Chapter 48 - The Farm in Irttat

 

Chapter 48: Flame in the Swamp 04

Grande's architecture had a distinctly humanist, neo-classical character. An eclectic blend of influences from every direction, with echoes of Kenting, Spring, and even the old Eatonian style visible if you knew where to look.

The main boulevard was lined on both sides with two-story buildings faced in grey-white marble, their ornate black iron window frames shut tight. Rococo cornices ran along the upper stories, and at the heart of the street stood a mythological sculpture of a figure playing a harp — a deity of legend said to govern trade and fortune.

In the distance, a great white domed rotunda rose into the clouds above the city — the Temple of Gaia.

The morning bell rang out from that bell tower and passed through every corner of the city.

Yet at the very foot of that sacred temple, the bodies of the destitute lay scattered along the roadside.

They lay in the shade cast by the sun, flies circling over the decaying flesh.

Pedestrians were sparse on the streets; the few people who did pass kept their faces tightly covered and moved with hurried, averted expressions.

Not far off, a handful of vagrants huddled in a street corner, watching the three women with tired eyes.

These vagrants had lost even their habitual wariness — and why not? When you were dying of plague, what was there left to be afraid of?

They even managed a smile.

These well-dressed, respectable people, whatever strange reason had brought them to this dead city, were perhaps the closest any of them had ever been to their kind.

Before long, they would die slowly, just the same as the rest.

Death, truly the one and last thing in this world that was equal for all.

Wait, what was this?

That well-dressed one was coming over.

What did she want?

The vagrant Eppie scrambled to her feet in a fluster and took two steps back.

Every eye in the group fixed on the neat, dark-haired young figure approaching — she, she was going to speak to Eppie!

What trick was this fine person trying to pull?

Lucita noticed that the vagrants here were rather timid.

She smiled in what she hoped was a reassuring way and asked, as gently as she could manage: "Excuse me, do you happen to know the way to the nearest inn?"

Eppie noticed that this well-dressed person's accent was a little unusual, not a local one.

But a well-dressed person's accent was certainly some kind of refined, distinguished pronunciation. Perhaps this was a traveler from out of town who had wandered in by mistake?

Right, she'd asked about the inn!

Eppie's eyes darted. "Esteemed guest, you've come to exactly the right person. Eppie knows every road in this city inside and out, and can guide you personally, for just five, no, three silver coins."

Lucita had a strong feeling that this self-styled "Eppie" was trying to fleece her, and by rights she ought to bargain back. She thought this, then looked at Eppie's sickly, ashen face and ragged clothes, swallowed the words, and quietly decided to be the fool: "Of course. Thank you for your kindness."

She counted three silver coins from her pocket and pressed them into Eppie's hand. "I'll leave it to you."

Eppie had not lied, but what she had neglected to mention was that the inn had long since stopped taking guests.

Faced with the inn's firmly shut doors, the three women looked at one another.

Eppie smiled uneasily, with a trace of guilt. "This... well, Eppie didn't know about this either."

In truth, they had fully expected the inn to be closed.

With plague like this, even the shops along the main boulevard had shuttered their doors. Why would a guest inn be any different?

Kelsey waved a hand at Eppie. "Don't worry about it. We'll look around ourselves."

Eppie hesitated, her lips moving slightly, then said: "You might try looking around the slums in the northeast corner. In times like these, no inn will be open — what I mean is, most inns are very likely not operating. The slums aren't what you'd normally look for, but in times like these it's only the people there who are still out and working, still looking for food, and only their doors that can be knocked on. With any luck, you might be able to find somewhere to stay the night."

Kelsey nodded thoughtfully.

Watching the three well-dressed figures recede into the distance, Eppie muttered under her breath: "Strange fine folk."

She weighed the coins in her hand, then tested one between her teeth and received a hard knock for her trouble.

Eppie didn't mind the pain in the least. She grinned broadly, then held the coin up to the sun and admired it for a good while. "Gaia above…… actual silver coins."

Eppie's advice proved useful. They made their way to the slums and found, just as she had said, a number of thin washermen gathered in twos and threes by the stream, washing heaps of clothing piled in large tubs at the water's edge.

