realization.
Atrus sighed. He seemed, in those moments, to have aged a hundred years. “I am so sorry, Eedrah. If I had known…”
But Catherine shook her head. “You were not to know, Atrus. You made your choice on reasonable grounds.”
“I do not believe that. I made a choice and my choice was wrong. Now millions must suffer.”
“But Atrus…”
“No,” he said, standing and walking round the desk, his face like stone.
“Atrus!” Catherine called after him. “Atrus!” But Atrus was gone; vanished into the darkness of the tunnels.
§
The great boat glided slowly around the curve of the river, then slid beneath the bridge, Ro’Jethhe’s house directly ahead of it.
In tunnels that ran parallel to the waterway, beneath and to either side of it, two teams of slaves pulled on the great ropes, four to a rope, dragging the boat along, the occasional spillage of water cascading down over them from the partially sealed slot above their heads.
Silently they strained, maintaining the even walking pace that kept the boat in motion, while behind each team a single steward jogged along, carried in a sturdy four-man palanquin.
Up above, the boat eased its way beneath the massive walls of Jethhe Ro’Jethhe’s house and into the central space. As it did, the slaves abruptly reversed direction, moving with practiced ease. For an instant the great ropes were slack, and then they took the strain once more, slowing the boat smoothly to a standstill.
Exhausted, most of the slaves fell silently to the floor even as a number of them secured the ropes.
Up above, four men, wearing official cloaks and pendants of office, stepped out onto the unswept marble, surprised to find no one there to greet them.
“Ro’Jethhe?” one of them called, looking to his companions and frowning. “Jethhe Ro’Jethhe?”
A door opened on the far side of the concourse and a figure stumbled out; a scarecrow of a man, wearing stained and ragged clothing, his hair unkempt. Slowly it came toward them, limping and hopping by turns.
Closer, they saw that it was indeed a man.
“Ro’Jethhe?” the first messenger queried, astonished by the sight that met his eyes.
But the disheveled-looking figure did not answer. Instead, he turned and looked about him squintingly, as though he could not understand who he was or what he was doing there. His face was smeared with dirt and with what looked like tears and his hair hung in clumps.
“Ro’Jethhe? What has happened here? Have you been attacked?”
The scarecrow laughed and hopped, its eyes flickering from side to side in a manic, feverish fashion.
“Ro’Jethhe,” it said, parrotlike. “I am Ro’Jethhe.”
Again the chief messenger glanced to his companions, then he took a long silver tube from within his cloak and offered it to the scarecrow.
“If you are Jethhe Ro’Jethhe, then I am commanded by the king, Ro’Eh Ro’Dan, to place this official edict in your hands.”
Ro’Jethhe took the tube and stared at it, blinking and squinting, incomprehension in his eyes. “Ro,” he said quietly. Then, enjoying the game: “Ro! Ro! Ro-ro!”
“Gentlemen!”
The four men turned as one, to face another, younger man; pallid and clearly ill, yet neatly dressed, his hair combed back, his manner apparently quite normal.
“Forgive my father,” the younger man said, approaching them, “but he is not himself. There is a sickness…”
The four men looked to each other, concerned.
“A plague, it seems,” Eedrah went on, enjoying the discomfort of the king’s men. “There is no defense against it. Already many here have died.”
At that the four men blanched. Quickly they went into a huddle, discussing the matter in a low urgent murmur. There were nods of agreement and then their spokesman turned to Eedrah once again.
“Our task here is fulfilled, Ro’Jethhe’s son. The king’s message has been safely and properly delivered, therefore there is no need for us to stay. We are certain your father will obey the king’s instructions to the fullest.”
Eedrah looked beyond them to where his father stood, as if frozen, staring at the silver tube in his hand as if his eyes had been glued to the sight.
“It will find you,” Eedrah said solemnly, wiping the perspiration from his brow, “ wherever you run to!”
“It is the prophecy!” one of them said in a harsh whisper, but the others quickly hushed him, even as the first of them stepped back on board the boat. Quickly the others followed.
