SEVEN

 
At Dewar's urging they were up and about early, snatching a hurried breakfast at the inn. Seth was so charming and helpful that Tom found himself regretting his suspicions of the previous evening, which he concluded were just the result of tiredness fuelled by Dewar's assertions. It all seemed so foolish after a night's untroubled sleep and Tom felt embarrassed at giving such paranoia any credence whatsoever.

  Their host was evidently untroubled by their early start and obvious haste, making sure they were well fed on hot oaty porridge with deep-golden honey on the side and great chunks of grainy, still-warm bread which smelt and tasted wonderful. Suitably fortified, they said their goodbyes and set about seeking passage upriver.

  Tom had been looking forward to visiting the wharves, yet it proved a vaguely unsettling experience. He'd lived much of his life in the shadow of somewhere similar – the City Below's counterpart. The Blue Claw's territory ran from market square to docks, and pilfering goods from the warehouses around the latter had been regular practice. So he expected to feel wholly at ease here. In reality, Crosston's wharves proved a mix of the familiar and the strange, just as the Four Spoke Inn had been.

  Even at this hour, the docks were busy. The hustle and bustle, the noise and underlying sense of organised activity that teetered on the verge of tipping over into complete chaos at any moment, were all things he recognised. As he watched, a huge crate was being lifted from a river barge similar to the one they'd arrived on; hoisted high in a web of ropes controlled by a crane – a broadbased contraption of metal and wood that looked far too frail for the job but presumably wasn't, the whole controlled by a man in a raised cabin, his face creased in a frown of concentration as he wrestled with a series of long levers. Behind stood a team of four broad-shouldered oxen, which were harnessed to the mechanism and, in a manner Tom couldn't quite fathom, appeared to be providing much of the actual lifting power for the crane. A second man stood by the animals, directing them via clutched reins, a switch, and shouted commands. The system struck Tom as crude when compared to the great cogs and chains of Thaiburley's fully mechanised hoists.

  Once lifted from the boat, crates were then loaded onto a series of horse-drawn carriages, one per cart, which stood in line awaiting their turn. And here was another major difference. Horses were virtually unknown in the City Below – Tom had never even seen one before – all such draught work being conducted by oxen. He found the great carthorses with their huge feathered feet shifting restlessly, tails twitching and breath snorting, oddly intimidating.

  "What's the matter, boy?" Dewar asked.

  Tom shook his head. "I don't know; this is all just so different."

  "What, missing the stench of rotten fish, sewage and stale smoke, are we?"

  There was that, too, Tom had to admit.

  The big barges didn't tend to venture any further than Crosston, though Tom was never entirely clear whether this was because the going became too shallow for their laden holds further upriver or it was for purely economic reasons, with this being where the Thair met the great trade road. Whatever the truth, their group was forced to seek passage on smaller cargo vessels; something which was proving frustratingly difficult, much to Dewar's obvious annoyance.

  "What's the matter with these brecking yokels?" he muttered at one point. "Aren't they interested in earning some honest coin?"

  Tom tried to hide his sense of satisfaction at seeing the man so agitated, sharing a smirk with Mildra when Dewar's back was turned.

  Once or twice, Tom had the feeling that they might have found passage were it not for Kohn's presence, but each time a captain hesitated as if in consideration, their gaze would flick to the Kayjele, lips would purse and then would come the familiar shake of the head.

  In the space of an hour they'd walked the length of the docks asking at every opportunity, but had failed to secure the berths they were after, and even Dewar was forced to admit that the river was closed to them for now.

  Nor did the man have any more success when it came to buying horses – a prospect which Tom was none too keen on in any case. For all that their self-appointed leader claimed he was primarily interested in beasts of burden to carry the group's provisions, Tom still was still far from disappointed when the dock master, whom they'd consulted on the subject, shook his head in a manner they were getting increasingly used to.

  "But there must be a horse trader somewhere in a town of this size," Dewar insisted.

  "Used to be," the bewhiskered local confirmed, knocking out his briar pipe against the stanchion of an idle crane. "Beaman and Sons." He then set about refilling the pipe from a small cloth bag, evidently paying their party only minimal attention. Dewar looked fit to explode. "Shut up shop some three years gone," the man continued, apparently oblivious to any impatience. "Not enough demand, you see. Most folk who come to Crosston are just passing through, and they tend to bring their own horses with them."

