Wheel of the Infinite

by Martha Wells

  She was in the main room looking out over the court when Rian came up the stairs. He said, "Rastim wants to know how many other travellers are staying here with us."

  She smiled. "Tell him forty or fifty."

  Rian came further into the room, looking around with wary approval. "This is a guesthouse?" he asked.

  "Yes," she said slowly. "The different temples all have several." Which he already knew from their conversation last night.

  "There's a carving of the Adversary's demon face above the door."

  Maskelle sighed. She didn't see what he was getting at. "That's just one aspect of the Adversary, and it's not a demon face. Most buildings have that carved somewhere, for luck." That the Adversary's mark was so prominent on this house's pediment was perhaps the reason it had been chosen for them.

  "So this wasn't your house?"

  "What? No." Now she knew what he meant. She turned away. "My house burned down."

  Firac's son Thae came bounding up the stairs, then stopped in the doorway to gaze around in awe. Recovering, he saw Maskelle and said, "That old man is here again."

  That, she supposed, means the Celestial One. She went out to the veranda and down the stairs, Rian behind, her. The water gate stood open to a view of the canal and the back façade of the Marai. A passenger boat was docked at the base of the steps. It was a wide flat-bottomed craft sheltered with a white awning and hung with white silk side panels. The breeze played the tiny bells in the fringes. Several boys—acolytes or servants, it was hard to tell the difference when they all wore grubby breechclouts—leapt down from the boat and began to roll up the panels.

  Maskelle went down the steps into the thick damp warmth rising off the canal. The Celestial One was sitting in the boat, clutching his staff. She leaned on one of the support poles for the awning and said, "I don't suppose you're here to help us greet the sunrise."

  "I came to bring you to the Marai. There is much to do," the old man said, glaring at her.

  Maskelle didn't recall agreeing to spend the day staring hopelessly at the ruined Rite, but it was as good a plan as any. She stepped back, nearly trodding on Rian, who was standing at her elbow. "Rastim, get Gisar; we're going to the Marai."

  Rastim and Firac ran for Gisar's box while the other Ariaden jumped for joy and the Celestial One sighed and rearranged his robes. Maskelle leaned on the boat, trying to think constructively. Starting at the beginning would be good. She ducked her head under the awning again. "There's something I want to do first."

  "What now?" the Celestial One demanded.

  "I want to see Veran, the one who started all this."

  ***

  The young priest was not in the Marai but in the hospital attached to the Gila Stel, a smaller temple that stood about two streets over from the Marai and formed part of the interconnecting web of canals and temples that concentrated its influence. With some grumbling, the Celestial One had taken Maskelle and Rian down the canal to the Gila Stel in his boat, then sent word to Niare, the priestess in charge of the small temple, to meet and accompany them. He had then taken a nervous Rastim and Firac to the Marai to see to the disposition of Gisar's box.

  The hospital occupied three levels of a long stone building that stood just to the west of the Gila Stel. Koshans had always believed that the free movement of air was almost as essential as the free movement of water for the health of the body, and the hospital's walls were lined with windows, their cloth panels standing out at angles to keep out the rain and the sun's heat but still allow in the breeze.

  Niare met them outside on the lower gallery, near the square fountains on either side of the entrance that brought in drinking water and fed the channels that surrounded the building and aided the healing power of the place. She was a young woman for her office, and Maskelle supposed she had still been a nun or a lower rank when Maskelle had left the city. Niare greeted her with a wariness that showed she knew exactly who her visitor was, however.

  Inside was a large room, cool and quiet, the pillars carved with the plants that medicines could be made from and the names of the Ancestors and spirits associated with healing. The sick lay on pallets near the walls, with a brazier beside each bed for warmth during the night. In the area near the entrance many of the patients were sitting up, talking or playing at diceboards. Others toward the back of the chamber lay quietly, wrapped in blankets, sleeping or silent with pain. One of the blue-robed attendants came to greet Niare and lead them toward the stone stairs at the far end of the chamber.

