The Healer (26 page)

Payne was chagrined. Despite his reverent care, the invitation was showing signs of wear and overhandling. Two of its corners were dog-eared, and there was a smudge along its lower edge. Worse, from taking it out of its envelope several times a day and pressing it against his nose and cheek, its scent, her scent, was disappearing. Fortunately, he would soon get to experience that scent in the flesh. He had worked overtime to be in a position to see her at the time she requested. He had one more patient for the day, and then he would be free.

Leaving the invitation within sight on his desk, he called that patient in. It was a woman, a large and overweight one, with pale eyes, swollen, encumbered joints, and thickened skin. At first glance her illness seemed of her own making, a result of gluttony and its handmaiden, shame. This, however, was not the case. She turned out to be suffering from an inner metabolic process, an infiltrative disease where normal tissue was replaced by a fibrous protein. In response, her body
had stiffened and her skin and joints had turned into a kind of stubborn paste. It was difficult for her to walk and nearly impossible to get herself on the healing bed. Payne administered a potent anodynic sporophyte to kill her pain, which would help in moving her. While he waited for it to take effect, he indulged in thoughts and fantasies of his upcoming visit to Meera's.

His reveries were interrupted by a knocking at the door. He asked the woman if she was expecting company. She said no and mentioned that the medicine was working, the pain was less, perhaps it was time that they get started. Payne agreed and, putting the knocking, which had momentarily stopped, from his mind, helped her to the bed.

It was a large and comfortable bed. The room itself was large and comfortable, and it contained all the various equipment that a human making his way to the Tower, the pinnacle of the craft, would expect. The Boomine synthesizer, the retinal harmonic generator, the tantalus olfactus, the transdermal euphoid pump, as well as other, more trendy devices. Though here, more than anywhere else, it was the healer who was central to the healing process, a fact that most of the patients who made their way to the Tower seemed implicitly to understand, for in the end these gadgets, more often than not, went unused.

As Payne prepared to lie beside the woman and wrap their arms together, the knocking started up again. He heard raised voices: there seemed to be some sort of commotion in the waiting room. Before long, the knocking became a pounding, and seconds later, the door burst open.

In stumbled a wild-eyed and haggard Dr. Valid, looking like something the cat had dragged in.

“Who are those people?” he snarled, gesturing behind him with a trembling, bony finger. “Has reason deserted us completely? Don't they know what Diplomate means?”

He fixed a jaundiced eye on Payne. “Never mind. It's you I want. It pains me to say it, but I need your help.”

He paused as he became aware that Payne was not alone. There was a woman on the healing bed. Half-dazed, she was struggling to sit up.

Valid apologized for the interruption. “You'll have to excuse me, but this is an urgent matter. If you'd be so kind, please wait outside.”

Payne was shocked, both by Valid's rudeness and by how he looked, how much he'd changed. His face was drawn, his cheeks hollow, his skin etched and pale. His thick and wavy hair, such a source of pride to him, had been reduced to scattered clumps. The cane he'd carried for effect was now a necessity, for he'd lost both weight and strength and depended on it for support. His voice alone remained unchanged, as sharp, imperious and demanding as ever.

“I'm sick,” he said to Payne. “Come look at me.”

Instead, Payne looked at the woman, who was now sitting. Their eyes met.

Valid scowled. “You think I'm lying?” He tugged at the skin of his face, then held out a trembling hand. “He'll do you next,” he told the woman. “After me.”

There was no doubting that Valid told the truth. He was most certainly ill, but Payne refused to jump at his command. The man was overstepping his authority. Furthermore, he could have—and clearly should have—come in sooner.

“This didn't happen overnight. Why did you wait so long?”

“What does it matter? I'm here now.”

Both of them knew that it did matter, or that it could. But that was business better left for later.

“Let me heal the lady first,” said Payne.

“No. First me.”

“Yours might take some time.”

“I'm not an idiot,” replied Valid, eyes flashing. Then he grimaced. “This is Sixth Degree. I know what Sixes need.”

Payne's mind was on his date. He was determined not to miss a minute of it.

“I should rest first, Professor.”

“Diplomate,” interjected Valid.

“Diplomate. The healing would go much better if I did.”

“How long a rest?”

“A few hours at the least. Why don't you come back first thing tomorrow morning?”

“Tomorrow? Me? You put me off?” Outraged, Valid clutched Payne's hand as if he were a hawk and Payne, a rabbit. “There's no rest for me. Why should there be for you? No, my friend, not tomorrow. Now. We'll do it now.”

The woman was by this time standing. Payne looked to her for help, but she seemed reluctant to intervene. Standing up to Valid took an effort that she did not have, and she was not alone. Sick or well, this was a man adept at bullying.

On her behalf then, and on his (mostly his), Payne objected to Valid's interference. He had no right to take her place. It was unnecessary, unethical, improper and just plain wrong.

Valid couldn't believe his ears. He sent a look to Payne that had turned other men to stone. Payne braved the look, but then his heart betrayed him. Without thinking, he stole a glance at the invitation.

Whatever his weaknesses, current or past, Valid knew how to read a glance, and he knew about hunger and longing. He followed the upstart healer's darting eyes, and before Payne could stop him, had seized the envelope and withdrawn the invitation. He read it rapidly, eyes dancing.

“Ah. I see. Meera desires an audience with you. The great Meera Libretain. What, I wonder, does she want?”

Payne tried to snatch the invitation back, but Valid held it out of his reach. “She writes of news. What news?”

“I don't know.”

“Is she the precious rest you need? Is she the reason you put me and this good woman off? That you delay us?” Valid scanned the note again, an old desire flickering in his leaden eyes, then surrendered it to
Payne. “She's not worth it, my friend. Believe me. She's crafty. Whatever she says, it's herself that she's serving.”