  "So what do the locals do when they want a horse? Buy them from passing merchants?"

  The dock master shrugged. "Some might. Most'll find what they're looking for at the horse market."

  Dewar stared at the man with the sort of look that Tom hoped would never be directed towards him. "You have a horse market." The words emerged as cold as ice.

  "Once a month, every month."

  "And the next one is…?"

  "Oh, not for a good few days yet."

  "Of course it isn't," Dewar muttered.

  Was it Tom's imagination, or had the dock master taken particular pleasure in saying that last? Certainly there was the shadow of a grin on the man's face as they moved away, led by a tight-lipped Dewar. The grin quickly vanished amidst plumes of smoke as he sucked hard on the rekindled pipe.

  While the rest of them were at the docks, Mildra had gone to the market, intent on bolstering their already considerable supply of provisions. She met them at the edge of the wharves, having enjoyed considerably more success than they had.

  Kohn, who thankfully had little by way of personal luggage, was going to have to carry much of their baggage in lieu of a packhorse. He seemed happy enough to do so, an impression which Mildra confirmed.

  So they set off, quickly leaving behind the environs of the docks with its warehouses and dingy dwellings as they followed the river north, passing along the way rows of tall, fine houses, many with neat lawns before them; riverside homes that put anything Tom had ever seen in the City Below to shame.

  As they walked, Tom began to realise the wisdom of Dewar's search for a horse. He'd spent most of his life on his feet, and had grown up dodging razzers and running from disgruntled marks, but that was very different from spending a whole day walking. Especially when this was likely to be the first of a whole load of days filled with the same. If he found this a daunting thought, what about Mildra? How much exercise had she done during all those years tucked away inside Thaissian temples?

  They soon reached the outskirts of Crosston and the blanket of human habitations started to fall away. They now had the river on one side and fields opening up on the other. He felt fine so far but wondered how long it would be before muscles complained at unfamiliar use and feet developed blisters. Mildra had shed her priestess's robe – currently bundled within the luggage carried by Kohn – in the face of what was already proving to be a warm day. In its stead she wore a simple tunic, dyed pale green; presumably as a token concession to her faith. This was the first time Tom had ever seen her without the heavy garment synonymous with her office and he was surprised at how much of a difference it made. She really did look like a girl now, and he found himself wondering how old she actually was. Mildra glanced up at that point and caught him watching her, smiling happily as she did so. Her youth wasn't the only thing made more apparent by the robe's absence; he also couldn't help but note how pretty she was, and it came as bit of a shock to see how feminine a figure had been hidden away beneath those concealing robes.

  For all that Seth had implied the Kayjele were not that uncommon in these parts, enough people had stopped to stare at them that Tom was relieved when they left the town behind and entered the countryside. By the time they took a break for lunch, even the skirt of fields that surrounded Crosston had fallen behind and they were walking through a wooded land of silver-barked trees and more greenery in the form of shrubs and brackens than Tom had ever seen before. He was nearly as glad to be away from the fields as he was the houses; the landscape had been far too exposed for his liking. At least here among the trees there was a comforting sense of enclosure, of protection against all that openness.

  Yet the woods too had their sinister aspect. Noise accompanied the party as they walked. It wasn't just the occasional birdsong; there was a constant rustling murmur from the higher reaches, as if the trees themselves were whispering about these intruders.

  "It's just the wind blowing through the leaves," Mildra assured him.

  In his mind he believed her, but a deeper, more instinctive part of him refused to be convinced. Though, by the end of the day, he'd grown more accustomed to the sound and could almost understand why the Thaistess insisted it was soothing.

  Tom's fears regarding his own fitness became reality as the day wore on, and his legs felt heavy and ached by the time Dewar called a halt. Even his trek across the City Below with Kat hadn't involved this much uninterrupted walking, but he determined not to say anything, refusing to display any such weakness in front of Dewar, or Mildra for that matter; though it was obvious that the Thaistess was finding the going at least as tough as he was.

  When they did eventually stop, in a clearing a little removed from the road they'd been following, the girl sank to the ground, managing to instil a degree of elegance to the manoeuvre which Tom didn't even bother trying to emulate as he slumped down close to her.

