Again, the cab ride home made no impression on me. So weary was I, the colonel could have launched me there by catapult and I wouldn’t have known it. My awareness ceased entirely at some point before I left Crooked Blue Tower Barracks and didn’t return until I was woken up by a loud voice below my window.
The absurdly titled New Yatsillat Trumpet had launched with a sensational headline.
“Read all about it! Read all about it! Parliamentarian murdered! Read all about it! First murder in New Yatsillat!”
I found Clarissa in the lounge with a newspaper in her hands.
“You were asleep when I left for the Temple of Magicians and still asleep when I got back,” she said. “You must have been exhausted. Did the newsboy wake you?”
“Yes. Murder?”
“Yarvis Thayne. He was found outside his home. It appears that someone attacked him with a sword and shattered his shell. His internal organs were spread across the pavement. A ghastly business.”
I staggered and caught at a chair to support myself. I croaked, “Were you here when I returned from training?”
“Yes. You were all done in and went straight to bed. You didn’t even eat. You must be famished. I’ll ring for Kata—she’ll prepare you some breakfast.”
She reached for a small handbell but hesitated when I cried out, “Wait! Stop! Tell me—tell me, was I—was I—?”
“Covered in blood? No, Aiden, you weren’t. Neither was your sword. I know what you’re thinking and you can get it out of your head immediately. You didn’t kill Yarvis Thayne.”
She rang the bell.
“But what if I left the house while you were out?” I said.
“Do you remember doing so?”
“No.”
“Your sword was in exactly the same place by the door when I returned and Kata said you hadn’t stirred. If you’d got up, dressed, taken your weapon, and left the house, don’t you think she’d have noticed? Even if she failed to see or hear you depart, she’d have realised the blade was missing. No—you were asleep the entire time, there’s no doubt about it.”
I flopped into a chair, weak with relief.
“Murdered,” I mumbled. “Murdered!”
“It puts us in an awkward position. He was a figurehead for those who oppose the changes our presence has brought about. No doubt he, like Father Yissil Froon, wanted me banished to the Shelf Lands.”
I grunted a response.
“If the Yatsill knew how to investigate a murder,” Clarissa went on, “which they probably don’t, they’d have to place us on their list of suspects.”
Kata entered and bobbed a curtsey. Clarissa asked her to brew a pot of tea and grill a couple of Kula’at—a species of fish that tasted remarkably similar to smoked mackerel. As our housekeeper headed for the kitchen, my companion said, “Yarvis Thayne’s death isn’t the only bad news. Mademoiselle Clattersmash’s ailment appears to be spreading. According to the Trumpet there are four hundred and fifty-six reported cases so far. Like murder, sickness is a new phenomenon for the Yatsill.” She rustled the newspaper. “This reports the two events as if they’re nothing more than intriguing novelties. You and I should take them rather more seriously.”
“If we are to investigate, where should we start?”
“I shall ask Yissil Froon whether he or his supporters have been in any way threatened. You, meanwhile, should try to educate Colonel Spearjab in matters of policing the city. Let’s make the City Guard live up to its name, else what’s it for? I’ve not even seen it using the watchtowers!”
“I know,” I replied. “I’ve asked Spearjab and my fellow trainees again and again what the city is defending itself against but all I receive by way of response is evasiveness and the phrase ‘the Saviour’s Eyes are not always upon us.’ The same as when I’ve asked about being ‘taken.’”
“I’ve experienced the same evasiveness from the Magicians. Apparently these are taboo subjects during the light of day—perhaps we’ll learn more when night finally arrives. Keep pressing the subject, Aiden. In the meantime, if you don’t mind, I’m going to turn one of our rooms into a laboratory. I want to take blood samples and see if I can get to the bottom of this outbreak.”
° °
Guardswoman Lily Wheelturner emitted a squeal of pain and staggered backward, hopping on three legs.
“By the Suns!” Colonel Momentous Spearjab shouted. “Good move, lad! Good move, I say! Ha ha! What!”
