Untalented (20 page)

Nalini waved to her from the opposite shore, a little sheepishly, Saroya thought. Thirty paces separated them; they didn’t need to raise their voices. Saroya ignored Callor.

“I gave my report to Faro. I’ve been looking, but I haven’t found a pattern yet.”

“You look tired. Still feeling well?” Nalini asked.

“I’m not sick yet.”

Eiden Callor shook his head. “Foolish girl, gallivanting about on a futile quest.”

Hot indignation burned through Saroya, though she knew showing it might alienate him forever. “Gallivanting? I’m working harder now than ever. If what I discover keeps one person from falling ill then it will all be worth it.”

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

Saroya glared at Nalini. “You told him?”

“I didn’t have a choice. He came to the guild looking for you. He made me bring him here.”

“Someone matching your description duped the castle fitter into giving them livery. Normally I wouldn’t waste time on such a small matter but I’ve had enough of your games,” Callor said.

Saroya addressed Callor. “I didn’t have much choice either. It was either this or lose the only chance I have of proving I am who I claim to be.”

“I can’t believe you still insist—”

“Insist?” Saroya was shouting now. “The sheer fact I’m here, risking my life, doesn’t tell you anything?” She felt her cheeks flush hot. “That stuck up, overdone, fame hungry, money-grubbing tart worms her way into the only family I might ever know and I’m supposed to take it lying down?”

Eiden Callor had the grace to look taken aback. He glanced at the bridge a hundred paces away; the noise had attracted the attention of the quarantine enforcers. Saroya took her emotions in hand with difficulty.

“You may never believe me. That’s your choice. But I will leave here with proof of who I am, or knowing that proof is lost forever, or dead. There are no other options. Now, if you will excuse me, I have work to do. Nalini, I’m fine on supplies for this week but may need more next week.” She wasn’t sure how much Nalini had told Callor. Nalini nodded.

“I’ll get you a bit more of everything.”

“Surely, food is getting through,” Callor said.

Nalini answered, leaving out any mention of healing supplies. “She needs parchment and the like. For her notes.” This seemed to satisfy Callor.

Saroya forced a smile for her friend. “See you next week.” She whirled and strode back into the Vergal, wondering if the plague would make her a liar.

The plague spread at an alarming rate, leaving few houses unaffected. The burial wagons could not keep up with the bodies, and on every street Saroya walked, several lay in the gutter; nobody wanted to keep the dead in their homes. Even through her cloth shield, the stench made her gag.

Coming up a narrow passageway, Saroya heard shouting. The alley opened onto a wooden span crossing one of the canals. From where she stood in the deep shade of the buildings, she could not see over the bridge’s arc. The screams got louder, punctuated by curses. Before she could decide what to do, a man stumbled over the bridge, fleeing a dozen angry pursuers. Their quarry tripped over the last step of the span, his arms windmilling before he smacked the ground. The mob closed in and pummeled him with kicks and punches. Saroya’s scream caught in her throat.

“You dirty Untalent!”

Thinking the mob had spotted her, Saroya flattened herself into the shadows of a doorway.

“Making us all sick, you are.”

“We won’t let you spread your foul disease any more.”

If the man on the ground said anything, Saroya couldn’t hear. She watched in horror as he curled up in a ball, trying in vain to deflect the blows hailing down. One of his attackers, holding a length of wood, aimed a vicious crack at his victim’s head. Saroya flinched. A spray of blood spattered the alley. The man on the ground convulsed once and grew still.

His assailants kicked him a few more times, then lost interest. The man with the club peered down the alley towards Saroya. She shrank against the wooden doorway, but he didn’t see her. With a shout, he herded his gang back across the bridge.

Saroya waited until she was sure they were gone, then checked the huddled man on the ground. She retched. She could do nothing for him. He’d died because of someone else’s irrational hatred. And for what? The plague didn’t come from Untalents. It had arrived on a ship.

