Dangerous Offspring (32 page)

Slake Cross Hospital

17th May

1.30 a.m.

To be delivered by the hand of Comet

Dear Cyan,

I know you are trapped and must be feeling miserable. Your father’s rage seemed shocking, but I hope at some time in the future you will agree he may have saved your life and that life is indeed more precious than you currently hold it. Lightning loves you with all his heart but you simply refuse to understand how much strain he’s under. He does not want to lose you and he must concentrate on reaching the dam. I didn’t think he would do anything like this no matter how hard you pushed him, but San has never put us under this pressure before.

In the coach on the way from Hacilith I enjoyed our conversation. How agreeable it was, for an old lady who does not need much sleep, to talk through the night with a young lady who is too excited to sleep. And then when the Circle broke and you consoled me…Please turn over in your mind the tales I told you of your father’s life, and understand that in Hacilith you were fed a lot of slander. It shouldn’t colour your opinion of him now.

Once you realise of how little consequence you are in the immensity of time, you gain a great power, a liberty and you can follow your own path in peace. Bide your time and learn.

You probably don’t feel lucky, but let me tell you, you have been living in a time of such equality and freedom it almost seems to me that the people of this era act like spoilt children. People like myself have toiled over decades and centuries so that you may have such freedom. I expect you feel you have little choice in life but in times past you would have had even less. When I was mortal, girls could not be students and few people could read. I guided Hacilith University to develop in the image of the Castle, so it’s run by merit, not by dodderers. These days an applicant to the university must have worked in the outside world for two years, so the prospective students are people who know how to put in a day’s work and their mature approach recognises the great worth and luxury of study. You never needed for anything, Cyan, so you never needed to learn until now. I urge you to put your time to good use.

Watch your father from the window as he leads the battle. Would you be able to do what he does, so well? As a Challenger you seem to think you could do better. Lightning and the others who surround you are not simply faces, not simply there to grant your wish but every one has a long and complicated history to which his reactions pertain, just as much as they do to you. The road to becoming immortal is so uniquely steep and tortuous that every man travelling it has a story to tell. Your father is no exception.

Lightning and I discovered the privileges and tribulations of immortality at about the same time, though it meant different things to us both. During six nineteen, when the Emperor’s First Circle was defeated, I was scrubbing out the washing coppers in Chattelhouse’s laundry room. We were aware that San was losing Awia but the intense fighting was happening somewhere far off in the north. We could only keep going and wait until the Insects arrived at the walls of Hacilith. Every day the news came, the atmosphere grew more and more ominous and we lived under a constantly encroaching threat. How Lightning can call it a golden age I don’t know.

Until I was about ten years old I lived on the street with no roof over my head, but I hung around the gates of the College of Surgeons as if drawn to them. I was sitting playing knucklebones on the track outside when I saw the cleaner being sacked. She hefted her bags and stomped away in a huff. The porter began to close the gates but I slipped between them and begged to be allowed to clean the floors. He rolled his eyes but he hired me and I became the most lowly servant to the Guild of Barber-Surgeons. Guilds disappeared before the close of the first millennium, but they were very influential when I was mortal.

I dreamed of being a subsizar, a scholar’s assistant, but girls were not permitted and, besides, they would never employ an orphan with no clue as to her parentage.

After I turned thirteen, the gentlemen students sometimes offered to let me stay in the rooms they hired in town or in Chattelhouse, the wattle-and-stone residential hall. I’d move in, then be ejected back to be bullied in the deprived and unbearable servants’ quarters, until I could find another Chattelhouse room. The boys never gave charity freely; they always pressed for sexual favoursin return. Indeed, one of them suggested that I become a prostitute so he could make some money–but I all wanted was to talk about medicine with them!

Many’s the time I tried to sleep on a boy’s couch and late at night he would loom in the doorway, turn back the covers and slip in next to me, his hands on my breasts and his penis hard. One man in particular would strew his apartment with pornographic pamphlets as a hint, and every morning he would demand…Well, Cyan, the things that happened were so awful I will not set them down on paper.

By the time I was thirty, Chattelhouse employed me as charwoman and cook in exchange for board. Some of the fourteen-year-old scholars grew to regard me as a mother far more approachable than the one who sent them away to study logic, rhetoric and grammar. One boy, whom I’ll never forget, developed an infatuation and spent his afternoons teaching me to read. He stammered and blushed his way into finding me a better job. At long last I could mop the Surgeons’ lecture theatre after lessons. The chalk scrawls left on the blackboard enthralled me. If I made myself scarce during the anatomy sessions I was allowed to lay out the instruments and clean them afterwards. Eventually I had my chance to attend! I placed the scalpels and saws on the bench, and then hid in the equipment cupboard and peered through its slats. If I had been discovered spying they would have cast me out, but I learnt exactly which implements to lay out for each lesson, so nobody had occasion to open the door.

Huddled in the dark with chinks of light shining on my face, I watched the dissections for years and years until I knew the procedures by heart–and here was the strange thing–they never changed. It was as if the professors couldn’t add to their knowledge because they had mastered everything–which, I reasoned, could not be the case if patients still died.