  She looked across at Tom and grinned, admitting, "I never thought it was going to be this tough."

  The fact that Tom had didn't make his limbs ache any less. "Can you imagine what tomorrow's going to be like – walking on legs that are already stiff and sore?"

  She frowned. "True. Take your trousers off."

  "What?"

  Her smile this time showed genuine amusement. "Tom, I've already seen you naked."

  Had she? He thought back to when they'd first met. He'd been taken to her temple with that mechanical creature fastened to his back. It was possible. He'd been pretty much out of it at the time and didn't particularly enjoy reliving the memory now. "I was unconscious then."

  She looked at him, suddenly professional and sincere. "Trust me. This is what I do."

  All he could think was how beautiful she looked.

  After an awkward moment he sighed and unbuckled his trousers, pushing them to his ankles and then pulling his shirt down, adjusting his position so he could sit on his shirt and use it to cover himself as much as possible.

  Mildra, clearly amused at his coyness, placed both hands on his left knee. Instantly a sense of warmth flowed from her touch, loosening cramped muscles and banishing aches. Tom closed his eyes and it was all he could do not to moan with the sheer pleasure of relief. After a few seconds the hands were gone, transferring their attention to his other knee before he could even feel disappointed at their absence.

  He tried to concentrate on the warmth and the healing, doing his best not to react to the fact that a beautiful woman had her hands clasped around his naked legs. Yet it was hard, and when those hands moved up to hold his thighs, it became even more so. He jerked away, pulling his legs together and up to his chest for protection, embarrassed by his reaction and feeling the blood rush to his cheeks.

  "Tom, it's all right," Mildra said gently. "I'm just healing your muscles, relieving the aches."

  "I know," he said. "I'm fine."

  He wanted desperately to turn around, to move away from Mildra until the stirrings in his groin subsided, but knew that if he did so, the effect her ministrations had produced in him would be obvious to all, so he stayed where he was, simply wishing that she would leave him alone.

 

Dewar and Kohn gathered kindling and set a fire, without troubling either Tom or Mildra for help. Tom was almost tempted to believe that their dour leader realised how tired the pair were, though if so he made no comment to that effect. Assuming that was the case it came as something of a surprise to Tom, who would never have suspected Dewar capable of such kindness or tact.

  The short period between stopping and sleeping, during which they ate a meal of bread and salted meat from their provisions, proved an awkward one for Tom. He found it difficult to talk to or even look at Mildra, and was grateful when Dewar suggested they should get some sleep ready for another early start.

  Part of him still wondered what he was doing here, how he, a simple street-nick, had become caught up in all this. His thoughts turned wistfully to his time with the Blue Claw. Deep down he still hankered for the days when his most daunting challenge had been winning the affections of Jezmina, the sweetest, most innocent member of the Claw, whose briefest glance could surely melt any man's heart. It was largely to impress her that he'd accepted the challenge of climbing to the roof of Thaiburley, which, in many ways, had set all this in motion.

  With a pang of guilt, Tom realised that he'd hardly spared Jezmina a thought in recent days and still had no idea what had become of her. There was a time, not so long ago, when he'd have found it difficult to think of anything else. He had attempted to ask about her in the days following the chaos, but these had been no more than half-hearted queries which he then failed to follow up. On reflection, perhaps it was better that he didn't; with all that was happening in his life of late Jezmina was probably better off without him, though part of him still wanted to impress her, to see adoration in those deep, dark eyes once she realised how important he'd become – on personal terms with the prime master no less.

  Just before Tom sank into the deep sleep of exhaustion, he determined to find Jezmina on his return to the city, once this daunting trip was out of the way; if only to make sure she was all right for his own peace of mind. Yet, even as the thought formed and was then brushed aside by sleep's soothing caress, part of his mind acknowledged that this resolve would probably not even be remembered come morning, and his very final thoughts before oblivion claimed him were not of Jezmina at all, nor even of Kat. They were of Mildra.

 

From the Medics' Row where lives are saved

To the streets of the Bankers where fortunes are made…

 

The prime master surveyed his image in the mirror with critical eye. He didn't dwell on the face, disliking the way time's passage had resculpted features he remembered as being more vigorous and youthful than cruel reflection insisted they now were. It was the overall impression that interested him. Gone were the ceremonial robes and the insignia of office; gone was any indication of either opulence or authority. Instead he wore simple, plain clothing, which made him seem somehow smaller and even frailer than usual. The figure who looked back was surely not a person worth paying attention to – which was exactly the effect he was seeking.

