The only cloud over Faience was caused by Rashel’s conflict with Ayward. Some years before, Ayward had founded the Inclusionist School of The Art, an academic faction that believed the ancient magic could be found even in simplest things from pre-Happening times, things that actually were what they seemed to be—a bowl, a spoon, a painting, a table. Inclusionists preferred accessibility, clarity, and utilitarianism to the arcane, mystical, and difficult study that Selectivists espoused. Rashel, shortly after marrying Ayward, became a Selectivist, as though to spite him, and though Ayward had greater scholarship among the old books, Rashel had more prestige within the Regime.
Gayla said this was because Rashel had more “friends aloft,” tallying them on her fingers: Major Mace Marchant, of the Inexplicable Arts sub-office in Apocanew; Bice Dufor, Warden of the College of Sorcery; Ardis Flenstil, Chief of the Department of Inexplicable Arts—all of them, “Men of a certain age and disposition who are Rashel’s dear, dear friends.”
Rashel made dear, dear friends because they helped her get what she wanted. What Rashel wanted—often because someone else had it—Rashel always got. To foil Rashel, therefore, one should have nothing she could possibly want and should stay, as much as possible, out of her sight.
At Faience, Dismé’s refuge was the barn-loft, a site not unlike the aerie in Apocanew, for it too was high and concealed, with a view into the air. Often she crouched there with a rusty water bucket turned upside down before her, her hands moving upon it to make one-atum, two-atum, three-atuma, four-tum, keeping time to the song she sang, any one of the many she and her father had sung together when she was a child. Dismé never sang where Rashel could hear her. Rashel could not carry a tune, and she disliked music from those who could.
It was from the loft she first saw ouphs at Faience. The white-trunked trees along the rivulet trembled to her pam-atum/pam-atum/pam-atuma/pam-tum, shivering leaves flicking silver undersides into a momentary glitter, and through this evanescent sparkle the phantoms wafted in time with the drumming, like waterweed shifted by the currents of a pond. Left-atum/right-atum/left-atuma/right-tum.
They oozed from the serpentine bottle wall until some dozens of them were assembled, impossible to distinguish or count, like identical minnows in an eddy. The word eddy stuck in her head as she noticed that the circular brims, which she had thought to be part of their headdresses, were actually whirls of their own substance like a vortex in a draining basin, made visible only through the twirl of reflected light.
Without moving her lips, Dismé pronounced their name. “Ouphs.” She marveled at them, making the word fill her mouth as Mother had done when she spoke of them. “Ow-ufs.”
As though they had heard her, all the heads turned in her direction. After a moment, however, they gave it up and began their play. Four of them harnessed themselves to an old cart and drew it around the barnyard while others sat inside it. Two others stopped the cart, some got on, some got off. Those who got off turned away and galloped off, as children gallop when riding a stick horse, lumpetty, lumpetty, whipping their thighs (if they had thighs) as they ran. There was a peculiarity in their play. Though they harnessed themselves to a real cart, one that stood on broken wheels against a far fence, when they moved away, it was a ghost cart that they pulled around and around. Dismé could not, in fact, see it, but she could imagine it well enough for the ouph passengers were really being carried by something!
When the invisible wagon returned, several of the ouphs picked up old buckets and broken pots—bending to the real, taking up the shadow—and pretended to feed animals in the empty pens, leaning upon the rails and scratching imaginary pigs with shadow sticks. Dismé had no trouble deciphering what they were doing. Her mind filled in the blanks. Though it looked like play, the mood was melancholy. Even the air took on a brown, smoked-leather smell. In time, they left what they were doing and drifted off past the barn, toward the south.
Bucket in hand, Dismé slipped down the ladder to follow them at some distance. They were headed toward the western end of the bottle wall, where they flattened themselves against the bottles, drifting upward along them, separating and shifting like shreds of smoke. She pressed forward, to get a closer look, and felt them:
“Wait, oh, wait.” Smell of damp chill. Taste of mildew.
“Going, coming, where?” Smell of silence, taste of dust.
“Gone, something, wasn’t it?” Nothingness, cold, mold.
