On the Oceans of Eternity (18 page)

Perks had been loping not far ahead with his usual casual alertness, panting a bit as the day grew hotter. Now he reeled in his tongue, slowed, stopped, and stood stiff-legged, growling slightly, the thick ruff of fur around his shoulders and neck bristling. Giernas stopped himself, flinging up a hand, conscious of more sweat running down his face and flanks than a mere couple of miles’ run on a spring day should have brought.

“I’m going in alone,” he said slowly. Sue cut off her protest at the chopping gesture he made. “Tidtaway, wait here. Same signals.”

The ranger walked forward, rifle in his hands—although he had a sickening suspicion that there was nothing ahead that a bullet could protect him from. Even against the wind, the oily-sweet stink of corruption warned him at ten or twenty yards out, and the buzzing of innumerable flies. He swallowed, clenched teeth, made himself move forward at a cautious walk. The first body lay in the shadow of one of the great oaks, feet pointing at one hut and head at another. Small scavengers had been at it, and the flesh seethed with maggots, but from the dress—skirt of raven feathers, wand with a ruff of eagle feathers, necklace of bear claws centered on the skull of a falcon—this had been a shaman. He looked back along the trail; you could still see that the man had dragged himself along until he collapsed.

Probably trying everything he could to save his people,
Giernas thought with a deep sadness underlaid with anger. He slung the rifle over his back and moved through the settlement, careful to touch nothing. Many of the bodies were fresher than the dead shaman; he pushed his head into one hut, then another, forcing himself not to gag, looking closely.

“Jesus,” he said softly, then spat to clear his mouth of the cold gummy saliva of nausea. He raised his rifle, fired, reloaded, fired again.

Then he found an empty basket, tore it into strips, built a little tipi of dry branches, then crouched over it with the fire-maker from his belt pouch, winding its spring and checking that the flint was fresh and unworn. When he thumbed the release catch the mechanism whirred and a torrent of sparks flashed into the pan with its dried tinder. He blew softly on it, then tipped it into the basket shreds and blew again, glad of a mindless familiar task that let him distance himself from what lay about. When the fire was well set he put the ends of thick branches in it, then used more to move—scrape would have been a better term—all the remains outdoors into the huts. Then he set those on fire and stripped himself naked; everything went into the blaze that was not wood or metal, even the precious ammunition pouch and the sheaths of his weapons, even the leather sling of the rifle.

He might easily have missed the last sign as he left, skin roughened with fear. But his eyes had been trained to watch for patterns all his life since the Event, and those skills unmercifully honed as the expedition traveled west across the continent. He stopped, went to one knee, peered incredulously. The mark was old, in the shadow of a clump of knee-high bunchgrass, and nearly obliterated by the wind; a single footstep would have wiped out all trace of it. But there was no doubt of what it was. No other animal left that mark, the arched shape of a horse’s hoof. His fingers brushed over it lightly. A
shod
hoof at that, he could see the marks of the nails. The expedition’s horses weren’t shod—carrying that many blanks would have cut too far into their useful loads, so they’d just been careful. This—

Sue and Tidtaway watched him wide-eyed as he approached, naked save for the rifle and blades he carried in both hands.

“Stand back!” he called, from twenty feet away, then thought of the flies. Unlikely that they could come upwind, but ... “Get back—get back a mile, then wait for me. Do it! Now!”

Neither hesitated. Giernas turned and ran for the river, found a spot where water curled clean over rocks and sand, checked carefully that no victim had crawled this way in the grip of fever, then washed himself and his tools again and again, gripped Perks by his ruff and forced the dog through the same despite whinings and squirmings and the occasional growl.

I hope this works,
he thought desperately.
God, I wish I knew more about smallpox.

All he knew for sure was that if it hit people who hadn’t been vaccinated, most of them would die. That was what the books said, and he’d seen far more proof than he ever wanted.

K
ing Kashtiliash—Great King of Babylon, King of the Four Quarters of the Earth, King of the Universe, viceregent of the great god Marduk, overlord of Assyria by right of conquest and of Elam by treaty of vassalage, and ally of the Republic of Nantucket in this the Year 10—slept with a Python revolver beneath his pillow.