  There were parts of the metropolis, the City Below for example, where a simple shedding of his expected uniform would all but guarantee anonymity. The same wasn't true of the Medics Row, where he was headed tonight, but it would certainly help.

  Nobody could know of this imminent visit. Nobody. Not even the council guards, who at that very moment stood vigil outside his home and were charged with accompanying him everywhere, were to know that he was even gone. He could draw upon his talent to achieve that, selectively blinding them so that they wouldn't notice his coming or going, but such an exercise of power might be noted by anyone with reason to watch him and, besides, he shied from interfering with the minds of others unless strictly necessary. Thankfully in this instance there was a simpler, cleaner alternative.

  He moved into his study; the back wall dominated by a pair of matching floor-to-ceiling book cases, their shelves full of varied tomes, most of which he hadn't glanced at in decades. He approached the leftmost stand and removed from its third shelf a particularly weighty volume, the spine of which declared it to be Hibelicus's Guide to Intestinal Disorders, Volume Two (third revision). He then pushed the two books beside it to the left and replaced the Hibelicus on the shelf, pressing it firmly into its new position.

  The whole bookcase proceeded to move slowly forward, before sliding smoothly across to overlap its twin on the right. Behind stood an area of wall, blank apart from a single wooden door. When opened, the doorway revealed a spiral stairway leading downward. Melodramatic, perhaps, this secret passage, but it worked. Clearly whoever designed this residence had been an individual of considerable foresight.

  The way was dark, while the air both felt and smelt dank, reminding the prime master of how rarely he utilised this escape route. He wondered briefly what might have brought his numerous predecessors this way, whether their motives would have been altruistic or self-serving, perhaps even sinister. Given the number of individuals involved, doubtless the stairs had carried in their time people whose intentions fell into all three categories.

  He didn't bother with a light but concentrated on feeling his way with his thoughts, a very minor use of talent which ought to go unnoticed, particularly in these elevated Rows where practitioners proliferated. The fact that he even considered someone might be watching him was an indication of how paranoid he was beginning to feel. Overwork, stress; he knew the likely causes, but that didn't remove the feeling. Somewhere in the city lurked an unknown enemy, he was certain of it, and until the threat was identified, he wasn't about to take any chances.

  All of which meant that progress was slow, as he concentrated on not misstepping, and this was proving a great deal more tiring than anticipated. Dependence on instantaneous travel had made him lazy it would seem. Unfortunately, such time-saving jumps were possible only to specific points within the metropolis, such as the Thaissian temples he used when visiting the City Below, and none were located conveniently enough to be of any help on this occasion. So he was reduced to relying on man's most primitive form of travel: his own feet.

  Finally the passageway ended, having brought him down through the Heights and the Residences and the Bankers Row, to the Row of the Medics; though that title was perhaps a little misleading these days. He'd often thought that it should be renamed the Row of Research, since expertise in just about every conceivable scientific field had long since been concentrated here, not simply medicine.

  However, once you started messing around with the traditional names of the Rows, it would necessitate rewriting the levels verse, which so many children still learnt by rote, and he was hanged if he was going to open up that particular can of worms.

  The corridors were all but deserted at this hour, so he slipped unnoticed from the passageway's concealed exit and hurried to the designated address, along a route he was coming to know well. The only person likely to discover him was a patrolling Kite Guard, and he'd deal with that contingency if and when it arose.

  He arrived without incident and let himself in without knocking, the door opening to his touch. A stunted corridor lay before him, with five doors leading off, two to either side and one directly in front. The format and indeed the uniform functionality of the doors themselves cried 'workplace' rather than 'home'. He strode immediately to the furthest door and pushed it open, stepping into what was clearly a laboratory.

  Clean surfaces, white or smoothed wood, surrounded him, while mysterious glass cabinets and domes festooned walls and worktops, many of them containing objects of even more dubious purpose. Off to one side a small metal burner produced a constant blue-tinged flame. For an irreverent moment, the prime master wondered whether the burner served any practical purpose but was instead there merely to declare to a casual visitor that this was a place of serious research, in case they were in any doubt.