The chief messenger stared at Eedrah, then raised his hands and clapped them together.
There was a moment’s delay—an awkward moment—and then the boat began to move.
Eedrah watched them leave, then, walking round the central pool, stepped up to his father and took the tube from his hand.
For a moment he stood there, feeling the sunlight on his face and arms, and wondered whether he would ever experience that again, then he cracked open the tube and took the sealed message from within.
It was as he’d feared. The king had ordered that all of the D’ni, including the ahrotahntee, be chained up and brought back to the capital to be tried in secret for their heresies.
Rolling the scroll up again, Eedrah slipped it back in the tube, capped it, then, smiling bleakly, tossed it into the water.
So much for kings and edicts. So much of heresies. They were all equal now, masters and servants, Terahnee and relyimah. Death would come for them all, whatever cloak they wore or did not wear, whatever their eyes could see or not see.
He looked to his father, saddened. His brother Hadre was already dead, taken in his bed, and now Jethhe Ro’Jethhe had gone, leaving in his place this fool in his disheveled clothes—this babbling madman with his staring eyes and sickly flesh.
He reached out, taking his father’s hand, then slowly led him back across the square and through the door, inside, to where his deathbed waited.
§
The long day passed, and as the sun began to set, Atrus climbed the steps up out of the darkness of the slaves’ quarters and, his D’ni lenses pulled down to protect his eyes, crossed the sunlit lawn and up into the silent house.
After the meeting with Catherine and Eedrah he had walked for some while, eaten up by the thought that this was all his fault; this whole tragedy had been caused by his impetuosity. He kept seeing old Tergahn’s face, telling him to burn the Books and seal up the chambers again. But he had known better.
He walked and walked; then, after a time, feeling much calmer and knowing that there was nothing else for him to do, he had returned to the infirmary and carried on his work tending to the sick. There Catherine had come to him and, holding him briefly, had told him of Ro’Jethhe’s death. Eedrah, meanwhile, slept, a milder form of the fever settled on him.
Now, as he climbed the long, curving steps to the room he shared with Catherine, Atrus wondered what was left for him to do here. Exhausted as he was, he saw it clearly. This world was dying, and there was nothing they could do now but alleviate the discomfort of some of these poor wretches in their final hours.
So much for his great plan of unifying D’ni and Terahnee. It was as Eedrah had said, what happens happens, and what are a man’s petty plans in the face of that?
For the first time in his life he almost believed in fate. Yet still a small part of him argued against it. Life surely had no meaning unless a man was free to choose his fate, to mold it and fashion it according to his nature.
“I am too tired,” he said aloud as he stepped into his room. “Too tired and befuddled.”
He peeled off his shirt and threw it down, then turned, hearing a noise behind him in the room.
“Marrim?”
His young helper was slumped over the bed. The sight made him start. Then he remembered. They were not affected.
Yes, but she is not D’ni…
He hurried across, worried now. What if she was ill of the sickness? But her soft snoring made him understand. She was not ill, she was asleep.
Atrus smiled and made to turn away, then stopped, a strange little ripple going up his spine. The slave-child Marrim had been tending was awake, his dark eyes staring straight at Atrus. They blinked, then looked away.
“Child?”
At once the boy slipped under the covers, hiding himself.
“It’s all right,” Atrus said, walking round to the head of the bed. “I won’t harm you, child. I promise.”
But the child would not emerge again. He trembled beneath the sheets like a trapped young animal.
Hersha , Atrus decided. I shall bring Hersha. He will know what to do . Then, turning, he hurried from the room, hope mounting in him for the first time in all that long, dark day.
§
While Hersha talked quietly to the child, distracting him, Catherine took the sample from his arm.
It was not that the child fought to evade the needle, it was just that he was trembling so much that it was hard for Catherine to keep the needle still. Marrim had to help her keep that emaciated limb from shaking itself apart.
Then it was done and, while Catherine put the sample into her case and clicked it shut, Marrim reached out and clasped the slave-child to her, hugging him tightly.