His hand clenched on the smooth checkered wood and metal of the butt as he woke. The gesture was instinctive, although for most of his twenty-seven years it had been the hilt of a dagger he grasped on waking. It was no less necessary this last year since his father died and he took the throne; more so, if anything.

The royal bedchamber was large and dim, and thick brick walls and cunningly contrived vents in floor and ceiling kept it cool even in the summers of the Land Between the Rivers. That slight breeze sent a ripple through the rich hangings on the walls amid a scent of musk and incense, as well as a welcome breath across sweat-slick skin. For a moment his sleep-dazzled eyes thought that that was what had awoken him. An animal alertness brought him fully alert. A shout would bring guards with sword and rifle ... but if an intruder had come this far, it might well be that the guards had been corrupted. He did not think so, but he did not intend to risk his life on the question, either. And Ku-Aya was gone from her place beside him ... His thumb drew back the hammer of the weapon, softly, slowly, still beneath the muffling pillow, all to mute the distinctive
click.

The bed was raised on a low platform, with tables of inlaid sissu-wood on either side. One of those held a kerosene lantern, its flame turned down to a slight red glow. He let that be, and took instead a steel fighting knife of the kind his
Nantukhtar
allies called a bowie in his left hand. The pistol in his right felt absurdly light after the bronze swords he had borne since toddlerhood, but intensive practice had made him adept with the Islander weapon. His bare feet touched silently on the tile and soft rugs of the floor—an advantage of royal rank, for mats of reed or straw would have made a sound, rutching under his weight. Kashtiliash son of Shagarakti-Shuriash was tall for a man of Kar-Duniash, broad-shouldered and thick-armed, his hairy muscular body compact and strong, tanned to bronze on face and limbs, fading to his natural dark olive on his torso. Waving blue-black hair fell to his shoulders, loosed for the night from its usual bun at the nape of his neck, and his curled beard was thick and dense, growing up to the edges of his high cheekbones, framing a beak-nosed, full-lipped face and eyes of a catlike hazel.

They quickly found the source of the disturbance that had troubled his sleep, and grew wide at the sight. A sliver of light was showing beneath the doors that led to the private rooms of the Lady of the Land, Queen of Babylon, Lieutenant Colonel Kathryn Hollard. Who was hundreds of miles away this night—

His feet moved with a hunter’s silence, despite the solid weight of muscle and bone they upbore. Slowly, carefully he moved his left arm until the knuckles of the hand that held the knife touched the slick inlaid cedarwood of the door. He slitted his eyes—it would not do to be blinded by the sudden wash of light—and pushed sharply, wheeling to bring the Python up.

He froze, as astonished as the figure in his sights—more so. It was his concubine Ku-Aya, naked as he, her plumply pretty face going slack in astonishment, then pasty-white with terror. She cowered back against the spindly
dressing table,
nearly overturning the lamp. Then she dropped to her face on the carpet; her hand moved, until he put his foot on it.

“Do not stir,” he said harshly.

This was forbidden ground to all save him and a few servants. Something dark had fallen from the woman’s hand. He bent and picked it up. His hand jerked as if to throw it away again when he realized what it was; a little folded tablet of lead, with a figure scratched on it, and some lines of writing.

A
cursing tablet!
Kashtiliash thought, stomach crawling with the sickness of horror.

He recognized the scorpion-tailed, four-winged, lion-pawed drawing. In his studies in the House of Succession he had read the mighty collection of incantations known as
Utukku Lemnutu,
The Evil Demons. The lines pressed into the lead were crude, but there was no doubt that they showed
Pazuzu,
the Lord of the Demons of the Waste—master of sandstorms and bringer of all ill fortune for travelers. But the words inscribed below were not a prayer or spell to foil the demon’s wickedness. They were an invocation, a
summoning.

“The punishment for sorcery directed at the King’s person is flaying alive,” he grated.

