“Oh, I am indeed a sorcerer, and a strong one. You’ve heard that betimes sorcerers and wizards take young men into their tutelage, to pass on their knowing?”
“Yes.”
“I will break you, priest.”
“You will not break me.”
Guburus stared for a long time, a long moment, at the young man before him. His eyes burned more brightly, for a heartbeat, in the night darkness; he glanced back toward the tavern, then again at Thameron. Finally he handed the young man his wine jug.
“Here. Your first task, as servant, will be to carry my parcels and baggage.” He turned on his heel and strode down the dark path.
After a moment Thameron, perplexed but relieved, followed him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Finally, Ibro had had enough. His patience had reached its end. The girl was doing him no good; she couldn’t even support herself any longer, and when that time came for anyone, it was better to cast them out.
As he made his way up the creaking stairs to the second floor of his tavern, he could hear her loud coughs and wheezing, and they made him even angrier than he was already. Ibro knocked loudly on her door only once, then pushed his way in.
“No more!” he shouted. “You’re not bringing in any customers—you’re driving customers away! No one wants anything to do with a whore who’s sick all the time. Get your things and get out!”
On the bed, Assia lay still, shuddering. This latest attack had been worse than the others, yet she knew that if Ibro would allow her to rest for another day or two—
“Did you hear me?” he growled. He stepped toward the bed.
Weakly she turned her head on her pillow. “Please…just let me rest.…”
“You’re as sick as a sewer rat!” the taverner complained. “I can’t let that bed go to waste. I’m not the government. I can’t pay anyone to sit around all day and do nothing! I run a business. I’ve given you more chances than I’d give anyone else just because I like you. But now your luck’s ran out. Do you hear me, Assia?”
“Please…please.…” she moaned.
Grunting an obscenity, Ibro stalked to her bed, bent, and grabbed one of her arms. Assia winced.
“Stand up!” he yelled at her.
Behind him, at the open door, some of the other women peered into the room and drew away, shaking their heads.
“Stand up, damn you!”
He yanked her from the bed. Assia, naked, barely found the energy to stay on her feet. Ibro grabbed her shoulders and forced her chin up so she could look at him.
“Damn!” he growled fiercely. “I’ve been good to you! I run a clean house! But look at you! There’s no meat left on you!” He slapped her hips with a heavy hand, grabbed one of her breasts, and pushed it up so that the nipple stared at her like a strange eye. “Men pay good money for these, but not when they belong to a walking cough! Get your things!”
“Oh, please, Ibro.…” She began to cry and sank back on the bed; as the tears slipped down her cheeks, she inevitably began to cough, more loudly than before.
“Come on, I’ve had just about—”
She lay back, stretched her body full out on the bed so that she was no more than a pale length, totally abject, a victim. “I can’t!” she whined. “I can’t go anyplace. I don’t know anyone!”
“Be friendly to them,” Ibro suggested. “Be friendly to them! You’ll find someplace to stay. Just get your buttocks out of here before noon, when paying people come around. You understand me?”
Assia sobbed and tried to roll over.
Ibro smacked her brutally hard on the belly. “I said, did you hear me?”
Assia, coughing, doubled up and rolled over. “I heard, I heard!” she moaned, burying her face in the pillows.
Ibro marched to the open door. “By noon, Assia! Or I’ll throw you naked into the street. I’ll have you arrested.” And he thundered down the landing and down the steps into his tavern.
Assia cried and cried.
Gingerly, double-checking to make sure that Ibro wasn’t returning, three of the girls crept into her room and knelt on the floor beside her bed.
“The son of a bitch!” one of them swore.
“We ought to just knife him!” said another.
“He’s a monster, he’s the sick one!” the third added.
“Listen, Assia, listen to us,” the first pleaded. “We’ll get you some money. We haven’t got much, but we can give you a little—enough to get you a doctor. Assia?”
She groaned and sobbed, curled her legs up and bit her hand, coughed, coughed.
“Assia? Please. We don’t want him to hurt you. Will you take some money? Will you go see a doctor? Assia?”
* * * *
Tyrus, in his early fifties and in reasonably good health, shared a room with three other sailors. He was a contrary old dog, used to giving way to no man. His face was pitted by an early bout with disease, and scars on his cheeks and arms attested to the numerous fights he had taken part in, on ships, in taverns, anywhere. Temperamental, irritable, by turns dour or robust and possessed of a crude sense of humor, Tyrus was happy to see his daughter only when she brought him extra money from her earnings on the street. So he was not particularly pleased when Assia came to him this morning.
“Why can’t you learn to take care of yourself?” was his first remark to her. “Didn’t I teach you how to take care of yourself? What’s the matter with you? Now you’re coughing and spitting up all over the place. No, don’t sit on my bed. Sit down over there. In the chair.”
They were not alone. As Assia, weak and exhausted, collapsed into the shaking wooden chair set at the single table, Tyrus shot a look at the two other men in the room—his companions, roommates. The same age as he (and older than the useless rascal who, armless, occupied the fourth corner of their quarters), both men had, on more than one occasion, used Assia to satisfy themselves completely. They regretted seeing her in this condition; there was little sentimentality involved, but they liked the girl as they might have enjoyed a trained puppy, and few can take joy at the idea of a sick puppy.
