“I don’t know,” Kivrin said.
Agnes twisted around in Kivrin’s arms so she could see. “It is the three kings,” she said wonderingly.
TRANSCRIPT FROM THE DOMESDAY BOOK
(064996–065537)
Christmas Eve 1320 (Old Style). An envoy from the bishop has arrived, along with two other churchmen. They rode in just after midnight mass. Lady Imeyne is delighted. She’s convinced they’ve come in response to her message demanding a new chaplain, but I’m not convinced of that. They’ve come without any servants, and there’s an air of nervousness about them, as if they were on some secret, hurried mission.
It has to concern Lord Guillaume, though the Assizes are a secular court, not an ecclesiastical one. Perhaps the bishop is a friend of Lord Guillaume’s or of King Edward II’s, and they’ve come to strike some sort of deal with Eliwys for his freedom.
Whatever their reason for being here, they’re here in style. Agnes thought they were the three Magi when she first saw them, and they do look like royalty. The bishop’s envoy has a thin, aristocratic face, and they are all dressed like kings. One of them has a purple velvet cloak with the design of a white cross sewn in silk on the back of it.
Lady Imeyne immediately latched on to him with her sad story of how ignorant, clumsy, generally impossible Father Roche is. “He deserves not a parish,” she said. Unfortunately (and luckily for Father Roche) he was not the envoy, but only his clerk. The envoy was the one in the red, also very impressive, with gold embroidery and a sable hem.
The third is a Cistercian monk—at least he wears the white habit of one, though it’s made of even finer wool than my cloak and has a silk cord for a sash, and he wears a ring fit for a king on each of his fat fingers, but he doesn’t act like a monk. He and the envoy both demanded wine before they’d even dismounted, and it’s obvious the clerk had already drunk a good deal before he got here. He slipped just now getting off his horse and had to be supported into the hall by the fat monk.
(Break)
I was apparently wrong about the reason for their coming here. Eliwys and Sir Bloet went off in a corner with the bishop’s envoy as soon as they got in the house, but they only talked to him for a few minutes, and I just heard her tell Imeyne, “They have heard naught of Guillaume.”
Imeyne didn’t seem surprised or even particularly concerned at this news. It’s clear she thinks they’re here to bring her a new chaplain, and she is falling all over them, insisting that the Christmas feast be brought in immediately and that the bishop’s envoy sit in the high seat. They seem more interested in drinking than in eating. Imeyne fetched them cups of wine herself, and they’ve already gone through them and called for more. The clerk caught hold of Maisry’s skirt as she brought the pitcher, pulled her in hand over hand, and stuck his hand down her shift. She, of course, clapped her hands over her ears.
The one good thing about them being here is that they add tremendously to the general confusion. I only had a moment to talk to Gawyn, but sometime in the next day or so I’ll surely be able to speak to him without anyone noticing—especially since Imeyne’s attention is riveted on the envoy, who just grabbed the pitcher from Maisry and poured his wine himself—and get him to show me where the drop is. There’s plenty of time. I have nearly a week.
21
Two more people died on the twenty-eighth, both of them primaries who had been at the dance in Headington, and Latimer had a stroke.
“He developed myocarditis, which caused a thromboembolism,” Mary had said when she phoned. “At this point he’s completely unresponsive.”
Over half of Dunworthy’s detainees were down with the flu, and there was only room in Infirmary for the most severe cases. Dunworthy and Finch, and a detainee William had found who’d had a year of nurse’s training, gave temps and dispensed orange juice round the clock. Dunworthy made up cots and gave medications.
And worried. When he had told Mary about Badri’s saying “That can’t be right,” of his saying “It was the rats,” she had said, “It’s the fever, James. It has no connection with reality. I’ve one patient who keeps talking about the queen’s elephants,” but he could not get the idea of Kivrin’s being in 1348 out of his mind.
“What year is it?” Badri had said that first night, and “That can’t be right.”
Dunworthy had telephoned Andrews after his argument with Gilchrist and told him he couldn’t get access to Brasenose’s net. “It doesn’t matter,” Andrews had said. “The locational coordinates aren’t as critical as the temporals. I’ll get an L-and-L on the dig from Jesus. I’ve already talked to them about doing the parameter checks, and they said it’s all right.”