Slowly the trembling ceased. Slowly the child calmed down again.
Marrim smiled and looked to Hersha, who was staring at her in astonishment. “What is his name?” she asked.
“His name?”
“Yes. He has one, surely? Or did the Terahnee simply number them all?”
“No…His name is Uta.”
“Uta…” Marrim moved back a little, trying to look into the boy’s face, but however she moved, he would position his face so it could not be properly seen.
“Even in one so young the conditioning is strong,” Catherine said, seeing what was going on. ‘It will take some while to change that.”
“But at least now it can be changed,” Atrus said. “At least the relyimah have some hope.”
“And the others?” Marrim asked.
“We shall know soon,” Catherine answered. “I have taken a sample of Ro’Jethhe’s blood, and of Eedrah’s, too. If we can discover what it is that allows some to survive this and makes others succumb, then perhaps I might find something that will help.”
“Then go at once,” Atrus said.
As Catherine hurried from the room, Marrim turned back to the child. “Well, young Uta. You give us all hope.”
But the child said nothing. As he had done all his infant life, Uta looked away, his body hunched into itself as he tried not to be seen.
§
Horen Ro’Jadre lay in his great bath, on his back, where death had found him, his mouth open in an “Oh” of surprise. His P’aarli stewards had fled that afternoon, when news had first come of the sickness that was sweeping the south. But they ran in vain, for they had long ago been caught by the strange bacteria that now crawled and multiplied unseen inside them all.
Yet death, for now, moved at a walking pace—or, to be more accurate, at the pace of a slowly gliding boat. Eight days was the gestation period for this sickness. Eight days before a mild disorder became fierce cramps and then, with a suddenness that often killed, something much worse.
Master and slave succumbed. And the P’aarli, first to flee, were taken in the fields, or in some well-trimmed field of exotic blooms, their groans alone distinguishing them from the silent acquiescence of those they had once beaten and killed.
Across the whole land the sickness was spreading now. News of it had come to the capital, where Ro’Eh Ro’Dan, uncertain yet how serious it was, took advice from ancients who had known no illness in their long and worthless lives.
“If slaves are dying,” the old men counseled, “then bring in more from the Ages. Replace their numbers.”
It seemed a simple and effective policy. But the new slaves were not trained. Could they be counted on to be obedient?
“No matter,” the old men said. “Slaves are slaves. They will obey.”
But some did not. And as word of the sickness spread among the relyimah, so one or two among their number took it upon themselves to exact swift vengeance on those who had afflicted them with years of misery.
One such was a slave named Ymur. As his overseer raised his whip to beat Ymur, the slave grabbed the P’aarli’s wrist and, twisting it, snapped the bone.
There was a cry of pain, silenced in an instant. And as the others stared at the fallen corpse of their tormentor, so Ymur looked about him, allowing his eyes to see what they had never properly focused on before.
“Come,” he said, gesturing to them. And, obedient as slaves, they followed.
§
Many more days passed, and slowly the pattern became clearer. Many of the relyimah were dying, but only those who were too weak to survive the first full shock of the sickness. The majority survived and, within weeks, were on their feet again. Among the Terahnee and the P’aarli, however, the death rate was higher. Some, like Eedrah, survived, but a great number succumbed. Thus it was that Eedrah had buried his father, mother, and three of his sisters.
He was sitting alone in the great library, writing, when Hersha came to him.
At first Hersha had found it uncomfortable—one might even say frightening—coming into the main house. Old he was, and well read, yet he was still relyimah, and from childhood had been taught to be invisible. Now he had a new fate.
“Eedrah…”
Eedrah looked up, a slightly glazed expression in his eyes. At Atrus’s suggestion he had begun to write down his feelings, hoping thus to purge them, or at least to understand what he was undergoing.
“Yes, Hersha?”
“Forgive me for disturbing you, but important news has come. There is to be a meeting.”
“A meeting?”
“Of the relyimah. At least, of their leaders. I have been asked to attend. It is to be held at the great mound, in Gehallah district.”