“Not here. Never here. Look for it, oh, look for it…”
Dismé stared after them, but for a time they disappeared, only to reassemble and return toward her, stopping once more near the bottle wall, where they spiralled over the shining bottles, across and back, across and back.
“It?”
“No. Where. Where.”
“Lost, lost, lost, nowhere, lost…”
Sadness overwhelmed her and she went astray in it as the ouphs surrounded her, wrapped her briefly in a soggy blanket of woe, then departed in a skein of fog among the trees. They were mist and memory and old things falling to ruin. They were shadow and sorrow and recollections of gifts long lost.
Tears on her cheeks, Dismé took up her bucket again. If she turned it on its side, it had a sharper sound. So she drummed, pam-atum, pam-atum, PAM-atuma…
Something cracked. She searched around herself, finding nothing, trying it again with that sharp PAM, this time hearing the crack as coming from the bottle wall. More than one bottle! Several! Had she done that?
She ran to tell Arnole about ouphs and drumming, remembering he was gone only when she was almost at the house. She thought briefly of telling Ayward, but if she did, she would have to tell him how she knew about ouphs. The Dicta did not mention ouphs. Since they were not in the Dicta, knowledge of them would be considered evidence of heresy, or of imagination, which was almost as bad. Besides, could she trust Ayward not to tell Rashel?
It took only a moment to decide not to tell anyone at all.
11
colonel doctor jens ladislav
In the capital of Bastion, the city of Strong Hold, or, as it was usually called, simply Hold, the central area around the Fortress and the three great Avenues leading northwest to Turnaway, southwest to Comador, and eastward to Praise were kept clean and orderly by order of the general. These were the only parts of Bastion seen by most visitors.
The farther from the Fortress one moved, however, the less attention was given to maintaining streets, buildings, or alleys. Toward the edges of the city, the numbering of buildings became erratic; one street was indistinguishable from another; the collection of trash was an irregular exercise carried out by punishment battalions; and the state of the sewers could be determined by a diagnostic sniff of the air. It was here that housing for the workers was built, and from one such building, known to its inhabitants as Old Stink Fifty-four, a man came running very late at night into Comador Boulevard, then along that thoroughfare toward a clinic run under the aegis of the Department of Medicine.
It was far too late for any official agency to be open, but since the runner would pass the clinic on his way to the nearest carriage halt he had decided he could spare ten seconds to find out if anyone was there. Remarkably, a doctor unlocked the door.
“What is it?” he asked crisply, putting his hands on the man’s shoulders to keep him from falling down. The doctor’s uniform identified him as of too high a rank to work nights or to be called out on late-night emergencies, and the running man’s experience with ranking officers of the Regime made him tongue-tied for the moment, unable to do anything but stare at the long, narrow face, the long elegantly shaped nose, and the upward curving lips beneath. This latter characteristic made the running man remember not only why he had come, but, with sudden hope, who this doctor was.
“Dr. Jens Ladislav,” said the doctor, offering his hand.
So stimulated, the man remembered his own name. “Millus,” he panted, wiping his hand, which was somewhat bloody, along his trousers. “Forg
ive me, Dr. Jens, sir, but I came to fetch a doctor. It’s my friends. One woke with the Terrors, the other got cut, and he’s bleeding bad.”
“I’ll get my bag,” said the doctor, doing so, and taking up a heavy cloak at the same time, for the night was turning chill, as it often did at this altitude, irrespective of the season.
“You say the man woke in a frenzy?” the doctor asked, when they were in the carriage he had fortuitously been able to hail as it went by on the thoroughfare. “What was his name, again?”
“Les Tarig, sir. That’s the man who did the damage. He woke like a wild man, screaming, and calling out the names of people I’d never heard of. ‘Dismé, Dismé,’ he called, and ‘Where are you Dis, leave her alone, get off her,’ and such like things. So it was Matt tried to calm him, Matt’s always a one to make peace, and Tarig grabbed up the scissors from the table and went for Matt, and it was all we could do to get him tied down.”
The doctor looked extremely thoughtful at this intelligence. “And where is Tarig now?”