The visuals had been off again, but he had sounded nervous, as if he was afraid Dunworthy would broach the subject again of his coming to Oxford. “I’ve done some research on slippage,” he said. “There are no theoretical limits, but in practice, the minimal slippage is always greater than zero, even in uninhabited areas. Maximal slippage has never gone above five years, and those were all unmanneds. The greatest slippage on a manned drop was a seventeenth century remote—two hundred and twenty-six days.”
“Is there anything else it could be?” Dunworthy had asked, “Anything besides the slippage that could go wrong?”
“If the coordinates are correct, nothing,” Andrews had said and promised to report as soon as he’d done the parameter checks.
Five years was 1325. The plague had not even begun in China then, and Badri had told Gilchrist there was minimal slippage. And it couldn’t be the coordinates. Badri had checked them before he fell ill. But the fear continued to nag at him, and he spent the few free moments he could snatch telephoning techs, trying to find someone willing to come read the fix when the sequencing arrived and Gilchrist opened the laboratory again. It was supposed to have arrived yesterday, but when Mary phoned, she had still been waiting for it.
She phoned again in the late afternoon. “Can you set up a ward?” she asked. The visuals were back on. Her SPG’s looked like she’d slept in them, and her mask dangled from her neck by one tie.
“I’ve already set up a ward,” he said. “It’s full of detainees. We’ve got thirty-one cases as of this afternoon.”
“Do you have space to set up another one? I don’t need it yet,” she said tiredly, “but at this rate I will. We’re nearly at capacity here, and several of the staff are either down with it or are refusing to come in.”
“And the sequencing hasn’t come yet?” he asked.
“No. The WIC just phoned. They got a faulty result the first time through and had to run it again. It’s supposed to be here tomorrow. Now they think it’s a Uruguayan virus.” She smiled wanly. “Badri hasn’t been in contact with anyone from Uruguay, has he? How soon can you have the beds ready?”
“By this evening,” Dunworthy said, but Finch informed him they were nearly out of folding cots, and he had to go to the NHS and argue them out of a dozen. They didn’t get the ward set up, in two of the Fellows’ teaching rooms, until morning.
Finch, helping assemble the cots and make beds, announced that they were nearly out of clean linens, face masks, and lavatory paper. “We haven’t enough for the detainees,” he said, tucking in a sheet, “let alone all these patients. And we have no bandages at all.”
“It’s not a war,” Dunworthy said. “I doubt if there will be any wounded. Did you find out if any of the other colleges has a tech here in Oxford?”
“Yes, sir, I telephoned all of them, but none of them did.” He tucked a pillow beneath his chin. “I’ve posted notices asking that everyone conserve lavatory paper, but it’s done no good at all. The Americans are particularly wasteful.” He tugged the pillow slip up over the pillow. “I do feel rather sorry for them, though. Helen came down with it last night, you know, and they haven’t any alternates.”
“Helen?”
“Ms. Piantini. The tenor. She has a fever of 39.7. The Americans won’t be able to do their Chicago Surpri
se.”
Which is probably a blessing, Dunworthy thought. “Ask them if they’ll continue to keep watch on my telephone, even though they’re no longer practicing,” he said. “I’m expecting several important calls. Did Andrews ring back?”
“No, sir, not yet. And the visual is off.” He plumped the pillow. “It is too bad about the peal. They can do Stedmans, of course, but that’s old hat. It does seem a pity there’s no alternative solution.”
“Did you get the list of techs?”
“Yes, sir,” Finch said, struggling with a reluctant cot. He motioned with his head. “It’s there by the chalkboard.”
Dunworthy picked up the sheets of paper and looked at the one on top. It was filled with columns of numbers, all of them with the digits one through six, in varying order.
“That’s not it,” Finch said, snatching the papers away. “Those are the changes for the Chicago Surprise.” He handed Dunworthy a single sheet. “Here it is. I’ve listed the techs by college with addresses and telephone numbers.”