Time had passed. I’d lost count of how many training sessions I’d endured since the death of Yarvis Thayne—maybe twelve, perhaps fifteen. The two suns were now sinking toward the ocean.
I couldn’t by any stretch be regarded as proficient with the sword, but during that long period, I had at least acquired skills enough to defend myself against Wheelturner’s attack. She’d made a clumsy thrust at my stomach that I’d evaded by turning sideways, allowing her blade to skim across the tough padding around my torso while I used my momentum to spin and swing my weapon against one of her upper thighs.
I lowered my sword and flexed my shoulders, trying to work the stiffness out of them.
“No slacking!” Spearjab bellowed.
Wheelturner lunged forward and slashed down at my head. I sidestepped and, with unrestrained viciousness, smashed the pommel of my weapon into her mask, which broke in half and fell from her face.
“Disengage!” the colonel ordered.
Stepping away, I glared at my opponent’s four glittering eyes. I was angry. The rules of training stated that thrusts and cuts must be directed only at padding—thin but very robust material covering the torso, arms, and legs—but she’d repeatedly swiped at my unprotected head.
“Bravo, Fleischer!” Spearjab called, then, turning to the other guards, he added, “You see! Ha ha! That’s how it’s jolly well done! What!” He indicated that Wheelturner and I should get back in line, then waved another pair of trainees forward. They began to fight, their swords clanging.
The gruelling exercises, which had occupied almost all my waking hours, together with the heavier gravity and what proved to be a very nutritious diet, were having a visible effect on my physique. My bones were already sheathed in expanding and hardening muscle and the constant pain—for every session pushed my body to its limits—had given my face a sort of flinty grimness, quite unlike its former guilelessness.
My proposition—made some time ago—that the City Guard should man the watchtowers and patrol the streets had initially been greeted by the colonel with a response of “utterly unnecessary when the Saviour is looking upon us.” However, after I pointed out that Yarvis Thayne’s murder had occurred in the sight of the Saviour, and that the killer was still on the loose and might strike again, and that the protesters against change were growing in number and becoming rather more disruptive and unruly, he took the suggestion to Lord Brittleback. The prime minister immediately passed a mandate giving the City Guard powers and duties commensurate to those of London’s Metropolitan Police. The guardsmen now divided their time between patrols and training, with one exception—me. For some unfathomable reason, Colonel Spearjab was convinced that I was the resident expert in swordplay, and so kept me at Crooked Blue Tower Barracks to pass my so-called skills on to my fellows. His assumption was, of course, wholly erroneous. I knew no more of the sword than he did. The endless training had, though, bestowed upon me greater endurance and strength than I could have possibly imagined. I’d learned that the human body, when placed under terrible duress, possesses an astonishing capacity for adaptation.
The suns were by now at the five o’clock mark, with the thin crescent moons clustered close to them. It was impossible to calculate the length of time Clarissa and I had been on Ptallaya, though in Earthly terms, surely it must be measured in many months, perhaps even a year. The temperature had gradually increased and warm rains were now sweeping across the city at regular intervals.
I had not seen much of my companion. That she was very busy was obvious. I
n addition to her schooling with the Council of Magicians, she was also contributing many marvels to the Yatsills’ burgeoning new culture. Her manufacturing plant was constructing three-wheeled, tiller-steered, steam-driven autocarriages, many of which were already navigating the roads; big power houses were being built at the top of each avenue to pull the subsurface chains the trams would use to travel up and down the steep inclines; a more sophisticated sewerage system than the original was half-installed; and New Yatsillat’s factories and foundries were all being refitted with more efficient machinery. In addition, my friend had introduced a citywide postal system, which meant we now had an address: 3 Dissonance Square, Fourth Terrace, New Yatsillat.
Off to my right, Lily Wheelturner crumpled to the ground.
“Swords down!” Spearjab ordered.
We gathered around my erstwhile opponent who was sprawled motionless but for small tremors that shook her limbs.
Spearjab said, “I say! She looks to be in a bad way, what! Humph!”
I pushed one of my fellow guardsmen aside and crouched beside the stricken Yatsill.