  Following their guide Maskelle realized that Rian was looking around as if he doubted his sanity. Finally she asked, "What is wrong with you?"

  "Who is this place for?"

  She shrugged. "Everyone." There were a few Koshans of various ranks among the sick, but most of the patients were tradesmen from the markets in the area or people who lived nearby. Some were probably beggars, but since daily bathing was required and clean clothing supplied to those who didn't have their own, it was difficult to tell.

  "It doesn't even stink," Rian muttered.

  The place was hardly immaculate; one attendant was collecting dirty crockery and another was dealing with the soiled bedding of someone who had been messily ill. "I'm beginning to be very glad I never went to the Sintane," Maskelle said as she started up the steps.

  The chief healer waited for them at the top of the stairs. He was an old man, though not nearly so old as the Celestial One. She had known him once, years ago, when he had first been made chief healer here. His expression was grim as he nodded to Niare. Maskelle wasn't sure if the grimness was for her presence or the state of his new patient.

  The young priest was at the far end of the second level, separated from the other patients by some painted wooden screens. There was an attendant with him, a young monk who squatted patiently beside the pallet. A jug of water and a basin of soaked cloths stood nearby, giving off the scent of ivibrae and saffron and other healing herbs. The brazier was full of coals and the young priest wrapped in cotton blankets, but he still shivered and tossed his head. His eyes were open and staring and his breath came quick and hard, as if he was running a desperate race.

  Maskelle knelt beside the bed. Niare asked the chief healer, "Is there any improvement?"

  He shook his head. "He seems the same. He is so fevered that he shivers and seems to be cold. But he doesn't have the other symptoms of any of the illnesses that usually cause such fevers. None of the usual remedies for such things seem to help. He speaks, but much of the time we can't understand him, and it is hard to tell if he is even aware of what he says."

  Maskelle looked up at him. "What does he speak of?"

  The chief healer frowned. "Of being pursued by something, some creature. Also of the Year Rites." He gestured helplessly. "Nightmares are often caused by these fevers."

  Maskelle laid a hand on the young man's forehead. His skin was dry and hot to the touch, as the healer had said. His eyes turned to her, bloodshot and vague. Hair pricked her palm from where it had already begun to grow over his shaven scalp. She felt nothing of the darkness about him, nothing of that restless power that had taken the farmboy's mind and soul and sent him to their camp with death in his hand. But if it was there, it wouldn’t stay. It couldn’t, not in this place. But before this she would have said that it was impossible for such a thing to enter the city at all, let alone the Marai or any other temple. And the powers that stalked her hadn't the conscious wit to attack the Hundred Year Rite. Circle a myrrh tree three times for luck, she thought, I hope they haven't grown wits. Then she shook her head at herself in exasperation. Not everything is about you. Examine the problem from all the paths.

  "Do you know where you are?" she asked the young man softly.

  His eyes darted aimlessly, then focused on her. He whispered, "The Marai."

  That’s interesting, she thought. Was it delirium or something else? "What Day is it?"

  "The twentieth Day of the Rite. The Hundred Year Rite." Veran tried
to sit up suddenly and Maskelle grabbed his shoulders and held him down. The attendant moved to help her and she shook her head at him. "It's coming," the young man whispered. "I have to be here. But I shouldn't...It's not my time—it must be a dream."

  It’s not his time. Veran had replaced the Voice whose turn it was to work on the Rite. "I think he's reliving what happened." Perhaps over and over again?

  "We thought so too, but he won't answer questions," Niare said, sounding weary. "The Celestial One tried for hours."

  Veran tossed his head and muttered, "I shouldn't... I shouldn't... It's coming..."

  Maskelle leaned forward and caught the young man's chin, turning his face toward her, waiting until the bloodshot eyes focused on her. "What do you see?"

  He gasped, tried to pull away from her.

  She said, "The Adversary commands you to speak."

  There was a shocked stirring behind her, but she ignored it; this was what the Celestial One had brought her here for. She had no right to invoke the Adversary, but in the state Veran was in she doubted he knew that. The young man's eyes locked on her; his dry bitten lips tried to form words.

