The Myst Reader (133 page)

Hersha
, Atrus decided.
I shall bring Hersha. He will know what to do.
Then, turning, he hurried from the room, hope mounting in him for the first time in all that long, dark day.

WHILE HERSHA TALKED QUIETLY TO THE CHILD
, distracting him, Catherine took the sample from his arm.

It was not that the child fought to evade the needle, it was just that he was trembling so much that it was hard for Catherine to keep the needle still. Marrim had to help her keep that emaciated limb from shaking itself apart.

Then it was done and, while Catherine put the sample into her case and clicked it shut, Marrim reached out and clasped the slave-child to her, hugging him tightly.

Slowly the trembling ceased. Slowly the child calmed down again.

Marrim smiled and looked to Hersha, who was staring at her in astonishment. “What is his name?” she asked.

“His name?”

“Yes. He has one, surely? Or did the Terahnee simply number them all?”

“No … His name is Uta.”

“Uta …” Marrim moved back a little, trying to look into the boy’s face, but however she moved, he would position his face so it could not be properly seen.

“Even in one so young the conditioning is strong,” Catherine said, seeing what was going on. “It will take some while to change that.”

“But at least now it
can
be changed,” Atrus said. “At least the relyimah have some hope.”

“And the others?” Marrim asked.

“We shall know soon,” Catherine answered. “I have taken a sample of Ro’Jethhe’s blood, and of Eedrah’s, too. If we can discover what it is that allows some to survive this and makes others succumb, then perhaps I might find something that will help.”

“Then go at once,” Atrus said.

As Catherine hurried from the room, Marrim turned back to the child. “Well, young Uta. You give us all hope.”

But the child said nothing. As he had done all his infant life, Uta looked away, his body hunched into itself as he tried not to be seen.

HOREN RO’JADRE LAY IN HIS GREAT BATH, ON
his back, where death had found him, his mouth open in an “Oh” of surprise. His P’aarli stewards had fled that afternoon, when news had first come of the sickness that was sweeping the south. But they ran in vain, for they had long ago been caught by the strange bacteria that now crawled and multiplied unseen inside them all.

Yet death, for now, moved at a walking pace—or, to be more accurate, at the pace of a slowly gliding boat. Eight days was the gestation period for this sickness. Eight days before a mild disorder became fierce cramps and then, with a suddenness that often killed, something much worse.

Master and slave succumbed. And the P’aarli, first to flee, were taken in the fields, or in some well-trimmed field of exotic blooms, their groans alone distinguishing them from the silent acquiescence of those they had once beaten and killed.

Across the whole land the sickness was spreading now. News of it had come to the capital, where Ro’Eh Ro’Dan, uncertain yet how serious it was, took advice from ancients who had known no illness in their long and worthless lives.

“If slaves are dying,” the old men counseled, “then bring in more from the Ages. Replace their numbers.”

It seemed a simple and effective policy. But the new slaves were not trained. Could they be counted on to be obedient?

“No matter,” the old men said. “Slaves are slaves. They will obey.”

But some did not. And as word of the sickness spread among the relyimah, so one or two among their number took it upon themselves to exact swift vengeance on those who had afflicted them with years of misery.

One such was a slave named Ymur. As his overseer raised his whip to beat Ymur, the slave grabbed the P’aarli’s wrist and, twisting it, snapped the bone.

There was a cry of pain, silenced in an instant. And as the others stared at the fallen corpse of their tormentor, so Ymur looked about him, allowing his eyes to see what they had never properly focused on before.

“Come,” he said, gesturing to them. And, obedient as slaves, they followed.

MANY MORE DAYS PASSED, AND SLOWLY THE
pattern became clearer. Many of the relyimah were dying, but only those who were too weak to survive the first full shock of the sickness. The majority survived and, within weeks, were on their feet again. Among the Terahnee and the P’aarli, however, the death rate was higher. Some, like Eedrah, survived, but a great number succumbed. Thus it was that Eedrah had buried his father, mother, and three of his sisters.

He was sitting alone in the great library, writing, when Hersha came to him.

At first Hersha had found it uncomfortable—one might even say frightening—coming into the main house. Old he was, and well read, yet he was still relyimah, and from childhood had been taught to be invisible. Now he had a new fate.

“Eedrah …”

Eedrah looked up, a slightly glazed expression in his eyes. At Atrus’s suggestion he had begun to write down his feelings, hoping thus to purge them, or at least to understand what he was undergoing.

