Demon Lord Of Karanda (26 page)

‘In advance.’

‘Half now and half when we get to Mal Zeth.’

‘In advance.’

‘That’s hard.’

‘So’s walking.’

Balsca stepped around a corner, reached into an inside pocket, and carefully counted out the ten copper coins. The horde he had accumulated as a result of his pilferage aboard
The Star of Jarot
had dwindled alarmingly. A number of possibilities occurred to him. He shifted his sheath knife around until it was at his back. If the teamster slept soundly enough and if they stopped for the night in some secluded place, Balsca was quite certain that he could ride into Mal Zeth the proud owner of a wagon and a team of mules —not to mention whatever was in the boxes. Balsca had killed a few men in his time—when it had been safe to do so—and he was not particularly squeamish about cutting throats, if it was worth his while.

The wagon clattered and creaked as it rumbled along the cobbled street in the slanting afternoon sunlight.

‘Let’s get a few things clear before we start,’ the teamster said. ‘I don’t like to talk and I don’t like having people jabber at me.’

‘All right.’

The teamster reached back and picked up a wicked-looking hatchet out of the wagon bed. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘give me your knife.’

‘I don’t have a knife.’

The teamster reined in his mules. ‘Get out,’ he said curtly.

‘But I paid you!’

‘Not enough for me to take any chances with you. Come up with a knife or get out of my wagon.’

Balsca glared at him, then at the hatchet. Slowly he drew out his dagger and handed it over.

‘Good. I’ll give it back to you when we get to Mal Zeth. Oh, by the way, I sleep with one eye open and with this in my fist.’ He held the hatchet in front of Balsca’s face. ‘If you even come near me while we’re on the road, I’ll brain you.’

Balsca shrank back.

‘I’m glad that we understand each other.’ The teamster shook his reins, and they rumbled out of Mal Gemila.

Balsca was not feeling too well when they reached Mal Zeth. He assumed at first that it was a result of the peculiar swaying motion of the wagon. Though he had never been sea sick in all his years as a sailor, he was frequently land-sick. This time, however, was somewhat different. His stomach, to be sure, churned and heaved, but, unlike his previous bouts of malaise, this time he also found that he was sweating profusely, and his throat was so sore that he could barely swallow. He had alternating bouts of chills and fever, and a foul taste in his mouth.

The surly teamster dropped him off at the main gates of Mal Zeth, idly tossed his dagger at his feet and then squinted at his former passenger. ‘You don’t look so good,’ he observed. ‘You ought to go see a physician or something.’

Balsca made an indelicate sound. ‘People die in the hands of physicians,’ he said, ‘or if they do manage to get well, they go away with empty purses.’

‘Suit yourself.’ The teamster shrugged and drove his wagon into the city without looking back.

Balsca directed a number of muttered curses after him, bent, picked up his knife, and walked into Mal Zeth. He wandered about for a time, trying to get his bearings, then finally accosted a man in a sea coat.

‘Excuse me, mate,’ he said, his voice raspy as a result of his sore throat, ‘but where’s a place where a man can get a good cup of grog at a reasonable price?’

‘Try the Red Dog Tavern,’ the sailor replied. ‘It’s two streets over on the corner.’

‘Thanks, mate,’ Balsca said.

‘You don’t look like you’re feeling too good.’

‘A little touch of a cold, I think.’ Balsca flashed him a toothless grin. ‘Nothing that a few cups of grog won’t fix.’

‘That’s the honest truth.’ The sailor laughed his agreement. ‘It’s the finest medicine in the world.’

The Red Dog Tavern was a dark grogshop that faintly resembled the forecastle of a ship. It had a low, beamed ceiling of dark wood and portholes instead of windows. The proprietor was a bluff, red-faced man with tattoos on both arms and an exaggerated touch of salt water in his speech. His ‘Ahoys’ and ‘Mateys’ began to get on Balsca’s nerves after a while, but after three cups of grog, he didn’t mind so much. His sore throat eased, his stomach settled down, and the trembling in his hands ceased. He still, however, had a splitting headache. He had two more cups of grog and then fell asleep with his head cradled on his crossed arms.

‘Ahoy, mate. Closing time,’ the Red Dog’s proprietor said some time later, shaking his shoulder.