Eedrah stared at the old man, then set his pen aside. There was something strange about Hersha’s manner.
“Hersha? What is it you’re not telling me?”
The old man looked down. “You see right through me, Renyaloth.”
That use of his nickname among the relyimah—“the sickly one”—told him he had been right. Whatever this was, Hersha was finding it difficult telling him. Eedrah knew he would have to coax it from him.
“So what is the purpose of this meeting?”
Hersha’s ancient head tucked itself even deeper into his chest, old reflexes taking control. “They mean to overthrow the Masters.”
“Ah…” It ought not to have been a shock. After all, what was there to overthrow now that many of them were dead or dying? But for the relyimah to think like this was unheard of, and Eedrah found himself not surprised but actually astonished by the news.
“Is this a warning, Hersha? Are you telling me that I should leave Terahnee? Go back with Atrus, possibly?”
Hersha’s eyes flicked up briefly before he averted them again. Eedrah saw how he steeled himself to speak again, and when he did it was another shock.
“I want you to come with me,” Hersha said quietly. “To speak to them, persuade them not to act too rashly.”
“ Speak to them?”
Eedrah sat there, astonished. And say what? he thought. That we treated you abominably, but not to punish us for that?
He sighed. “Let me consider it, Hersha. And let me speak with Atrus. Then I shall tell you whether I will come with you or not.”
Hersha gave a little bow. “As you wish, Renyaloth.” And, without another word, the old man turned and scuttled away, hunched into himself, his eyes glancing from side to side as if he expected at any moment to be waylaid by stewards for his impertinence.
§
“Any luck?” Atrus asked, looking over Catherine’s shoulder at the page she was writing.
“None at all,” she answered, finishing the sentence she had been writing, then looking up at him. “Not that it matters now. If what Hersha has heard is true, then there is not a corner of this land that has not been ravaged by the sickness.”
Atrus nodded somberly. “It seems almost like a judgment.”
Catherine hesitated, as if about to say something, then nodded. “Eedrah certainly thinks so.” She looked past Atrus to where Uta sat in the corner chair, hunched into himself, trying not to be noticed. “I just wonder how the relyimah will cope. There’s food for now, but when that runs out, what then?”
“They grew it,” Atrus said.
“Yes, but that was when there was someone there to organize them. You’ve seen them, Atrus. Without someone to tell them what to do, they’re lost. They’re not mindless, I know that, but they sometimes act as if they are. Our problem is getting round that conditioning before they starve. We need to get them to make decisions for themselves.”
Atrus nodded, but both of them knew that it was easier said than done. How did one change not just a lifetime’s habits but long millennia of custom? Yet there must be one or two of these relyimah who could be used—molded—to shape the new society that must emerge from this disaster. But where would they be found?
Eedrah, it seemed, had the answer. “Atrus,” he said, coming into the room. “I have a problem. The slave leaders are to have a great meeting, it seems. Tonight, at sunset, at the great mound in Gehallah.”
“Is that far from here?”
“Two hours’ walk, at most.”
“And what is to be discussed at this meeting?”
“The overthrow of the Masters.” Eedrah smiled bleakly. “By which I take it they mean the wholesale slaughter of survivors.”
“You think they’d do that?” Atrus asked, surprised.
Eedrah nodded. “Some have already done so, killing P’aarli and Masters both. They did not wait, it seems, for the sickness to descend.”
“And is Hersha to attend this meeting?”
“Yes, and he has asked me to go with him and speak to them.”
“So will you go?”
“If you will come with me, Atrus. I know them, true, but I am no speaker. Not as you are.”
“And you think I can convince them to act decently?”
“If anyone can.”
Atrus considered a moment. “All right. I shall come with you. But first I must return to D’ni. There is something there I need.”
“Will you be long, Atrus?”
Atrus smiled. “No, not long. Three hours, maybe four at most.” He turned, looking to the boy. “Uta! Come, my little shadow!”
The boy jerked, then, burying his head into his neck, he stood.
“Until then,” Eedrah said.
“Until then.”