“Yes, Hersha?”

“Forgive me for disturbing you, but important news has come. There is to be a meeting.”

“A meeting?”

“Of the relyimah. At least, of their leaders. I have been asked to attend. It is to be held at the great mound, in Gehallah district.”

Eedrah stared at the old man, then set his pen aside. There was something strange about Hersha’s manner.

“Hersha? What is it you’re not telling me?”

The old man looked down. “You see right through me, Renyaloth.”

That use of his nickname among the relyimah—“the sickly one”—told him he had been right. Whatever this was, Hersha was finding it difficult telling him. Eedrah knew he would have to coax it from him.

“So what is the purpose of this meeting?”

Hersha’s ancient head tucked itself even deeper into his chest, old reflexes taking control. “They mean to overthrow the Masters.”

“Ah …” It ought not to have been a shock. After all, what was there to overthrow now that many of them were dead or dying? But for the relyimah to think like this was unheard of, and Eedrah found himself not surprised but actually astonished by the news.

“Is this a warning, Hersha? Are you telling me that I should leave Terahnee? Go back with Atrus, possibly?”

Hersha’s eyes flicked up briefly before he averted them again. Eedrah saw how he steeled himself to speak again, and when he did it was another shock.

“I want you to come with me,” Hersha said quietly. “To speak to them, persuade them not to act too rashly.”

“
Speak
to them?”

Eedrah sat there, astonished.
And say what?
he thought.
That we treated you abominably, but not to punish us for that?

He sighed. “Let me consider it, Hersha. And let me speak with Atrus. Then I shall tell you whether I will come with you or not.”

Hersha gave a little bow. “As you wish, Renyaloth.” And, without another word, the old man turned and scuttled away, hunched into himself, his eyes glancing from side to side as if he expected at any moment to be waylaid by stewards for his impertinence.

“ANY LUCK?” ATRUS ASKED, LOOKING OVER
Catherine’s shoulder at the page she was writing.

“None at all,” she answered, finishing the sentence she had been writing, then looking up at him. “Not that it matters now. If what Hersha has heard is true, then there is not a corner of this land that has not been ravaged by the sickness.”

Atrus nodded somberly. “It seems almost like a judgment.”

Catherine hesitated, as if about to say something, then nodded. “Eedrah certainly thinks so.” She looked past Atrus to where Uta sat in the corner chair, hunched into himself, trying not to be noticed. “I just wonder how the relyimah will cope. There’s food for now, but when that runs out, what then?”

“They grew it,” Atrus said.

“Yes, but that was when there was someone there to organize them. You’ve seen them, Atrus. Without someone to tell them what to do, they’re lost. They’re not mindless, I know that, but they sometimes act as if they are. Our problem is getting round that conditioning before they starve. We need to get them to make decisions for themselves.”

Atrus nodded, but both of them knew that it was easier said than done. How did one change not just a lifetime’s habits but long millennia of custom? Yet there must be one or two of these relyimah who could be used—molded—to shape the new society that must emerge from this disaster. But where would they be found?

Eedrah, it seemed, had the answer. “Atrus,” he said, coming into the room. “I have a problem. The slave leaders are to have a great meeting, it seems. Tonight, at sunset, at the great mound in Gehallah.”

“Is that far from here?”

“Two hours’ walk, at most.”

“And what is to be discussed at this meeting?”

“The overthrow of the Masters.” Eedrah smiled bleakly. “By which I take it they mean the wholesale slaughter of survivors.”

“You think they’d do that?” Atrus asked, surprised.

Eedrah nodded. “Some have already done so, killing P’aarli and Masters both. They did not wait, it seems, for the sickness to descend.”

“And is Hersha to attend this meeting?”

“Yes, and he has asked me to go with him and speak to them.”

“So will you go?”

“If you will come with me, Atrus. I know them, true, but I am no speaker. Not as you are.”

“And you think I can convince them to act decently?”

“If anyone can.”

Atrus considered a moment. “All right. I shall come with you. But first I must return to D’ni. There is something there I need.”

“Will you be long, Atrus?”

Atrus smiled. “No, not long. Three hours, maybe four at most.” He turned, looking to the boy. “Uta! Come, my little shadow!”

The boy jerked, then, burying his head into his neck, he stood.

“Until then,” Eedrah said.

“Until then.”