  "Tell us what happened when you were alone in the chamber with the Rite. Tell us and accept the Adversary's protection."

  He opened his mouth, but his voice was a choked exhalation. "The Adversary defends the just. He—" Watching him intently she looked, really looked, into the young man's eyes. It was then she realized he wanted to speak. He wanted very much to speak. She saw past the veneer of fevered delirium to awareness, and intelligence, and overwhelming desperation. He knew what had happened and he wanted to tell them, but something prevented him. She heard a whisper of the Ancestors, but again it faded before she could understand the words.

  "It's all right," she said quickly, wiping the sweat from his forehead. The instant of clarity was passing and he looked like just another man being driven mad by some illness of the brain, but she knew better now. "I see it. I know. You're trapped and you can't get out."

  He slumped back with a strangled cry, but it was a cry of relief. She said, "Try to rest. Don't try to talk anymore. We'll think of some way to help you."

  She stood slowly. Niare was watching her, worried and still shocked. The chief healer and the attendant just looked shocked. Maskelle said, "It's not fever or any natural sickness. It's possession."

  "Possession?" The chief healer was incredulous. "Here?"

  "Here," Maskelle said grimly. "Use tamarisk, sandalwood, myrrh—"

  "I know what to do for possession," the healer interrupted. He looked down at Veran, his face troubled. "Are you certain? How—"

  "I'm certain," she said. "But if I'm wrong, it won't do him any more harm, will it?"

  Niare lingered to speak to the chief healer, and as Maskelle and Rian made their way out, Rian asked, "Will he do what you ask?"

  "Yes. He doesn't like the idea, but that won't stop him." She added wryly, "He wants the boy to get well more than he wants me to be wrong."

  "I thought demons couldn't get past the city boundaries."

  Maskelle stopped just outside on the hospital's portico, out of earshot of any of the patients inside. The sky was lightening a little and it looked like the morning rain might hold off for a time. The Gila Stel stood across a square of grass and shade trees, its golden stone a little dulled by the weather. It was a small temple compared to the Marai, only about a fourth the size, with two stories of galleried courts supporting a three level stepped pyramid, and five small, elegantly proportioned shrines atop that. Birds called in the trees and Maskelle could hear the bustle of a market just beyond the street wall. "They can't. So whatever caused this isn't a demon." She looked at the Gila Stel and the morning mist rising from the canal behind it. "The Voices who are conducting the Rite would like to believe that whatever Veran did to the Wheel came out of his madness. I think that's a fond and foolish hope. It's far more likely a deliberate act by something that used Veran like a tool." She started along the path toward the temple. "But I'm more used to looking for evil than they are." "That's why the Celestial One sent for you," Rian pointed out.

  That, she thought, is true. She added, "And the problem with looking for evil is that you then have to do something about whatever you flush out."

  There were two women coming up the path from the Gila Stel, both dressed in casually draped robes, though the richness of their jewelry marked them as Court Ladies, and probably High Court. Pearls hung in garlands from their belts, gold draped their necks and banded their arms and ankles. Their hair was elaborately dressed, plaited and wound up in buns, held in place by gold pins. One was young and very lovely, with high cheekbones and skin so fine it was almost translucent. After a moment Maskelle recognized her as the Court Lady who had been with the Celestial One when they had arrived at the Marai yesterday. She would have been an extremely beautiful woman, but there was no warmth to her beauty, no spontaneity in her gestures in her conversation with her companion. The spirit dancers carved on the temples have more life to them, Maskelle thought.

  The second woman was older, grey woven through her hair, her robe more modestly draped. It had been seven years and Maskelle had managed to stop searching every face she saw for old enemies, so it took her a long moment to recognize the second woman as Disara. Maskelle stopped where she was on the path. Disara's eyes passed over her without recognition; she was speaking to the other woman, and foreigners and other strange people were always to be found near the hospitals. There were people sitting under the trees near the far side of the temple, probably the women's attendants and servants.

  Rian was watching her closely. "What's wrong?"

