The Ruined City (41 page)

He could not puzzle it out now. He was a little dizzy, his thoughts unusually blurred and slow. He would consider the matter later, when he had recovered from the effects of his first confrontation with the Overmind.

The view from the tower window, ordinarily drab, had lately taken on a morbid fascination. Hands hard on the iron bars, Falaste Rione gazed down at the prison courtyard, where the workmen were busy assembling the torsion tower. The wooden scaffold had been completed early in the day. For hours since then, the workers under the supervision of the executioner had been struggling with the big wooden uprights that supported the famous twin wheels, studded with wrist and ankle fetters, and geared to rotate in opposite directions. They must have been strangers to the task, for they were slow and uncertain. But they would surely succeed in the end.

It would have been better not to watch, but he found it impossible to look away. In any case, there was little else to see. His tiny cell contained a straw pallet, a bucket, and nothing more. Grim though his lodgings were, he qualified as one of the favored among the Witch’s inmates. His window admitted daylight and fresh air. The fresh air was often bitterly cold, but it swept away the worst of the stench. The window was an exceptional luxury.

Down below in the courtyard, the workmen were complaining, and the executioner was yelling at them. Rione studied the man preparing to kill him—an ordinary individual of substantial build, bald patch on top, plainly dressed. Nothing about him to suggest the nature of his profession.

A noise behind him pulled his attention from the courtyard. He turned to face the door, and his muscles tensed, for he knew what was coming. The wooden panel masking the square of iron grillwork in the door was about to slide away, and the faces were about to reappear at the little window. Even
in these grim times, there were countless inquisitive idlers glad to pay the Witch turnkeys for the privilege of viewing the governor’s assassins at close range. Such commerce was officially prohibited, but the trade was far too lucrative to refuse. Thus Falaste Rione often found himself on display, not unlike a rump-faced hibiluk at the public zoo, before the zoo had closed.

The unabashed openness with which the visitors simply gawked never failed to astonish him. Likewise remarkable—the commentary upon his appearance, manner, demeanor, intellect, and character, all uttered freely, as if the observers imagined him deaf, or bereft of understanding. Even more amazing was the impertinence of the questions directed to him through the grille. There was nothing in the world they hesitated to demand of him, from a personal account of the crime, to revelations of intimate habits and preferences, to a description of his reflections upon impending execution. Did he fear the proverbial pain of torsion? Would he walk to the tower tamely, or did he mean to struggle? Was he at all worried about soiling himself? His only recourse at such times was to turn away and gaze out the window. When he did so, some of his visitors waxed resentful, while others whined reproaches.

No doubt his sister, Celisse, an object of far greater interest than himself, received similar attention on a larger scale. Being Celisse, she might enjoy it.

The square panel remained shut, but the whole door opened. A brace of large guards bulked on the threshold. He knew them both by name: Ori and Chesubbo. Both tough and professionally callous, but not such bad fellows. Why here now, though? It shot through his mind that his execution had been advanced by a couple of days, and they had come to take him to his death. But no, impossible, the tower wasn’t ready yet. Another interrogation—some sort of confession to sign? To what purpose?

“Come on, then,” Ori commanded.

“Move it, Doc.” Chesubbo clapped his hands sharply.

“Where?”

“You’ll see. Nothing to worry about.”

He did worry, but there was no point in further query. Conducting him from his cell, they led him down a narrow staircase, along vaulted stone corridors into a section of the prison he had never seen before. His wrists were free of manacles. As they walked, the guards flanked him closely, but did not touch him; a favor that might almost have been interpreted as a mark of something like respect.

Instinct told him that they were leading him toward the south face of the building. Presently they came to a heavy portal whose guard stepped aside at a word from Ori. They went through and Rione found himself in a narrow, covered walkway, with windows on both sides affording a view of walled gardens. Still bare and almost colorless at this time of year, but unquestionably real gardens, with a flagged path winding among sculpted flower beds, thoughtfully placed shrubs, trellises, and a few of the earliest phileefis glowing purple against the dark soil.
Here?
He had never expected to glimpse another garden in this lifetime. But there was no time to wonder or admire, for they were hurrying him along the walkway and through another door at its far end.

The world changed again, and he found himself in some sort of chamber furnished with wall hangings, mossy velvet window draperies, a few small tables, chairs and benches plumped with cushions. The function of the room, with its ordinary décor, was not quite apparent, but function was not the point. What struck Rione forcibly was the realization that he now stood in a private dwelling. This room was not part of the Witch prison; it was part of somebody’s home.

Whose? Scarcely a mystery. The residence of the prison’s governor adjoined the Witch at the south side of the building. They had brought him to the governor’s own house. Surely not for interrogation. The facilities within the prison itself were well designed to effect efficient extraction of information.
They would not have brought him here for official questioning. Unofficial, then? The prison’s Governor Sfirriu, like so many others, wished to plumb the brain of a famous criminal? Possible, but why take the criminal out of the prison for it?

Alternative possibilities?

The famous criminal was also a physician of growing repute. That might have something to do with it.

A young man entered—a skinny, slightly green-faced creature clad in the unassuming garments of a servant in a moderately affluent household.

“This the one?” he demanded in a voice that matched his person.

Ori replied affirmatively.

“This way, then.” He marched out again. Guards and prisoner followed.

The house was comfortable and solidly respectable-looking, but not large. Within seconds they came to a closed door upon which the servant rapped sharply. A man’s voice from within bade them enter.