Shuddering, she turned back down the alley looking for an alternate route back to the pub. She clutched the healer’s pouch at her waist, prepared to wave it at anyone who stared at her with the least suspicion.

The days blurred in Saroya’s mind, mornings spent tending those who came to the pub for small curatives, afternoons filled trawling the Vergal for information. It was difficult to remember which days she was supposed to meet with Nalini. After dark, drunken revelers cavorted in the streets—people who felt they no longer had anything to lose by public displays of debauchery. She kept the doors to the Spotted Salmon barred. Several times, loud pounding on the wooden slats jolted her from her work: ruffians looking for stronger drink. Rumors of rapes and worse circled through the neighborhood and she stayed in at night to avoid trouble.

In the morning, she woke with a blinding headache. She could stomach only a few mouthfuls of almond milk from her scanty breakfast.
No, no, no. It can’t be. Not the plague!

She moaned, fear, frustration and exhaustion crashing in on her. She curled up in a corner and ignored the knocks on the door of the pub. Heat wracked her body. She rocked back and forth, unable to find a comfortable position to lie in. Her joints ached. Her lower back throbbed. Even her teeth were sore. She was going to die here and no one would be the wiser. All her searching, come to nothing. Her life, nothing as well. And Martezha, laughing from her comfortable perch in the palace. It was too much to bear.

A raging thirst roused her and she tottered to the water barrel. The cool liquid soothed her somewhat and her head cleared. While her headache receded, her anger mounted. She would not end this way. She would not. Maybe she just had a cold. No pustules had appeared yet. Filling a water skin, she set out with renewed determination. She wouldn’t quit unless the fever forced her off her feet.

She had visited more than half of the almshouses and charitable establishments in the Vergal when she arrived at Abaya House. The iron gates were locked but a bell hung on the stone gateposts. She wiped perspiration from her brow before grasping the intricately knotted rope attached to the clapper and clanging for admission.

A plump woman in a brown robe hurried up the short drive, stopping well clear of the gate. Her friendly face wore an expression of firm regret.

“No visitors at this time. The plague, you know.”

“I’m a healer’s assistant, conducting a survey on the plague for the guild. I was hoping to speak to the administrator.”

The woman pursed her lips in thought.

“Let me see what Madam Abaya says. Wait here.”

Saroya leaned against the sun-warmed stone. Her gaze skimmed over a beggar stealing the boots from a plague corpse in the gutter. The sight had become all too common in the last few days. She heard crunching pebbles and turned to face the gate again.

“Madam Abaya will see you in the back garden.” The woman unlocked the gate and swung it open.

They walked up the driveway, passing underneath an arch in the stone building itself before arriving at a lush green courtyard. The almshouse surrounded the courtyard on three sides. A tall wooden fence bounded the fourth. The elegant and peaceful aspect of the surroundings surprised Saroya. All the almshouses, and in fact, most of the places she’d seen in the Vergal suffered from a certain amount of decrepitude, whether from age, neglect, or poverty. Not Abaya House. The garden was well tended and the whitewash on the window frames fresh. The woman in brown gestured to a wooden bench, where another identically dressed woman sat waiting. She indicated for Saroya sit across from her. Saroya’s guide disappeared into a door inset into the archway.

“You will excuse me if I do not approach,” Madam Abaya said. “We have been fortunate to avoid the plague so far—the vapors do not trouble us here.”

Saroya hoped the sheen of fever on her brow wasn’t visible. She felt chilled now, as opposed to the scorching heat that ran through her body a few minutes ago.

“You have no fever victims here?”

“None whatsoever.”

“Strange. This neighborhood is one of the most severely afflicted.”

Saroya interviewed the woman thoroughly. In the end, nothing jumped out at her. She closed her eyes to ward off a wave of dizziness. She was
not
sick!

“You seem more prosperous than other almshouses I have visited.”

“Because we are not really an almshouse. We rely on the generosity of several noble Houses. We take in a few charity cases, yes, but primarily we provide sanctuary for older servants of Houses that feel they have a duty to care for loyal staff. I wish all the Houses felt that way—we might have fewer old beggars dying in the streets.”