“Didn’t bring much with her today,” one of them commented.
“Won’t be bringing much tomorrow,” opined the other.
Tyrus, standing beside the table and frowning at his ill daughter, was well aware of this. Here was his gambling money; here was his drinking money. Gruffly he asked her, “Will he take you back?”
“He told me—” Assia coughed at length. “He told me to…see a doctor.’’
Tyrus worked his mouth and scratched the stubble on his chin. He glanced at the other two, who were lying abed and watching Assia as she slumped in her chair. Her skirt, loose and slipping over her hips, had partially revealed her buttocks, and they were entertained by that.
Tyrus walked over to them. “You—” he pointed “—owe me two in silver. And you—it comes to three in short gold.”
They looked at him with surprise.
“She needs a doctor, doesn’t she?”
They stared at him, mute.
“I know where you hide your purses,” Tyrus reminded them. Casually he reached his hand behind his back as if to finger the knife sheathed in his belt there, although he did no more than scratch an itch.
The two men looked at one another.
“Eh,” admitted one finally. “Aye…she needs a doctor.…”
* * * *
Sodulus the physician kept them waiting all afternoon. The reason was simple: Tyrus and his daughter were Sabhites. It was not that Sodulus himself was a strongly prejudiced person; he was, however, a man of common sense. And common sense dictated that, in the Athadian sections of Erusabad, westerners were shown preference over easterners. The opposite held true on the other side of the river. For Sodulus to have practiced otherwise would have meant for him to lose business; and while he had served patients for more than thirty-five years in the Holy City and had striven to apportion his talents equally to all, regardless
of racial or tribal background, still—barriers existed, he could never change them, and so he had adapted to them.
Tyrus and Assia waited impatiently, the old seaman voicing all kinds of complaints but never going so far as to make threats—never going so far, in fact, as to raise his voice very loudly. He, too, knew that barriers existed, and he, too, had adapted. That he lived in the Athadian section of Erusabad was his good fortune; that he was half-eastern by birth was no great calamity in such a metropolis; that he had earned his livelihood with the crewmen of western ships was the result of his own perseverance and will. If he occasionally had to wait a long time in line, or if once in a while he had taken too much to heart a barbed comment about his being “dark meat”—well, such was life.
It was, in any event, Assia’s coughing that affected his temper more than the wait outside the physician’s door. It irritated him. The presence of his ill daughter portended too many things, loss of extra money paramount among them, but also a loss of self-esteem (no parent should live long enough to see his own child sicken to death); and also—also—Assia’s sickness brought back memories of her dying mother.
She, too, had been a prostitute. And even more beautiful than her daughter. And subjected to the murderous life on the docks solely as an accident of birth—although Tyrus, once he had married her, had vowed to improve their condition. He had failed. Away at sea, he never witnessed his wife’s debauches with others; and though she had sworn to him that Assia was truly his own child, of his seed, Tyrus had never been certain and never could be certain.…
“Come in now,” Sodulus called to them from the opened door.
Tyrus helped the hobbling Assia within. She sat in a chair in the center of the physician’s small examining chamber. Everywhere was the stench of many combined medicines, oils, plants, and herbs and powders.
Sodulus did not apologize for having kept them waiting. But he did not delay in seeing after Assia. He had her remove her vest and shirt and he listened to her heart, then to her lungs by placing a hollow reed between her breasts and pressing his ear to the opposite end. He tapped her chest, felt around her ribs, pressed her belly, and fingered her throat and behind her ears.
Tyrus watched the physician’s expression for any sign that might give away his thoughts. But Sodulus was saturnine.
At last he told Assia to put her clothes back on, and he turned to Tyrus. “You are her father?”
“Yes.”
“Your daughter is quite ill.”
Assia moaned as she buttoned her vest.
Tyrus became afraid. Had she contracted a disease from someone? If so, then.… “What’s the matter with her?” he asked.
“Your daughter is seriously ill in her lungs. I do not believe it is due to a contagion. That is, it cannot be passed along, so you should not become sick in her presence. But the effects will come and go, and each attack will have a tendency to be severer than the one before. When the attacks come, you must allow her to rest. Have her lie on her side. If she coughs a great deal, she may vomit phlegm from the lungs; that will be a good thing. Pound on her back; that will help. You want the discharge released from the lungs.”
Tyrus stared at him. “But will she— Is she dying?”
Sodulus told him, “All of us are mortal but, no, she is not in immediate danger.” He was not being sincere in intimating that Assia’s disease was not fatal, but through his art, he had long ago learned the spiritual benefit of cautioning his patients in this way. “Who knows?” he assured Tyrus, and then managed a grin at Assia. “You may defeat it. Burn mith leaves as incense, if you can afford to do so. Because the vapors are sweet, the leaves will help to clean out the lungs; throw drops of water on the coals as you do so. Are you a sailor?”
“Yes.”
“If you can, take your daughter with you on your voyages. For some lung diseases, a dry climate is the best treatment; for others, a more humid atmosphere seems to be beneficial. I believe the sea air may do your daughter good. Are you able to do that?”