Even in the depths of such a plague, the nobility still preferred to have their garments washed by poor laundry workers, and those poor laundry workers, most of them ill themselves, had no choice but to drag themselves up and keep working.

After all, the alternative to work was starvation, and they might starve to death before the plague even had the chance to finish them.

The three women's clean outer garments, smooth complexions, lustrous hair, and upright bearing made them stand out conspicuously among the slum residents in their worn-out clothes and slight frames.

The moment they reached the stream, the washermen noticed them.

Was that — those well-dressed types from the main city district? What would people like that be doing here?

The crowd murmured in low voices and stole sideways glances, though no one dared look directly.

In truth, the three women's style of dress was far more unpretentious than the "well-dressed" people these residents were used to, and their bearing was quite different as well. Anyone who actually had dealings with the middle classes would have seen at once that something was off. 

But expecting slum residents, who rarely if ever crossed into that world, to parse those distinctions was simply asking too much.

Finding a room to borrow was easy enough. Slum families were always short of living space, never in surplus, but the temptation of silver coins made them perfectly willing to squeeze in with their neighbors for a night in an already cramped house.

The older and younger washermen all tried to speak at once, coughing into the wind as they went, each eager to make their case for their own home.

Lucita hesitated briefly, then chose at random the one who looked the cleanest and most presentable, and asked him gently: "You say your house has a well and a separate kitchen?"

The young man's excitement flushed color across his pallid, sickly face. "Y-yes, my lord. And my house is very clean! Would you be willing to stay with us?"

Lucita nodded. "Would you mind taking us to have a look?"

The rest of the washermen dispersed with disappointed sighs.

The young man's house was not far off, and just as he had said, it was a reasonably clean flat-roofed dwelling.

When his mother and uncle caught sight of the silver coins Lucita took out, their eyes went wide with shock. They fell over themselves with thanks, tidied the room in short order, and were soon off to borrow space from the neighbors.

The whole family was gaunt and ill, walking with evident difficulty. It was a sight that was hard to watch.

Lucita turned away, and produced a water pouch from somewhere. She held it out. "This contains medicine for the cold sickness. Have each of you drink a little, it may help."

The mother received it with overwhelmed gratitude, thanking her again and again.

Sometimes, the suspicion of the slum residents reached a degree that left one speechless, yet at other times, their trust came as though for no reason at all.

Cheating them out of their money was next to impossible, but cheating them out of their lives was as easy as turning over one's hand.

No one worried about Lucita putting anything in the water. For one thing, medicine was too scarce and precious to waste, and for another, these people were genuinely penniless; apart from a few lives, there was nothing worth scheming for.

The family shared the pouch carefully. The youngest daughter drank first, then the young man who had brought them, then the mother and uncle in turn, until the pouch was empty between them.

Medicine was a desperately scarce thing for the slum residents. The apothecaries on the main streets had always been for the middle classes and nobility. When illness came for the poor, the only thing to be done was to endure.

Endure through it and that was your luck. Fail to endure and that was your fate.

Once the family had relocated to the neighbors, the three of them finally settled in, and spent the entire morning resting inside the house.

They were exhausted from the journey, and from sleeping rough in the open air. It had taken its toll.

After a self-provided lunch that afternoon, they invited the ten-year-old daughter of the household from next door to come over.

The little girl was called Dalila, and her bright, quick eyes were always darting here and there. She had the look of someone very sharp-witted.

"What did you need me for, big sisters?"

Lucita found talking to a resilient child much more relaxed: "Dalila, how are you feeling now?"

Dalila's face lit up instantly. "It's amazing,  that medicine really works!"

Lucita smiled.

Dalila's color did look a good deal rosier than it had in the morning — the decoction with magical herbs added was more than adequate for treating humans.

"You have a lot of friends, don't you?" Lucita said.

"Yes, I have lots of friends."

"I have an errand I'd like you to run for me. Do it well and this gold coin is yours." Lucita held the coin up between her fingers. Dalila's eyes practically adhered to it.