“Older House servants?” Saroya’s squeaky voice sounded strange to her ears.

“Yes. Is something wrong?”

“No—no, no.” She dared not hope. Her pulse pounded against her throbbing headache, and she looked around the garden for distraction. In the far corner, a girl hoisted a bucket of water out of a lichen-covered well. Saroya licked her fever-chapped lips. What she wouldn’t give … She turned back to Madam Abaya. Her voice was unsteady as she posed her question. “There, uh, there wouldn’t happen to be a woman named Veshwa living here, would there?”

Madam Abaya’s unreadable expression plunged Saroya into doubt. Saroya braced for yet another disappointment.

“Why do you ask?”

Saroya drew in a quick breath. How much to tell?

“She knew my mother. I … I’m an orphan. Veshwa’s my only link to my family.”

 
“In all her time here, Veshwa has remained alone. No visits from any of the children she cared for. I expect she would be delighted to speak to you.”

Another wave of dizziness swept over Saroya and it was all she could do to keep Madam Abaya’s lips in focus. She must not have heard correctly. Veshwa, here? Her next words came out in a harsh whisper. “Please. You must let me see her.”

 
“Very well. On one condition: after your visit today, you will not return until the plague passes. Not until the danger is gone.”

Saroya bobbed her head in agreement. She wouldn’t wish the plague even on Martezha. She’d never forgive herself if she made anybody else sick. She just had a cold, didn’t she? And Veshwa was here!

“Follow me, then.”

Madam Abaya walked up an exterior stone staircase built into the walls of the almshouse. Saroya trailed after her on treads worn by years of passing feet. She gripped the banister with a shaky hand, overtaken by nervousness. They ignored the first landing, entering the almshouse on the third floor, where Madam Abaya stopped in front of a plain oak door. She motioned for Saroya to wait as she entered the room. When she returned, she looked concerned.

“Veshwa will see you now. Please do not overtire her. Can you find your way out afterwards?” Saroya nodded. “Then go on in. Good luck.”

Saroya took a deep breath and pushed open the door. The room that greeted her was not at all what she expected after the dark warren-like rooms of the other almshouses she had visited. Bright sunlight streamed in through large windows. A multitude of colored cushions and tapestries enlivened spartan furniture. At first, she thought the room empty, but her confusion subsided when she spotted the elderly woman lying propped up in the bed. The woman reached out a frail, liver-spotted hand and patted the seat beside the bed.

“Come, sit. We can stare out at the garden together.”

“I’m not feeling very well. I think it’s just a cold, but I don’t want to make you sick.”

Veshwa snorted. “At my age, that’s the least of my worries.”

Saroya crossed the room and sat down in the chair.

Veshwa tried to grip her hand but Saroya eluded the touch—she could at least avoid sickening Veshwa.

“Don’t you want to know my name?” Saroya asked.

“My dear, I would have known your face anywhere. That hair, those lips …”

Tears glistened in Veshwa’s eyes. Despite Veshwa’s age, what if the uncertainty that had worried Saroya since speaking to Kimila was true? That Veshwa might be her mother, not Padvai. What if Veshwa left Roshan service in disgrace because she’d borne a child, not because she hid Roshan secrets?

“They are the same as your mother’s, and so, you can only be Saroya.”

A single, harsh sob escaped Saroya. “So it’s true, then, you knew my mother?”

Veshwa laughed. “Knew her? I probably knew her better than she knew herself.” Veshwa picked up a silver comb, her hand trembling arthritically. “I used to comb the knots in her hair with this. I was her nursemaid, and then her personal lady-in-waiting until she married Urdig.”

“That’s what Kimila told me.”

“Kimila! Still kicking around House Roshan, is she?” Veshwa smiled, then turned serious. “Now, child, why are you here? It’s dangerous for someone of your stature to be out alone in the Vergal these days. Although I commend you on your choice of disguise. Very effective.”