“And who are you serving?” asked Payne.

Valid gave him a look. “Fair enough. Myself as well. I said that in the beginning. I need your help, Payne. I say it again now, plainly. And what has Meera said? Has she been equally frank with you?”

A cough arrested him, rattling through his chest and dislodging phlegm, which he lacked the strength to expectorate. When he recovered from it and caught his breath, he took a more conciliatory tone.

“I have no personal quarrel with her. She's a smart and determined woman. Her faults we needn't dwell on. But have you ever wondered why she engineered your release from prison? And why she arranged to have you brought here?”

He had wondered, and she had explained it to his satisfaction. “They needed healers in Aksagetta. And here, they need healers here. Healers who can handle Fives and Sixes.”

“Yes,” said Valid. “And you have that talent. You've developed it. What did Meera say? You have a gift? Perhaps she's right; perhaps you do. Did it ever occur to you that she wants that gift? That the lovely Meera has a use for you?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that Meera Libretain does not act idly. For every word she speaks, every action she undertakes, she puts in hours of thought and planning. Her mind is a web. She loves to spin her thread. She's cunning. Devious sometimes. She learned it from her father, the Senator. A master of manipulation.”

“She's not manipulating me.”

“No?”

“Why would she? For what reason?”

“Who can say? Heal me, then ask her.”

“She didn't arrange to have me brought here. I came freely, of my own accord. I chose to come.”

“Did you? A healer? Choose freely? You're naive, my friend. No one, least of all a healer, is free. We're all slaves to one thing or another. I'm a slave to my passions. A slave to doing good. A slave to progress. And now, it seems, for better or worse, a slave to you. How ironic.”

“I don't have to be the one to heal you. You could choose someone else. There're other healers with equal talent.”

Valid shook his head. “Not for me.”

“Why not?”

“I have my reasons.” Using his cane, he dragged himself across the room, halting at the healing bed, where he tried to hoist himself without success. His weight was but a fraction of what it had been, but along with fat he'd also lost muscle. His arms were too weak to lift his body. His face turned flushed and plethoric.

The woman, still harboring hope that she might be next, had not left, but retreated to the background. Valid's performance brought her forward, and at first Payne thought that she was going to lend a hand and try to help him, despite being in no condition to. The analgesic had worn off, and her movements were slow and obviously painful. But she made her way to Valid nonetheless, halting perhaps a tad too close for his comfort, and proceeded to upbraid him.

“You're sick, yes, but I'm sick, too. There's a waiting room full of sick people. Why should you go first?” She wagged a finger in his face. “You should be ashamed of yourself. I say you should wait your turn.”

Her audacity took Valid by surprise, and for a moment he lost his voice, but the finger in the face revived it. “My turn? My turn? It is my turn. Can't you see, old woman? My time is up. Smell my breath. Listen to it rattle in my chest. I'm dying. I'm rotting from within.” He turned to Payne, pleading. “Help me. I'll be gone before tomorrow. What do you think will happen if they hear you turned me away? If they find me dead?”

“Dead?” The woman's eyes narrowed, and she looked to Payne for confirmation of this dire prognostication.

Valid did look ravaged. Payne had seen few who looked so bad. But as a healer he was unwilling to predict the future, not to so fine a point as death by the morrow. It was a fool's game and doubly so with a man like Valid.

“It's possible,” was all he could bring himself to say.

But possible was enough for the woman. She would not have this man's death on her head.

“Take him then. I'll wait.” Slowly, she made her way to the door, where she paused. “You're a bully,” she told Valid. “You need to learn some manners. Still, I wish you luck.”

She wished the same to Payne, then added, “Don't use it all up, if you please. I may need some too, and I'm next.”

Once she was gone, Payne hurried to Valid's side. He was determined to make this quick and did not even try to conceal his impatience and frustration.

“Easy now,” said Valid, wincing as Payne half helped, half hoisted him onto the bed. “I know where you want to be. I know where I want to be, too. We'll both of us be happy when this is over with, but for now I need you here. Don't rush this, Payne. It requires your full attention.”

Payne replied that he didn't need a lesson in how to heal. Not from Valid.

Valid shot him a look. “Watch yourself.”

But Payne was angry. “There're people who say that death brings peace. That it's better than life. How can you can be sure you wouldn't prefer it?”

This time Valid merely snorted, occasioning another paroxysm of coughing, which left him gasping and in pain.

“Peace is for the peacemakers. I'm not the type. Does that make me any less worth saving?” He paused for breath. “You don't like me, Payne. You never have. I accept that. Sometimes I don't like myself. But that has no bearing on this. You're a healer. Likes and dislikes are irrelevant.”

There was no pleading in his voice now, no condescension. It was
simply a reminder, a reiteration of the oldest and perhaps most basic precept of healing. And an indication of how well he knew Payne. It didn't matter how selfish, wicked or cruel a person was. It didn't matter what they had done, or what they might do. Healing had the power to change a person, but that didn't matter either. All that mattered was that this was what Payne did. It was what he was. Healing was more than a canon, more than a creed. It was visceral. It was something that belonged to his spirit if he had a spirit, and to his soul if he had one of those. In a dream he might deny a man in need, he might refuse to heal a person for crimes committed, but in reality, in practice, every fiber of whatever he was made of would rebel against turning that person away.

“Close your eyes,” said Payne. “Stop talking.”

Valid did as he was told while Payne prepared himself. He asked if Valid wanted the epidermal barrier spray, and Valid said no. He was not afraid of contact with a healer. He was not afraid of death, when it came down to it, if only it didn't involve so much agony.