She swallowed, wrenched her gaze from the coin, and looked up at Lucita with bright, eager eyes. "What do you need me to do?"

"Let me ask you. Everyone in Grande has come down with this strange illness, haven't they?"

Dalila nodded.

Lucita thought for a moment. "I have a great deal more medicine like that. I have just one thing for you to do — go and tell people to come here to receive it. Can you do that?"

Dalila stared at her, stunned.

"That's all?" she asked, disbelieving.

"That's all."

"And then... this gold coin is mine?"

"Yes, Dalila."

Dalila still looked as though she could hardly believe it, and for a moment was almost too startled to agree.

Lucita, seeing this, added: "There's one more thing. I noticed the water vat in the house has run dry. Could you help us fill it? None of us have the energy."

At that, Dalila relaxed.

Right, of course. Fine people like these were too delicate for their own good, couldn't even fetch water themselves and had to hire someone to do it.

She patted her own chest with confidence: "Leave it to me. As long as you're staying here, I'll come to fill your water every single day!"

She accepted the gold coin.

Lucita had not made up a task for Dalila out of nothing.

The medicine they had brought was limited, nowhere near enough for an entire city, and it needed to be diluted with large quantities of water and reboiled. 

Before setting out, they had deliberately concentrated the decoction to a very high potency, precisely in preparation for dilution.

The efficacy would be considerably reduced after diluting, but according to Stasia's analysis of the concentration, it would still be more than sufficient to suppress the spread of the illness and relieve symptoms.

They set up the stove, bought firewood from the neighboring houses, and before long a steaming medicine stall was operating in front of the doorway.

Literacy was not common among the slum residents, and even with a sign reading "Free Medicine" hanging prominently, many people still did not understand. 

But Dalila's efforts at spreading the word were thorough, and at least the surrounding residents learned that medicine was being given away here for free.

For the ailing poor, growing weaker day by day, losing the ability to work, that was as good as waiting to die.

In circumstances like these, free medicine left no room to wonder whether it was effective, or even whether it was safe — because things were already at their worst, and could not get worse. 

Besides, the ones distributing it were well-to-do and respectable. What could people like that possibly want from them?

People began to come for the medicine gradually as the afternoon wore on, and by evening a long queue had formed.

To prevent the medicine from running out, they set a rule of one bowl per person per day.

As for how they identified anyone trying to collect a second time. In truth, only Lucita knew: she placed a small mental imprint on the outer mind of each person who had already received their dose, to serve as a marker.

Indeed, her mental gift had advanced to the point where a single glance was enough to pierce the outer layer of an ordinary person's mind.

Kelsey and Stasia continued not to ask. It was enough for them to see that those who came back for more were accurately identified every time.

Summer days were long. Even after the dinner hour, there was still a faint scattered light, casting long bent shadows down the street.

The line at the medicine stall grew thin.

It was then that Lucita noticed a woman.

The woman had long black hair and dark green eyes. Her frame was slight, her clothing ragged and ill-fitting. A bone flute hung at her waist, and she advanced slowly with the queue, one step at a time.

As a side note, people here had no particular habit of queuing, this line had been enforced by Kelsey, who had organized it by simply standing there with her sword.

The woman reached the front, took up her chipped clay bowl, and said in a low, rough voice: "Thank you."

When she raised her head, those dark green eyes sent a jolt through Lucita.

An immense expanse of white bones.

Spider silk everywhere. The spiders played their eerie music along the threads.

Eternal night. Dust.

A place forgotten by time, its unbroken webs the testament to its long history.

From somewhere in the low droning, dark foam surged up across the surface of the swamp.

Blub. Blub —

The bubbles broke.

Lucita snapped back to herself with a start, and heard Stasia asking in puzzlement: "What are you staring at?"

She didn't answer, meeting the woman's eyes for a moment.

She couldn't read anything there.

It was the most ordinary of faces,  marked with the same traces of weathering and hard living as every neighbor around her. 

A face like that, in the slums, could be forgotten with a single glance away.

So, was it a hallucination?

Lucita narrowed her eyes, watching the woman's slight figure walk away.

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