They walked into a small office or study, with a good coal fire blazing on the grate. And there behind a plain wooden desk sat the prison’s Governor Sfirriu—a middle-aged Taerleezi, running to fat, grey of hair, lined of face, tired and harried-looking. He gave the impression of having sat behind that desk for many unfulfilling years. The two guards saluted. Rione waited.

“You are the physician Falaste Rione?” Sfirriu demanded.

“Yes, Governor.” Rione inclined his head politely, but without servility.

“You have been convicted of complicity in the assassination of the Governor Anzi Uffrigo, and accordingly condemned.”

“Yes, Governor.”

“You will no doubt wish to profess your innocence.”

“I’ve done so at length and to no avail, Governor. There
seems little point in repetition.” This bordered on insolence, but one of the few consolations of his present situation lay in the irrelevance of consequences.

“You are correct,” Sfirriu agreed. Addressing the two guards, he commanded, “Wait outside.”

Ori and Chesubbo traded surprised glances, but obeyed mutely. The door closed behind them.

Rione’s sense of wonder deepened.

Prison governor and prisoner surveyed one another. The governor broke the silence.

“It’s said that you’re a man of parts,” Sfirriu observed at last. “They speak well of you at the Avorno Hospital.”

Rione waited.

“They describe you as a physician of exceptional gifts.”

“I am a physician, Governor. I try to make best use of my abilities, such as they are.”

“Certainly, certainly.” Sfirriu frowned upon the documents cluttering his desktop. “They say
exceptional
gifts. New ideas. New methods. Remarkable results. Almost magical.”

“If I possessed magical power, Governor, then I would not be here now.”

“I’m told that you’ve treated cases of the plague. Is this true?”

“Yes.”

“And they’ve recovered?”

“Some of them.”

“You claim power to cure the plague?”

“I’ve a treatment that’s proven effective in some cases.”

“How many?”

“Ten or twelve, I believe.”

“That’s all? Out of how many that have received this treatment?”

“Perhaps a couple of dozen.”

“Not good enough.”

“I agree, Governor.”

There was a comfortless pause, during which the governor
appeared preoccupied with one of the papers on the desk. At last he looked up, met the prisoner’s eyes, and remarked abruptly, “What I say to you now is to be held in confidence. Repeat a word of it, and things will go far harder than need be for you and your sister alike. I leave it to your imagination to supply possibilities. You understand me?”

Rione inclined his head.

“Very well. I have decided to grant you the opportunity of employing your physician’s skills. Your patients are afflicted with the plague.”

“My patients?”

“Two of them. Members of this household. There’s the need for discretion explained.”

Well explained. The governor did not wish to find his home placed under quarantine.

“Both female,” Sfirriu continued. “Thirty-eight and seventeen years of age, respectively. Ailing since last night. As of today, their malady had been identified as plague. You are the first physician to be consulted.”

Indeed. A conveniently captive physician, unable to carry his knowledge beyond the prison walls.

“Servants?” Rione queried.

“My wife and oldest daughter. Note that your patients are persons of consequence. You will call upon your best abilities and exert yourself to the utmost.”

“Will I? You overlook one detail. My exertions, if any, are scheduled to be cut short in a day or less. Not enough time to effect a cure.”

“Time. Ah. Well. As far as that goes, there is perhaps some room for maneuvering.”

“How much room, would you say?”

“Difficult to judge. Within these walls, I wield considerable power, but I can’t offer miracles. I can’t, let it be clearly understood, offer you a pardon or a commutation of sentence. I can, however, order a stay of execution.”

“How long a stay?”

“That would depend on you.”

“To borrow your own phrase, Governor—not good enough.”

“Take care. You’re in no position to state terms.”

“I’ve nothing to lose. What better position?”

“Think again. As a doctor, you understand better than most the mechanics of execution. You know that death by torsion can take place in an instant, or it can be prolonged for hours, according to the whim of the executioner—or the instructions that the executioner has received. The agony of the experience may be intense and immediate—or it may be dulled and distanced by the administration of merciful draughts. No doubt you’re familiar with such draughts.”

“I am. They’ve numbered among the most precious of the medications I once carried.”

“In this?” From beneath his desk Governor Sfirriu produced a familiar leather bag. “Come, no need to hang back, you may take it. The sharp-edged and pointed metal instruments have been removed, but most of your supplies remain. I trust you’ll make good use of them.”

His bag, his beloved paraphernalia, largely intact. His hand itched to grasp it, but he did not move.

“Governor, let us understand each other. I can’t be constrained to serve you, I don’t fear threats. Rewards are the more effective incentive. What can you do for my sister and for me?”

“I can promise your sister a quick and merciful death. Nothing more can be done—she’s too notorious, too conspicuous. In your own case, as I mentioned, there is some room to maneuver. I’ll do as much for you as I can, for as long as I can. That’s all I can pledge in good faith.”

Rione believed him. His hand yearned for the bag.
To be a doctor again, if only for a little while
.

“I want to see my sister,” he said.

“Tend your two patients diligently through the day, and you may visit your sister tonight.”

It was a remarkable privilege. More than he had ever really expected. He nodded and took up his bag.

“My lad Tuza, who admitted you, is the only servant in the house aware of the real situation. If the others knew, they’d run. Tuza will conduct you to the sickroom, and he’ll be there to carry your reports to me, or to fetch the items that your plan of treatment requires.” Sfirriu tugged the bellpull. “And one more thing—should either or both of your patients die, the news is to be carried to me alone. You understand? Only to me.”

Rione nodded. The door opened and Tuza stuck his head in.