The young men on the tiered seats either sat carving their names in the benches or lapped up the professor’s witticisms. But I peered at the cadaver. Of course blood couldn’t move through the septum of the heart, which had no holes. Of course ligation after amputation would reduce deaths from shock caused by dipping the stump in hot pitch. He told them that dead flesh spontaneously generated maggots, while flies buzzed round his head and laid eggs on the hanged felon’s body right there on the bench.

He propounded the myth that Awian hearts are larger than those of humans because Awians have a higher sensibility for love, without considering for a minute that their wings might need a larger blood supply. He told them that Rhydanne children grow rapidly because they are savages, no better than animals. It never occurred to him to ask how else they would survive the mountain winters. It was clear to me that Rhydanne have short pregnancies and small babies because their mothers have narrow hips to make them better sprinters, a trait Rhydanne must needs inherit if their females choose to be caught by the fastest men.

It was unthinkable that a woman should set foot in the Barber-Surgeon’s library. With hindsight I’m thankful that I wasn’t filled with the books’ received wisdom. I had no framework to force my observations into. But I was consumed by my interest in medicine; I
had
to find out more. It was what I was
for
. Cyan, sometimes in life you will have to admit that you are wrong and alter the way you think. Cherish that process. Why do you think I’ve lasted so long? The entire discipline of medicine we have today owes itself to my belief, then as now, that knowledge can only be recovered from nature by close observation and practice, not through revered manuscripts or bombastic speech.

My dear, I am remembering my aggravation and losing the thread of my story, so let me simply say that I wondered why their wisdom did not accord with my notes. I questioned whether the gentry really knew better than me. Suffice it to add that Chattelhouse’s ‘long room’ latrines were over a cesspit so vastly deep that it was only emptied every two hundred years. And they wondered why they got plague.

Try to imagine me at the foot of a narrow spiral staircase to the dormitory, mopping the flagstones. It was evening so the tiny arched windows high on the walls gave no light whatsoever.

A student bounded down the stairs, making the rush lights gutter in their sconces. He tripped over my bucket and fell headlong measuring his considerable length on the floor. Dirty water slooshed down the corridor. The dice he had been tossing up and down in one hand rolled to a halt in the puddle at my feet and showed double six.

‘You stupid beldam!’ he howled, rubbing his knees. Although he was a vain Awian, he had adopted Morenzian clothes against the cold and damp–well, the style we wore in the year six twenty. He had a knee-length robe with the cape of his hood around his neck. His hood’s pointed tippet end hung down his back. He’d rucked the robe up in his belt, from which a silk purse dangled, the only ornamentation in his drab garb. The tops of his woollen hose were tied somewhere up under the robe with strings, his ankle boots were soft leather, and now they were soaking.

Lightning was dazzling in comparison, the first time I saw him. He had a white tunic with a long toga wound around his waist and over one shoulder, the one pulled back to keep his bowstring drawn and–well, I am getting ahead of myself.

I offered the hearty boy a hand to pull him up but he ignored it. ‘Look at my robe!’ he said petulantly. ‘It’s ruined! This cost more than you’ll ever see. Now I shall be late for the gaming table!’ He squeezed water out of his curly hair. ‘You seem to be amused. It’s not bloody funny. I shall report you to the Housekeeper.’

I began to answer but he stopped me. ‘I do not speak to servants. Obviously you don’t know who I am, but–’

‘You’re from Awia.’

‘I am the son of the Governor of Foin–third in line anyway. So you may–’

‘Everyone in your country seems to give themselves a title, so I’ve read.’ I righted my bucket and sloshed my mop about. The water was soaking through my shift and making my legs itch.

He retrieved his dice without answering. ‘Something you read…Hm?…Servant? You can
read
?’

‘Yes. Come with me and I’ll dry your clothes. I’ll make up some liniment for your knees as well. A bruised knee can swell badly since the body tries to cushion damaged joints.’

‘You sound more like a prelector than a servitor,’ he said carelessly.

‘Would that you could write my essays as well.’

‘Oh, but I can.’

That night, I did not sleep. I had explained all to Heron and my thoughts were in turmoil. I knew what to do, what I
must
do, and wondered if I dared. I heard the students clatter to the refectory. I opened the shutters and found it was already morning.

I began, behind the scenes, to do Master Heron Foin’s homework. At last I could air all my observations, my theories! I wrote the methodologies of his experiments, delineated hypotheses in novel articles. Heron became suddenly famous, and he knew how to use it; he was a consummate self-publicist. He set himself up as the foremost student, the pride of the college. He brought me more books, though he could never fathom why I wanted to learn.

Far from suspecting the fraud, the Chancellor awarded him the acclaimed prizes in anatomy, physiology and penmanship. He was even recommended to succeed Professor Pratincole. Heron’s conceit grew deeper. He loathed and resented the fact he was simply an actor, a mouthpiece for my work, while all and sundry told him he was a genius. They expressed surprise that he could pay so little attention to lectures, spend so much time on the playing fields and still make groundbreaking discoveries. He began to believe that he was doing the work, not me. He would throw me a half-remembered essay question. ‘And it has to be done tonight! If you don’t, I’ll tell the Housekeeper how often you hid in that cupboard. Just bear in mind what you owe me, Ella. You’re my servant, I raised you from “below stairs”, and you’ll have to go back there, anyway, because the damn freshmen are hinting at all kinds of relationships between us.’

Thank god I was grown too old for their sexual advances.