§
Ro’Eh Ro’Dan stood at the edge of the high platform and looked outward. Beneath him the land of Terahnee stretched away into the distance, swathed in the late afternoon mist. From this height it seemed eternal and unchanged, but he knew better. There was not a household down there that had not been touched.
“The bricks alone will stand on that day, / And the blind shall be given eyes.”
He said the words softly, almost in a whisper. Ro’Addarren, his chief adviser, had read them to him only that morning from the ancient book, and now the old man was dead.
“So they were true, after all,” he said, and almost laughed, remembering how excited they all had been when they had heard of the tragedy that had struck D’ni, and how they had thought that that was what had been prophesied. Well, now they knew.
But knowing did not help them any.
From far below there came a hammering. He turned, staring down into the depths, and saw the great host at the Valley Gate and knew, without needing to be told, that this was the rabble of new slaves they had brought in from the Ages.
“So be it,” he said, no longer caring about his own personal fate. What did it matter if he died? He was king of nothing now.
But others would not let him succumb to fate. As he stood there, two of his ancient counselors ventured out onto the platform, clearly afraid of the great drop. Their eyes went from Ro’Eh Ro’Dan to the platform’s edge constantly, while they themselves stayed close to the top of the steps.
“You must come, my lord,” one of them said, beckoning to him as if to a child.
“Your boat is awaiting you,” the other added. “If we leave now…”
He sighed, then walked across to them. It was no use arguing. Besides, maybe he was wrong. Maybe once this rabble was dispersed they could rebuild. From what he’d heard many of the slaves were still alive, and they, certainly, would need organizing.
“All right,” he said, letting them usher him down the steps and through his room, out onto the narrow bridge. He was halfway across when some instinct told him to stop and turn, and as he looked back, he saw himself, in memory, greeting the stranger.
I liked him, he realized. I really rather liked him.
“Master!” the old men said, trying to hurry him along. “Master, we must be gone from here!”
He shook his head, trying to clear it of the memory, but still he could see them both, cloaked against the coolness of the early morning, and smiled. It made no sense to like the man after all that had happened, and yet he did.
I see you, Atrus . Then, conscious of the old men fussing all about him, he hurried on toward the waiting boat.
§
Atrus stepped from the ruins, the heavy pack on his back, and, adjusting his lenses, turned to look as Oma and Esel stepped out behind him. They, too, carried the big-framed backpacks. Behind them came the slave-child, Uta, and finally Master Tergahn.
As Atrus turned back, Tamon hurried up. “Atrus! Something’s happening! There are great plumes of smoke in the distance!”
They hurried across to the chairlift. From its upper platform a clear view of Terahnee could be had.
Atrus scanned the distance, then looked back. Tergahn was watching him. “You must listen to me, Atrus,” the old man said. “You did not before and look what happened. We must pull our people out and destroy the Books. Yes, and seal up the Temple, too, for if the relyimah find the Temple they will link through and destroy us all.”
Atrus nodded. “I hear you, Master Tergahn. But I must take this one chance to make amends.” He looked to Tamon. “Master Tamon, if you do not hear from us in two days, you will do as Master Tergahn says. You will dismantle the chairlift and return to D’ni, destroying the Linking Books. Then you will seal the GreatTemple.”
“But Atrus…”
“No arguments, Master Tamon. Tergahn is right. We do not know how the relyimah will act, and we cannot risk our own people. Two days is sufficient to do what I must do. If I fail, I shall have failed by then, and D’ni will be in danger. Indeed, it might be well to post lookouts.”
Tamon frowned, clearly dismayed by this turn of events. Even so, he bowed his head obediently. “I shall do as you say.”
“Good.” Atrus reached out, taking his old friend’s hands. “I hope it will not come to that.”
“And I,” Tamon said. “Good luck, Atrus, and hurry back.”
Atrus smiled. “I shall do my best, Master Tamon.” Then, signaling to Esel and Oma and young Uta to join him on the chair, he climbed aboard, his eyes going outward to the tall dark plumes that climbed the distant sky.