Balsca sat up, blinking. ‘Must have dropped off for a few minutes,’ he mumbled hoarsely.

‘More like a few hours, matey.’ The man frowned, then laid his hand on Balsca’s forehead. ‘You’re burning up, matey,’ he said. ‘You’d better get you to bed.’

‘Where’s a good place to get a cheap room?’ Balsca asked, rising unsteadily. His throat hurt worse now than it had before, and his stomach was in knots again.

‘Try the third door up the street. Tell them that I sent you.’

Balsca nodded, bought a bottle to take with him and surreptitiously filched a rope-scarred marlinespike from the rack beside the door on his way out. ‘Good tavern,’ he croaked to the proprietor as he left. ‘I like the way you’ve got it fixed up.’

The tattooed man nodded proudly. ‘My own idea,’ he said. ‘I thought to myself that a seafaring man might like a homelike sort of place to do his drinking in—even when he’s this far from deep water. Come back again.’

‘I’ll do that,’ Balsca promised.

It took him about a half an hour to find a solitary passerby hurrying home with his head down and his hands jammed into his tunic pockets. Balsca stalked him for a block or so, his rope-soled shoes making no sound on the cobblestones. Then, as the passerby went by the dark mouth of an alleyway, Balsca stepped up behind him and rapped him smartly across the base of the skull with his marlinespike. The man dropped like a poleaxed ox. Balsca had been in enough shipboard fights and tavern brawls to know exactly where and how hard to hit his man. He rolled the fellow over, hit him alongside the head once again just to be on the safe side, and then methodically began to go through the unconscious man’s pockets. He found several coins and a stout knife. He put the coins in his pocket, tucked the knife under his broad leather belt, and pulled his victim into the alley out of the light. Then he went on down the street, whistling an old sea song.

He felt much worse the following day. His head throbbed, and his throat was so swollen that he could barely talk. His fever, he was sure, was higher, and his nose ran constantly. It took three pulls on his bottle to quiet his stomach. He knew that he should go out and get something to eat, but the thought of food sickened him. He took another long drink from his bottle, lay back on the dirty bed in the room he had rented, and fell back into a fitful doze.

When he awoke again, it was dark outside, and he was shivering violently. He finished his bottle without gaining any particular relief, then shakily pulled on his clothing, which he absently noted exuded a rank odor, and stumbled down to the street and three doors up to the inviting entrance to the Red Dog.

‘By the Gods, matey,’ the tattooed man said, ‘ye look positively awful.’

‘Grog,’ Balsca croaked. ‘Grog.’

It took nine cups of grog to stem the terrible shaking which had seized him.

Balsca was not counting.

When his money ran out, he staggered into the street and beat a man to death with his marlinespike for six pennies. He lurched on, encountered a fat merchant, and knifed him for his purse. The purse even had some gold in it. He reeled back to the Red Dog and drank until closing time.

‘Have a care, matey,’ the proprietor cautioned him as he thrust him out the door. ‘There be murdering footpads about, or so I’ve been told—and the police are as thick as fleas on a mangy dog in the streets and alleys in the neighborhood.’

Balsca took the jug of grog he had bought back to his shabby room and drank himself into unconsciousness.

He was delirious the following morning and he raved for hours, alternating between drinking from his jug of grog and vomiting on his bed.

It took him until sunset to die. His last words were, ‘Mother, help me.’

When they found him, some days later, he was arched rigidly backward, and his face was fixed in a hideous grin.

Three days later, a pair of wayfarers found the body of a bearded teamster lying in a ditch beside his wagon on the road to Mal Gemila. His body was arched stiffly backward, and his face was locked in a grotesque semblance of a grin. The wayfarers concluded that he had no further need of his team and wagon, and so they stole it. As an afterthought, they also stole his clothes and covered the body with dead leaves. Then they turned the wagon around and rode on back to Mal Zeth.

Perhaps a week after Balsca’s largely unnoticed death, a man in a tarred sea coat came staggering into a run-down street in broad daylight. He was raving and clutching at his throat. He lurched along the cobblestone street for perhaps a hundred feet before he collapsed and died. The dreadful grin fixed on his foam-flecked lips gave several onlookers nightmares that night.

