The Myst Reader (106 page)

“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.”