  The room had a single occupant; white coat turning her form almost androgynous, while her auburn hair was tied back in a simple band. She was titrating something yellow into a glass beaker, her back to him as he entered.

  "Come on in, PM," she said, without pausing or looking round.

  He refrained from pointing out that he already had.

  "Be with you in a minute."

  He shuffled closer, though not so close as to be a distraction, and tried to peer around her to see the beaker and fluid more clearly.

  "Does that have anything to do with why you called me?"

  "No, this is just routine," she replied. "But I thought that, since I was here anyway, I might as well finish this off while waiting for you."

  Apparently satisfied, she turned off the flow from the fragile-seeming burette, carefully pushed the metal stand holding the slender glass wand back against the wall and sealed the beaker with a stopper. Only then did she turn around to smile at him, the crows-feet at the corner of her eyes merely emphasising the bright warmth of the expression.

  "Thaiss, you look awful," she said, the smile transforming into a concerned frown.

  "Thank you; and there was me about to comment on how lovely you look."

  "Go right ahead. Don't let my candidness stop you."

  And she was lovely. The flashes of grey in her hair and the laughter lines around her eyes did nothing to diminish that; rather they were indications that the prettiness of the young woman he could still picture so clearly had matured into a deeper, more profound beauty.

  Her frown was still there, though. "You're working too hard as usual, aren't you? You've got to ease up."

  "I would love to; in fact, I determined only today to have an early night of uninterrupted sleep and recuperation, but then…"

  She held up an apologetic hand. "I know, I know… I'm sorry."

  "Jeanette," he said softly, "when have I ever complained if you're the one summoning me, whatever the hour?"

  For a moment their eyes locked, memories of what they'd almost shared passing between them in a glance. Then she looked away.

  "Right," he said, trying not to sound in any way awkward or embarrassed, "so what's the latest?"

  Her expression darkened. "Not good news, I'm afraid."

  He'd guessed as much, or she wouldn't have troubled him at such an hour. Before Jeanette could continue, however, there was a discreet knock at the door. She looked startled, clearly not expecting anyone.

  "Sorry," the prime master said quickly, "I forgot to mention, I gave one of my colleagues the address and told him to meet me here." He then raised his voice and called out, "Come through, Thomas."

  The door opened and the young master stepped in.

  "Thomas, I'd like you meet Jeanette, one of my dearest friends, Jeanette, this is…"

  "…our newest master. Delighted to meet you, Thomas."

  Her smile took in first the younger man and then the older. The prime master could well imagine just how delighted she would be. Jeanette was always going on at him to share the burden of office and to not take on so much responsibility himself, so this development would please her no end.

  "Jeanette, would you mind bringing Thomas up to speed before sharing your latest news?"

  "Certainly." She then slipped into a toned-down version of the lecture mode which the prime master had seen her adopt so often when addressing a roomful of attentive students or arkademics in training. "It began in the Artists' Row," she explained. "Several people succumbing to a mysterious malady which local healers seemed unable to treat. As more fell victim, we were called in to try and identify the cause and provide an antidote. Meanwhile, the number of victims began to rise alarmingly and we were forced to impose a quarantine to prevent this from becoming an epidemic."

  Thomas looked shocked. "I haven't heard anything at all about this."

  "Good," the prime master said. "We've attempted to keep a lid on it but you never know how successful you've been, especially given the way word of mouth travels around here."

  "Why keep quiet about it at all?" Thomas asked.

  "Because of the nature of the disease." The Prime Minister looked towards Jeanette, who gave a shallow nod and picked up the story again.

  "What we're dealing with here is not simply a fever; it's worse than that, much worse. The disease physically attacks people, transforming them, killing them in the process."

  "Attacks them how?"

  The woman looked at the prime master, who nodded. She moved to the back of room, where a large shuttered window dominated the far wall. At a touch of her hand, the shutters started to lift. The prime master took a deep breath; he knew what was to come.

  A single table occupied the centre of the small room. On it lay a body, which, despite being the shape and size of a human, could never actually have been human, surely. So the brain insisted. The supine figure appeared to have been crudely chiselled from some form of rock or perhaps bone. Where there should have been skin and hair, there was instead a seamless film of an off-white substance that looked to have been dug from the ground rather than being anything that once breathed. Nor was this coating smooth and skin-like; instead it was lumpy and covered with bumps, like some interrupted statue which the sculptor had yet to return to and complete.