“Lily, can you hear me?”
The fronds that fringed her mouth had turned a pale grey. They flopped loosely as her lips moved. “I can’t get up.”
“Does your head hurt? My apologies, I didn’t mean to strike you so hard.”
“You . . . didn’t. Not . . . not my head. I feel . . . I feel weak. Can’t . . . think straight. Perhaps . . . perhaps Phenadoor calls me.”
One of the other guardsmen said, “Are you chilled?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “Cold.”
“I feel it, too,” he said. He turned to the colonel. “In fact, sir, I feel jolly rotten.”
“Aye, me as well,” another agreed.
Spearjab’s fingers waggled with agitation. “Anyone else?”
The rest of the Yatsill shook their heads and there were various murmurs of, “No,” “Not me, sir,” and “I feel fine.”
“Rightio,” the colonel said. “Wheelturner, Flapper, and Stretch—remain here. We’ll call a carriage and get you to a bally Magician. Humph! The rest of you are dismissed.”
With a last glance at the ailing guardswoman, I divested myself of the practice padding, saluted Colonel Spearjab, left the military compound, hailed a cab, and was driven home.
It was plain that Wheelturner and the other two had come down with the sickness that was now endemic across the city—thousands of Yatsill were suffering, Aristocrat and Working Class alike. Last time I’d seen Clarissa, she was close to a breakthrough in her analysis of blood samples. I hoped she’d now have something to report.
The cab dropped me at the corner of Dissonance Square.
My friend was outside Number Three, tinkering with the engine of our new autocarriage.
“Hello!” she said. “Have they let you out early?”
“Yes. Three more of the Yatsill have been taken ill. Has your laboratory borne fruit?”
“I’m afraid so.”
I strode over to her, noticing as I did so that three top-hatted Aristocrats were loitering nearby. They were glancing repeatedly at us and muttering among themselves. My arrival appeared to have disconcerted them somewhat. Perhaps they wanted a private word with my friend. They could wait until I went indoors to bathe.
“Afraid, Clarissa? Why afraid?”
She used a rag to wipe oil from her hands. “I’ve been working with Mademoiselle Clattersmash—she’s still weak but manages to get around—Father Spreadflower Meadows, and another Magician, Tendency Clutterfuss. They all specialise in medicine. They’ve examined the blood samples and have reached the same conclusion as I.”
“Which is what?”
“That the infection was brought here by you.”
“Me?”
“The illness is kichyomachyoma, Aiden. There is a microorganism in your blood, presumably injected by the spider that bit you on Koluwai. A counteragent of some sort—I’ve yet to identify it—has rendered you immune to its deleterious effects, but it’s still active and has somehow been communicated from you to the Yatsill, and now from Yatsill to Yatsill.”
I slumped against the autocarriage. “No!”
“The infection caused severe malarial symptoms in you, but in the Yatsill it manifests more like a mild flu but with one noticeable difference: the victims experience a debilitating ‘loosening’ of their telepathic connection to their fellows. This lessens the intelligence of the Workers and causes a sense of isolation in the Aristocrats, which, Clattersmash says, is by far the most disturbing aspect of the illness.”
“Have you found a cure?”
“Not yet, but the microorganism cannot survive in the blood of the islanders, and as I say, though active in yours, is rendered harmless to its host by an active counteragent. Those two lines of inquiry will, I hope, lead me to the solution.”
“I can’t believe I’ve been the cause of this,” I groaned.
“There’s every chance you’ll also provide the remedy.”
“Should I be quarantined?”
“It would be pointless. The infection is already too widespread.” She looked me up and down. “And speaking of health, Aiden, my goodness—what a transformation has been wrought in you! You’ve filled out so much we’ll have to ask the tailor to supply new clothes. You look a different man.”
“A man who can’t remember the last time he didn’t ache all over. How I miss my quiet little vicarage and my books!”
“Do you really mean that? Are you not feeling a certain fulfilment in the physical challenges you face every day?”