The tattooed proprietor of the Red Dog Tavern was found dead in his establishment the following morning. He lay amidst the wreckage of the several tables and chairs he had smashed during his final delirium. His face was twisted into a stiff, hideous grin.

During the course of that day, a dozen more men in that part of the city, all regular patrons of the Red Dog Tavern, also died.

The next day, three dozen more succumbed. The authorities began to take note of the matter.

But by then it was too late. The curious intermingling of classes characteristic of a great city made the confining of the infection to any one district impossible. Servants who lived in that shabby part of town carried the disease into the houses of the rich and powerful. Workmen carried it to construction sites, and their fellow workmen carried it home to other parts of the city. Customers gave it to merchants, who in turn gave it to other customers. The most casual contact was usually sufficient to cause infection.

The dead had at first been numbered in the dozens, but by the end of a week hundreds had fallen ill. The houses of the sick were boarded up despite the weak cries of the inhabitants from within. Grim carts rumbled through the streets, and workmen with camphor-soaked cloths about their lower faces picked up the dead with long hooks. The bodies were stacked in the carts like logs of wood, conveyed to cemeteries, and buried without rites in vast common graves. The streets of Mal Zeth became deserted as the frightened citizens barricaded themselves inside their houses.

There was some concern inside the palace, naturally, but the palace, walled as it was, was remote from the rest of the city. As a further precaution, however, the Emperor ordered that no one be allowed in or out of the compound. Among those locked inside were several hundred workmen who had been hired by Baron Vasca, the Chief of the Bureau of Commerce, to begin the renovations of the bureau offices.

It was about noon on the day after the locking of the palace gates that Garion, Polgara, and Belgarath were summoned to an audience with Zakath. They entered his study to find him gaunt and hollow-eyed, poring over a map of the imperial city. ‘Come in. Come in,’ he said when they arrived. They entered and sat down in the chairs he indicated with an absent wave of his hand.

‘You look tired,’ Polgara noted.

‘I haven’t slept for the past four days,’ Zakath admitted. He looked wearily at Belgarath. ‘You say that you’re seven thousand years old.’

‘Approximately, yes.’

‘You’ve lived through pestilence before?’

‘Several times.’

‘How long does it usually last?’

‘It depends on which disease it is. Some of them run their course in a few months. Others persist until everybody in the region is dead. Pol would know more about that than I would. She’s the one with all the medical experience.’

‘Lady Polgara?’ the Emperor appealed to her.

‘I’ll need to know the symptoms before I can identify the disease,’ she replied.

Zakath burrowed through the litter of documents on the table in front of him. ‘Here it is.’ He picked up a scrap of parchment and read from it. ‘High fever, nausea, vomiting. Chills, profuse sweating, sore throat, and headache. Finally delirium, followed shortly by death.’

She looked at him gravely. ‘That doesn’t sound too good,’ she said. ‘Is there anything peculiar about the bodies after they’ve died?’

‘They all have an awful grin on their faces,’ he told her, consulting his parchment.

She shook her head. ‘I was afraid of that.’

‘What is it?’

‘A form of plague.’

‘Plague?’
His face had gone suddenly pale. ‘I thought there were swellings on the body with that. This doesn’t mention that.’ He held up the scrap of parchment.

‘There are several different varieties of the disease, Zakath. The most common involves the swellings you mentioned. Another attacks the lungs. The one you have here is quite rare, and dreadfully virulent.’

‘Can it be cured?’

‘Not cured, no. Some people manage to survive it, but that’s probably the result of mild cases or their body’s natural resistance to disease. Some people seem to be immune. They don’t catch it no matter how many times they’ve been exposed.’

‘What can I do?’

She gave him a steady look. ‘You won’t like this,’ she told him.

‘I like the plague even less.’

‘Seal up Mal Zeth. Seal the city in the same way that you’ve sealed the palace.’

‘You can’t be serious!’

‘Deadly serious. You have to keep the infection confined to Mal Zeth, and the only way to do that is to prevent people from carrying the disease out of the city to other places.’ Her face was bleak. ‘And when I say to seal the city, Zakath, I mean totally.
Nobody
leaves.’