  "Gods," Thomas murmured. "Was that ever human?"

  "Oh yes," Jeanette assured him. "A few days ago this was a living, breathing man."

  "It's hideous." Thomas seemed to be searching for a more dramatic description without being able to find it.

  The prime master knew exactly how the other felt. He'd seen this several times before and still found it disturbing in the extreme; words, any words, were inadequate.

  "For reasons that should be obvious, we call this disease bone flu." Jeanette continued. "The hands are the first to go, and then the arms. Sufferers complain of a tingling sensation, then an itching to the skin. This is swiftly followed by a loss of feeling to the affected limb which is accompanied by a process we've dubbed calcification. Calcium starts to permeate the skin, apparently drawn from the bones. Soon the skin is transformed into the brittle and inflexible sheath you see before you. The depositing of the calcium isn't entirely regular, hence the gnarly bumps and protrusions you see here. From the transformed limb the infection spreads, rapidly. As the process progresses across the body, it starts to attack the vital organs as well. Once that happens the end isn't far away, though sufferers would doubtless wish it to be even nearer. Left to face the consequences unaided, they die in excruciating agony."

  Thomas was staring at the body on the other side of the glass and shaking his head, as if to deny such a thing could happen. "I never imagined…" His voice trailed off.

  "Now do you see why we're keeping this quiet until we've found a way to combat this abomination?" The prime master said quietly.

  Thomas nodded, and then surprised his older colleague by saying, "I wouldn't have thought there was enough calcium in the entire body to do this."

  Not for the first time, the prime master found himself impressed by this latest colleague's perception. Even in the face of such horror, the man's brain continued to function with remarkable clarity. "There isn't, and that provides our disease with a final wicked twist. As far as we can tell, bone flu attacks only those with a smattering of talent, and it's somehow able to draw on that talent, using it to manufacture additional calcium within the body in order to complete the transformation process. Bone flu turns a person's own talent against them."

  "What?"

  "This is something new Thomas, a threat the like of which the city has never faced before, if our damaged records are to be believed. We don't know where this bone flu originated, nor how. All we do know is that it's here, it's spreading, and to date the disease has proved 100% fatal. Everyone who contracts bone flu has died."

  "And I'm afraid I have some more bad news to add," Jeanette said.

  "Go on," the prime master said, bracing himself.

  "There's been a new outbreak, in the Residences. Bone flu has started attacking the arkedemics."

  He nodded, absorbing this. It was the sort of development they'd been dreading. Not unexpected news, but still a bitter blow.

  "Has this new outbreak been contained?"

  "For now, but I don't hold out any great hopes that we'll be able to do so in the long run." Jeanette sounded as weary and frustrated as he felt. "How can we hope to contain it when we don't even know for sure how the infection's spread, for Thaiss' sake?"

  "But you will work it out," he assured her, "you will."

  He had to believe that. More importantly, she had to believe it.

 

As the two masters slipped out into the gloom of Thaiburley's night-time corridors once more, Thomas turned to him and said, "You have to tell the rest of the council."

The prime master nodded. "I know."

  Now that the infection had spread, there was little choice. "But can you not see the implications here, Thomas?"

  The other looked at him expectantly.

  "A multitude of people have settled in Thaiburley over the centuries, Thomas. The blood of the founders, those who built the city, still flows through the veins of many, but so diluted as to be all but insignificant. Only in a very few does it flow pure enough for the core to recognise that individual as founder stock and so allow them access to its potential, manifesting the various forms of talent. Yet talent is what enables this city to function. We masters and arkademics use talent every day to fulfil our duties; without it, Thaiburley would very swiftly devolve into anarchy.

  "And yet we're about to tell the most frequent manipulators of the city's core, the most important dozen people in all of Thaiburley, that the very talent that makes them special might leave them vulnerable to a horrifying death. Could you blame them if they stopped exercising their abilities? And what would happen if all the things those individuals do for the city were no longer done?"

  "It would be the end," Thomas whispered. "Of Thaiburley… of everything."

  "Indeed." This was a bleak assessment, but hardly one the prime master could fault. "Now you understand the nature of my dilemma."