I snorted, as if she’d spoken an utter nonsense, but as a matter of fact, she was right. Physically—despite the disease I apparently carried—I’d never felt better in my life. I didn’t even notice the drag of Ptallaya’s gravity any more and was experiencing an unexpected exultation in our strange new existence. However, for whatever reason, I couldn’t quite bring myself to admit to this, so I replied, “Constitutionally, I’m more suited to holding a Shakespeare than a sword, but I’ve lost my position in life and am left with no options. I have no social standing. I’ve become naught but a common soldier. And now you tell me I’m a plague carrier!”
“Hardly that!” she objected.
“I’m going to take a bath,” I grumbled, and marched into the house, feeling inexplicably irritated that my friend should have identified that I, a scholar and clergyman, was starting to enjoy spending my every waking hour in mock combat.
I was halfway up the ramp to the upper rooms when I heard Clarissa give a loud cry of alarm. In an instant I was down again, across the vestibule, and back out through the door. My companion was standing against the autocarriage. Blood was streaming from her left shoulder. She was swinging a large spanner back and forth, and the three Aristocrats were crouched in front of her. They’d pulled swords from beneath their jackets.
“What in the Saviour’s name do you think you’re doing?” I yelled, striding toward them.
In answer, one of them threw himself at me, chopping downward with his blade. My training took over. Without thinking, I pivoted, and his weapon flashed past less than two inches from my face. In the same instant the tip of his sword clanged on the cobbles, I drew my own and, in doing so, slammed my forearm into his neck. His head snapped back, his top hat rolled away, and he stumbled from me, giving me the space to slash at him. His hand went flying, still clutching his weapon. With a scream of pain, he squatted and scuttled out of reach, clutching at his spurting stump.
A wave of revulsion hit me as I felt my inner demon squirm with sick delight, rejoicing at the damage I’d inflicted upon the attacker. I lowered my sword, stepped back, and stammered, “I’m—I’m sorry.” I was torn, as if two personalities were grappling for dominance of me. One would not hesitate to take a life in order to protect Clarissa. The other could barely lift the blade, so afraid was it that if I started killing I’d not be able to stop.
I teetered backward as
one of the other Yatsill came at me, but as I did so, I saw the third creature take a swipe at Clarissa, who barely managed to block his blade with her spanner. My sword came up automatically and I parried my new opponent’s first swing, then—with my body rather than my mind in control—slashed at one of his legs, slicing it off beneath the first knee joint.
I leaped away from him to defend my companion.
The third Yatsill saw me coming and scurried backward into the square, giving himself more room to manoeuvre. I realised at once that this creature knew what he was doing. His stance spoke of someone well practised with the sword, though how he came by such skill was a mystery, for only the Working Class trained as guardsmen. Even before we engaged, this appreciation of his ability sent a thrill of fear through me. Crossing blades when you are well padded and your opponent is under strict instructions only to aim at that padding and not hit hard is one thing, but facing a foe who’s under no such compulsion is quite another. I’d seen for myself how readily these Ptallayan swords could sink into the hard wood of tree stumps. Wielded with strength, they could easily slice straight through a limb, as I’d already found.
Had I been alone, perhaps I would have succumbed to the insistent part of me that wanted to drop my weapon and take to my heels. As it was, I couldn’t possibly leave Clarissa, so my only option was to fight.
The Aristocrat stepped in and swung at me. Our blades met and, after a shimmering sizzle as they slid along each other’s length, were immediately whirling so fast that an unpractised eye would see nothing but flashes as they again and again reflected the light of the twin suns. The square echoed with clangs and clashes. My enemy was terrifyingly fast and vigorous, setting me on the defensive from the outset. Somehow, somewhere, he’d worked long and hard to acquire such skill. It had given him confidence and a technique that, by Yatsill standards, couldn’t be faulted. In addition, his only concern was to cause my demise, while I was distracted by the knowledge that his companions were nearby, nursing their wounds, and capable at any moment of attacking me from the rear or, worse, of plunging their swords into Clarissa. In addition, while he obviously held no compunction about murder, my fear of killing caused me to frequently miss opportunities to turn the attack on him.