  She shook her head minutely. Disara might not recognize her, with her hair grown out and her face and body hardened by seven years of travel. She wanted to see if Disara would know her and how the older woman would react.

  The two women reached the portico, just as Niare and the chief healer stepped out of the hospital. There were polite bows and greetings back and forth, then the chief healer stepped back inside, gesturing the women to follow him.

  As Disara stepped up to the portico, her eyes met Maskelle's. Maskelle saw the shocked recognition in Disara's face, saw her expression harden to revulsion and anger an instant later. She swept on into the hospital, leaving the other woman behind.

  Sounding relieved, Niare said under her breath, "That went as well as could be expected."

  Maskelle almost smiled. So she wasn't the only one who had been curious about Disara's reaction.

  Instead of following her companion, the young woman was looking Maskelle and Rian over frankly. Since they hadn't been introduced and no one was making any effort to do so, Maskelle stared back at her, hoping she looked as rude as she felt. undeterred, the woman said calmly, "You are the Voice of the Adversary, lately returned to the city?"

  Niare shifted uncomfortably and started to speak, but Maskelle said first, "No, I no longer hold that title. I lost it when I was cursed and exiled from the Empire."

  "Ah," the woman said, unruffled. "I was misinformed." Her eyes went to Rian again with a detached curiosity, as if she was examining a statue and not a person.

  Maskelle said, pointedly, "I think your presence is required somewhere else."

  The woman stared at her a moment, expressionless, then made a sixth-degree bow that might be intended as a subtle insult and continued into the hospital. Maskelle shook her head and Rian muttered something under his breath in Sitanese. Maskelle guessed from the disgruntled tone that he didn't approve of the young woman either. She turned to the path that led past the Gila Stel to the canal.

  Niare sighed and turned to walk with them. Maskelle asked her, "Who was that High Court flower?"

  "That is the Lady Marada. She comes from the Garekind Islands and is visiting at Court." Niare hesitated. "She has the Celestial Emperor's favor." She was watching Maskelle carefully. "It is even rumored that he may make her a consort."

  Maskelle's brows
rose. "Really," she said dryly. Perhaps manners were different in the Garekind Islands, then, and the woman had not intended rudeness. It was far to the south, a long and difficult voyage across the Rijan sea, and few of its inhabitants ever visited the capital. "And she visits the sick when she isn't astonishing the High Court?"

  "No." Niare's voice was amused. "She only visits Veran."

  "Veran?" Maskelle frowned.

  "She had asked for instruction in the Infinite, and Veran was teaching her. Informally, of course. She has a great curiosity about the Path, but I don't think she fancied the required service as a penitent."

  Well, that’s common enough, Maskelle thought. And Veran must have many friends who visited him in his illness. There was no reason why she should feel uneasy at the thought.

  Niare left them at the Gila Stel. There were a few boatmen, dicing on the stone bank near where their boat, its white silk awning trimmed with flowers, was tied up. Four women, dressed well but without the profusion of pearls and gold, were sitting on the benches under a stand of palms, fanning themselves and talking animatedly. Maids or waiting women, their eyes slid curiously toward the strange travel-worn nun and the Sitanese outcast. Maskelle could see the Celestial One's boat coming down the canal toward the temple's water steps. Waterfowl took flight, disturbed by the boat's passage, and she saw the Celestial One had come for them himself. She gazed upward in mute appeal to the Ancestors. Does he think I mean to try to escape? Rian asked, "Who was that other woman, who looked daggers at you?"

  Maskelle glanced at him. He was ostensibly relaxed, but not without that edge of tension. She said, "That was Lady Disara, my husband's mother. The husband I killed."

  Rian stared at her. "You could have told me before." He looked sharply at the people who had come with the two Court Ladies and managed to lower his voice. "How can I protect you if you don't tell me these things? What is wrong with you? Were you run out of the Empire for being crazy?"

  "That was one of the reasons." Maskelle sat down on a bench under one of the trees to wait for the boat. She sighed and rested her arms on her knees. "I think maybe I might need a kjardin after all."