Colin came in, wearing his wet jacket and carrying a roll of tape and a plastene-covered bundle. “The vicar said I’m to put these up in all the wards,” he said, taking out a placard that read “Feeling Disoriented? Muddled? Mental Confusion Can Be a Warning Sign of the Flu.”
He tore off a strip of tape and stuck the placard to the chalkboard. “I was just posting these at the Infirmary, and what do you think the Gallstone was doing?” he said, taking another placard out of the bundle. It read “Wear Your Face Mask.” He taped it to the wall above the cot Finch was making up. “Reading the Bible to the patients.” He pocketed the tape. “I hope I don’t catch it.” He tucked the rest of the placards under his arm and started out.
“Wear your face mask,” Dunworthy said.
Colin grinned. “That’s what the Gallstone said. And she said, the Lord would smite anyone who heeded not the words of the righteous.” He pulled the gray plaid muffler out of his pocket. “I wear this instead of a face mask,” he said, tying it over his mouth and nose highwayman fashion.
“Cloth cannot keep out microscopic viruses,” Dunworthy said.
“I know. It’s the color. It frightens them away.” He darted out.
Dunworthy rang Mary to tell her the ward was ready but couldn’t get through, so he went over to Infirmary. The rain had let up a little, and people, mostly wearing masks, were out again, coming back from the grocer’s and queueing in front of the chemist’s. But the streets seemed hushed, unnaturally silent.
Someone’s turned the carillon off, Dunworthy thought. He almost regretted it.
Mary was in her office, staring at a screen. “The sequencing’s arrived,” she said before he could tell her about the ward.
“Have you told Gilchrist?” he said eagerly.
“No,” she said. “It’s not the Uruguay virus. Or the South Carolina.”
“What is it?”
“It’s an H9N2. Both the South Carolina and the Uruguay were H3’s.”
“Then where did it come from?”
“The WIC doesn’t know. It’s not a known virus. It’s previously unsequenced.” She handed him a printout. “It has a seven point mutation, which explains why it’s killing people.”
He looked at the printout. It was covered with columns of numbers, like Finch’s list of changes, and as unintelligible. “It has to come from somewhere.”
“Not necessarily. Approximately every ten years, there’s a major antigenic shift with epidemic potential, so it may have originated with Badri.” She took the printout back from him. “Does he live around livestock, do you know?”
“Livestock?” he said. “He lives in a flat in Headington.”
“Mutant strains are sometimes produced by the intersection of an avian virus with a human strain. The WIC wants us to check possible avian contacts and exposure to radiation. Viral mutations have sometimes been caused by X rays.” She studied the printout as though it made sense. “It’s an unusual mutation. There’s no recombination of the hemagluttinin genes, only an extremely large point mutation.”
No wonder she had not told Gilchrist. He had said he would open the laboratory when the sequencing arrived, but this news would only convince him he should keep it closed.
“Is there a cure?”
“There will be as soon as an analogue can be manufactured. And a vaccine. They’ve already begun work on the prototype.”
“How long?”
“Three to five days to produce a prototype, then at least another five to manufacture, if they don’t run into any difficulty with duplicating the proteins. We should be able to begin inoculating by the tenth.”
The tenth. And that was when they could begin giving immunizations. How long would it take to immunize the quarantine area? A week? Two? Before Gilchrist and the idiot protesters considered it safe to open the laboratory?
“That’s too long,” Dunworthy said.
“I know,” Mary said, and sighed. “God knows how many cases we’ll have by then. There have been twenty new ones already this morning.”
“Do you think it’s a mutant strain?” Dunworthy asked.
She thought about it. “No. I think it’s much more likely that Badri caught it from someone at that dance in Headington. There may have been New Hindus there, or Earthers, or someone else who doesn’t believe in antivirals or modern medicine. The Canadian goose flu of 2010, if you’ll remember, was traced back to a Christian Science commune. There’s a source. We’ll find it.”
“And what about Kivrin in the meantime? What if you don’t find the source by the rendezvous? Kivrin’s supposed to come back on the sixth of January. Will you have it sourced by then?”