“Not you! My Lord King, your handmaiden lies at your feet—it is not against you! Look inside the lead, and my lord will see!”

She
did
lie at his feet. He carefully bent the soft metal back, and a fine dusting of hairs fell into his palm. They were the color of desert sand, light and fine—hair such as was almost never seen in the land of Kar-Duniash. Cropped short, in the manner of the Nantukhtar warriors; Ku-Aya must have plucked it from a hairbrush of the queen’s. He raised the pistol then, rage washing red across his vision. A curse against someone traveling : .. as the queen did this night, in the Nantukhtar ship of the air, over the deserts where Pazuzu had most power. Memory made him lower the pistol; Kathryn would not thank him for such a deed. She did not believe any curse of this land held power over her, either.

“You conspire against the queen, the Lady of the Land,” he said. “For that also the punishment is death.”

Ku-Aya surprised him, wrenching her wrist free and hunching backward, hissing like an Egyptian cat. “The queen! The sorceress who has bespelled our lord!” Her voice rose to a shriek. “The unnatural bitch, not even a woman, a man with breasts—the doer of evil, they plot against my lord and he will not
see—”

“Silence!”

Kashtiliash controlled himself with an effort, his breath slowing. He dropped the knife and pistol on the table, grabbed the woman by her neck, and pitched her into the royal bedchamber. Then he belted on a light kilt—it was unlawful, unlucky, for ordinary men to see the King’s nakedness, at least here in the palace—and shouted for the guards. They came, along with a
sa resi,
an eunuch chamberlain.

The armed men bristled at the sight of the anger on his face, facing outward and bringing their rifles to port-arms as they glared about for intruders.

“Stand easy,” Kashtiliash said, gesturing impatiently. “There is no enemy here.” He nudged the woman with his toe. “Captain Mar-biti-apla-usur.”

“Command me, King of the Universe!”

“This woman has gravely displeased me,” he said. “She is to be expelled from the palace. As she is, taking nothing.”

The guard captain bowed. “What shall be done with her then?” he asked.

“I do not care. She is become a weariness to my spirit.”

The guardsman bowed again, grabbed the blubbering woman by her hair, and pulled her out of the chamber as she scrambled to rise. The officer would probably add her to his household, or sell her—Kashtiliash had spoken truth when he said he was indifferent.

“Oh King, live forever.” the eunuch said, rising from his prostration. “Do you wish another woman?”

“At this hour? Leave me, go, go,” Kashtiliash said.

His sigh was half groan in the silence as the chamber emptied.
There is only one woman that I wish were here, and I am angered with her.
Or at least with her brother, the general of the allied Nantukhtar forces here in Kar-Duniash.

Raupasha had claimed Kenneth Hollard for her consort. Did that mean a plot to sieze Mitanni from his control, or could it be only the foolishness of a besotted girl?

 

“Officer on deck!”

Private Kyle Hook swung his legs down from the bunk and came to attention. Sick call beat lying on the hospital bunk looking out the window—though it was pleasant enough to watch everyone else working for once. The colonel had arrived, red-haired little I-am-at-God‘s-Right-Hand O’Rourke himself, and everyone was running back and forth like ants in a hill someone had poked with a stick.

Prancing around on that fancy horse of his like he’s something special,
Hook thought.
Dumb mick was working as a fucking
waiter
when the Event happened. I should be out there, not him.

The doctor made her rounds, small and neat in a blue Coast Guard uniform and white coat; most of the ones in this room were ambulatory cases. but there were a few pale and drawn with fever that she stooped over as they lay. Her face hardened when she came to Kyle Hook.

“So,” she said, looking him over. She was a slight gray-haired woman with pawky blue eyes that made nothing of his extra inches of height. “Malingering again, eh, Hook?”

“No, ma‘am,” he said, working his left arm slowly and cautiously. “Shoulder hurts something awful, ma’am.”

“Take off your shirt, then.” she said briskly, and put her black bag down on a window ledge.

“I’m not well, Dr. Wenter, really I’m not, ma’am,” Hook said, muffled by the T-shirt he was cautiously removing.