Tyrus stared at him. “I, I suppose so.” He thought for a moment, then ventured, “My daughter is employed. Her income is needed.”
Sodulus said nothing.
“She works as a, a servant in a rich man’s house. He has threatened her. Will she be able to continue working?” Tyrus asked in an apprehensive tone.
“I doubt that,” the physician counseled him. “These attacks will recur. It is best for her to rest as much as she can.”
Assia moaned and slumped forward a little.
Tyrus looked at her and fingered the purse at his belt. “How much?” he asked Sodulus.
“Whatever you can afford. A copper will suffice. I am here to serve; pay me what you can, according to your income.”
Tyrus reached into the purse and examined what was there. Three coppers and one silver coin. He took out one copper and handed it to Sodulus. Then he removed another and gave him that, as well.
Sodulus set the money aside, beside a small wooden box on the table. “Buy some mith leaves,” he told Tyrus. “And if you can take her to sea—”
“Yes, yes. I will.” He stared at Assia—weak, pale, coughing, but still a beautiful young woman, he had to admit it.
“Should she give birth to this child, with her condition?”
“I would be cautious, young man.”
“But she wants this baby. They say it will be a girl.”
“Then let her try. I’ve done all I can do.”
* * * *
It was out of the question that they should pay for a sea voyage, and Tyrus knew he would not have to. He was not eager to sail again; he was comfortable in Erusabad. But if he stayed in Erusabad—well, then Assia would continue to sicken and finally die.
He spoke with several masters he knew on the wharves. One took pity on the young woman and agreed to give them passage on the next sailing. That would be in two days. He was carrying cargo of wine and cloth goods to Elpet, within the Athadian Empire.
Assia stayed in her father’s apartment for those two days and rested. Her health began to improve to such an extent that Tyrus debated whether to take the voyage.
But Assia begged him; she did not wish to stay in Erusabad, which held only sad memories for her. And so, the following morning, they boarded the merchanter and set out for Elpet.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
“Oh, cynicism is in style nowadays. People have no character anymore,” Mantho complained. “They’ve reduced themselves to personalities, and they believe that personality is all there is. They lack integrity.” He drummed his fingers on the table, then moved a soldier three spaces to the left on the usto board. “Your turn.”
Adred smiled at him and, as he rolled the dice, commented, “But that’s true of everyone; always has been. You can’t say that people today have a monopoly on those defects.” His dice settled, showing Adred a three, a two, and a six. He grinned and reached for his king. “Prepare to defend yourself!”
“But it’s more true today than ever before,” Mantho countered. “Look at the people. They’re dissatisfied and don’t know why, or if they do know why, they blame someone else. They’ve gotten too used to having someone take care of them. Can’t take care of themselves. Who’s to blame for that? Good move.”
Adred removed one of Mantho’s black guards and set his own red king three spaces from his friend’s. “Better roll a three or you’re done for.”
Mantho dropped the dice: two threes and a five. Adred groaned. His host leisurely walked his king diagonally across the square and, with his advantage of five, took Adred’s king. “Too many people,” he continued, smiling. “Usto.”
Adred shook his head. “If I were twenty years older,” he remarked, “I’d be like you. Smug and self-confident.”
“I’ve worked hard for what I have.”
“Of course you have. You weren’t born to the silver. But you have what you have because of everyone else; without them, you couldn’t have prospere
d, and you know it.”
“Don’t pull out Radulis on me!” Mantho laughed, and tipped his wine cup toward Adred in a salute. “Your argument’s faulty, but you played a good game.”
Adred said, “The argument is sound. We’ve gotten lopsided. When you profited from your businesses, you shared the results of your hard work. You looked after the families you employed.”
“I did.”
“You saw them as an asset, not an expense. Can you honestly say that it’s that way now?”
“No. And I know that. But if I were in business now, I couldn’t afford to look after my help the way I used to.”
“And why is that? Because the cost of doing business has gotten too expensive? It’s always been too expensive. I haven’t met a business person yet who didn’t know how to make money no matter how expensive things gets!”
Mantho laughed. “You’re right. If he knows his business.”
“They want the poor people to keep the roads clean so that they can move their goods efficiently, but they don’t want to pay those people. And they don’t want the government to tax their businesses to help keep the roads clean, so the government takes the money from the peasants and the shopkeepers. Using my friends in government to steal from the poor to make myself richer—I wish I were that smart a businessman.”
“They’re not smart. They’re corrupt.”
“You admit it?”
“There’s a difference between being in business and bribing the government! Yes, I admit it. I did as much as I could with people I felt I could trust, and I did my best to be honest and fair, believe it or not.”
“I do believe it. But if anyone else was ever honest or fair, they aren’t now. Business and the bankers run the government. We’re all under their boot. And don’t give me that look. You know what I mean.”
“It’s not as bad as that.”
“No—it’s worse than that. Look out any window. People have no jobs, and they’re hungry. And they’re angry, Mantho. But the wealthy stay indoors, and their nostrils are so clogged with the smell of money, they can’t smell the stink from the streets.”
The West Is Dying Page 17