“He’s there still, sir. Tied up on the bed. Fomenting and furying like one possessed. And here we are, sir. It’s because we are so near I came running past the clinic on my way to the carriages, not expecting to find your eminence there…”
“Nothing eminent about it. I’m a doctor. I work there.”
“Oh, yes sir, but you’re a Colonel Doctor, and you work there daytimes, and even that is surprising.” This was said in a tone of approval. “Most of the ranking doctors, they leave it to the student sorcerers to care for people like us.”
“Let’s see to Matt,” said the doctor, somewhat embarrassed by this encomium, as he got out of the carriage, bag in hand.
Inside the place was a warren of rooms that the doctor recognized as being typical of bachelor quarters anywhere in Bastion, rooms repeatedly split and redone and refurbished and unfurbished, while over all rose a reek that denoted carelessness in the toilets, burned pans in the kitchen, and the miasma of unwashed clothing. In the army, where the doctor had spent some years of service, men managed somewhat better, for sergeants always had a supply of miscreants for latrine duty and kitchen duty and laundry duty, plus the power to keep them at it until the job was done better than passably. Here, however, there was no assigning or doing, but only a slothful slope ever steepening into piggery.
Their destination was an airless and bloody room where a sturdy man lay bound upon the bed, still heaving, staring, and making urgent noises even through the tight gag someone had put on him. The doctor spared him only a glance, for the injured man, Matt, lay on the floor, unconscious. One of the inhabitants pressed a pad of cloth to his cheek, which, when the doctor lifted it, displayed a lengthy cut that went across the cheekbone from near the corner of the eye almost to the corner of the mouth. Luckily, it had not gone all the way through the cheek. “Ah,” said the doctor in a tone of concern, “this is bad enough, but was he hit on the head, as well?”
“He was, sir. He fell back against those pipes.”
The doctor examined his eyes, felt of the head, sighed and mumbled to himself in an unconscious litany, ahwell, ahwell, ahwell, then aloud: “Ahwell, is there an anchorite here?”
“Old Ben,” suggested someone, without moving.
“Right enough, Old Ben,” agreed another, who also lacked the power of motion. Anchorites worshipped a goddess called Elnith of the Silences. They took vows of silence and of helpfulness toward others. Though they were said to be numerous, they were rare birds in Bastion, and inoffensive ones, or they would not have been allowed to exist.
“Can he be fetched?” queried the doctor in some temper.
“Tssh, tssh, get Old Ben,” said someone else. “The doctor’s about doing sorcery.”
The whisper of sorcery brought out those few denizens who had not yet appeared, so that Old Ben had to fight his way through a clutter of them when he arrived. The doctor gestured, and the mob vacated the room, not without curious glances. Though inquisitive, they had no wish to be exposed to sorcery. The anchorite shut the door behind them.
“Clean water,” the doctor demanded. “Possible?”
“There’s a kettle there on the stove,” said the anchorite with one lordly gesture, his mouth tight shut.
The doctor grinned and beckoned; the steaming kettle was brought. The doctor removed clean cloths and a little basin from his kit and added something from his bag to the wash water before cleaning out the wound. He then directed the anchorite to turn away, which he did, closing his eyes to give the doctor complete privacy for his magic.
The doctor took two vials from a secret compartment in his bag, pouring the contents of one around and deeply into the wound before sucking up the contents of the other into a glass device with a needle at its end which he then stabbed into the injured man’s leg, leaving scarcely a mark when he withdrew it. Such needles were used by chair attendants, and only by them. No ordinary person used this kind of needle, for doing so might be interpreted as attempting a form of magic.
During this process the doctor whispered urgently, under his breath, his usual enchantment for such occasions, a list from his herbal:
“Aconite, adder’s tongue, agrimony, aloes,
Bugloss, burdock, calamintha, pussy toes,
chamomile, cherry bark, clover, common clary,
chickweed, chicory, black chokecherry,…”
The list could go on to the letter Z, and Jens knew medical uses for virtually all of them, though some, he suspected, depended more upon faith than fact. When he had finished, both vials and device went back in the secret pocket he used for illicit materials. Owning illicit devices was sin enough to get the doctor either chaired or bottled, no matter that he customarily achieved a cure rate six times that of any of his colleagues.