“I don’t know,” she said wearily. “She may not want to come back to a century that’s rapidly becoming a ten. She may want to stay in 1320.”
If she’s in 1320, he thought, and went up to see Badri. He had not mentioned rats since Christmas night. He was back to the afternoon at Balliol when he had come looking for Dunworthy. “Laboratory?” he murmured when he saw Dunworthy. He tried feebly to hand him a note, and then seemed to sink into sleep, exhausted by the effort.
Dunworthy stayed only a few minutes and then went to see Gilchrist.
It was raining hard again by the time he reached Brasenose. The gaggle of picketers were huddling underneath their banner, shivering.
The porter was standing at the lodge desk, taking the decorations off the little Christmas tree. He glanced up at Dunworthy and looked suddenly alarmed. Dunworthy walked past him and through the gate.
“You can’t go in there, Mr. Dunworthy,” the porter called after him. “The college is restricted.”
Dunworthy walked into the quad. Gilchrist’s rooms were in the building behind the laboratory. He hurried toward them, expecting the porter to catch up to him and try to stop him.
The laboratory had a large yellow sign on it that read “No Admittance Without Authorization,” and an electronic alarm attached to the doorjamb.
“Mr. Dunworthy,” Gilchrist said, striding toward him through the rain. The porter must have phoned him. “The laboratory is off-limits.”
“I came to see you,” Dunworthy said.
The porter came up, trailing a tinsel garland. “Shall I phone for the University police?” he asked.
“That won’t be necessary. Come up to my rooms,” he said to Dunworthy. “I have something I want you to see.”
He led Dunworthy into his office, sat down at his cluttered desk, and put on an elaborate mask with some sort of filters.
“I’ve just spoken to the WIC,” he said. His voice sounded hollow, as if it were coming from a great distance. “The virus is a previously unsequenced virus whose source is unknown.”
“It’s been sequenced now,” Dunworthy said, “and the analogue and vaccine are due to arrive in a few days. Dr. Ahrens has arranged for Brasenose to be given immunization priority, and I’m attempting to locate a tech who can read the fix as soon as immu
nization has been completed.”
“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” Gilchrist said hollowly. “I’ve been conducting research into the incidence of influenza in the 1300s. There are clear indications that a series of influenza epidemics in the first half of the fourteenth century severely weakened the populace, thereby lowering their resistance in the Black Death.”
He picked up an ancient-looking book. “I have found six separate references to outbreaks between October of 1318 and February of 1321.” He held up a book and began to read. ‘ “After the harvest there came upon all of Dorset a fever so fierce as to leave many dead. This fever began with an aching in the head and confusion in all the parts. The doctors bled them, but many died in despite.’ ”
A fever. In an age of fevers—typhoid and cholera and measles, all of them producing “aching of the head and confusion in all the parts.”
“1319. The Bath Assizes for the previous year were canceled,” Gilchrist said, holding up another book. “ ‘A malady of the chest that fell upon the court so that none, nor judge nor jury, were left to hear the cases,’ ” Gilchrist said. He looked at Dunworthy over the mask. “You stated that the public’s fears over the net were hysterical and unfounded. It would seem, however, that they are based in solid historical fact.”
Solid historical fact. References to fevers and maladies of the chest that could be anything, blood poisoning or typhus or any of a hundred nameless infections. All of which was beside the point.
“The virus cannot have come through the net,” he said. “Drops have been made to the Pandemic, to World War I battles in which mustard gas was used, to Tel Aviv. Twentieth Century sent detection equipment to the site of St. Paul’s two days after the pinpoint was dropped. Nothing comes through.”
“So you say.” He held up a printout. “Probability indicates a .003 percent possibility of a microorganism being transmitted through the net and a 22.1 percent chance of a viable myxovirus being within the critical area when the net was opened.”
“Where in God’s name do you get these figures?” Dunworthy said. “Pull them out of a hat? According to Probability,” he said, putting a nasty emphasis on the word, “there was only a .04 percent chance of anyone’s being present when Kivrin went through, a possibility you considered statistically insignificant.”
Doomsday Book Page 38