Jens Ladislav had been a colonel for three years. He was a bronzed and active man of forty-two who had spent a lengthy apprenticeship with doctors of the previous generation. He had also traveled extensively along the borders of Bastion, and while still a mere Lieutenant-Medic had “discovered” (through the help of an outsider) a huge cache of medical books and implements, a feat which had put him in good odor with the Regime.
While still in favor, Jens had slipped away for a season and returned with useful information concerning cures for the ailments that afflicted his superior officers. When proffering these cures, previously unknown to Bastion physicians, he said he had learned them from “herbalists” who lived in the mountains. He cured the OC Bishop of a persistent infection acquired by rapine among outlanders in his youth. The bishop was grateful enough that he allowed some latitude for the doctor’s “studies,” but neither he nor General Gowl quite trusted the doctor. He was too well liked to be trustworthy, and they spied on him from time to time.
Once the illicit materials were safely hidden, the doctor turned the anchorite around once more, telling him to press here, and here, so, to hold the lips of the wound together while he sewed it, and the two of them cooperated with neatness and dispatch, the doctor taking notice of the fact that the old man’s hands were quite clean, even the nails. When the sewing was done, the doctor cleaned the surface of the wound once more, then placed a pad of cloth across it and sealed this to the face with several lengths of sticky stuff at which the anchorite widened his eyes.
“The Regime knows all about this stuff,” said the doctor with a shrug. “It’s not artful and it’s not demonic, it’s just a kind of cloth with some rubbery cement along one side of it, to hold bandages on.”
The anchorite smiled, which the doctor found pleasant, since he got few enough of those during a day’s work. Pain usually preoccupied people to the exclusion of politeness, no matter how grateful they might be. He went to the door, called Millus into the room, gave him instructions as to the care of the patient and the command to bring him to the clinic in two days’ time. Then he rose and approached the boar’s nest of a bed where the bound man had continued heaving and snorting. Leaving him tightly bou
nd, the doctor took off the gag and gave the fellow a drink.
“Can you talk sense?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” said the bound man in a panicky voice. “Is he all right, Matt? I didn’t even know it was him…”
“He’s all right. Here. Let me look at your eyes. Ah. Yes. Now, let me listen here, like this. Good. Let’s remove the ropes. Ben, take those scissors outside, as well as anything else that looks dangerous, and thank you for your help.
“Ah. Now, suppose you tell me about it?”
“It…it was the Terrors, sir. That is, I guess it was. I hadn’t had them before, but I’ve heard people tell. All I knew was, the monsters had me, and my little friend Dismé, like in the Time of Desperation, sir, horrid things, oh, with such a taste and smell to them, like choking, and they had me and they had Dismé, and I was trying to get to her, and suddenly I had a weapon in my hand and I started stabbing the thing that held me…” He sobbed drily. “It was Matt.”
“Dismé who?” the doctor asked. “And where is she?”
“Oh, sir, the only Dismé I ever knew was a little girl I played with in Apocanew, when I was a child. Dismé Latimer, and she’s all grown up by now, still in Apocanew so far as I know. In my dream she was only a tiny girl, but it seemed real…”
The doctor took a notebook from his pocket and perched on the bed like an angular bird. “Now, I want you to be very patient with me and answer a great many questions. Let’s start with everything you ate or drank all day yesterday?”
When he left the room an hour later, the doctor was no less puzzled than he had been on other similar occasions when hanging about the clinics at night had garnered him a victim of the Terrors. Last span there had been four dead when he arrived, and two more dying, for that man had laid hands on a bludgeon and the house had been asleep. Nothing seemed to unite those who had the Terrors. Some were young, some old, some women, some men, some workers, some farmers, some do-nothings, some who had eaten little or nothing, some who had feasted and drunk enough cider to fill a bull’s bath. Most of them, though not all, had been to market recently, which meant little or nothing, since almost everyone went to market every day or so.