Pellinor 04: The Singing

  Hem stared at Saliman in shock. "That can't happen," he said. "You can't get sick. You're a healer."

  "You know very well that healers can get sick," Saliman said, his voice like iron. "Now, Hem, listen to me. I want you to go back to the tavern and tell the others what has happened. You didn't touch the sick man, so I do not believe you will be infected. I will go to the ostler's room, by the stables. I can make a fire there. I'd like some dinner, so if you can bring a plate of something to the door ... and bring my pack, also. Leave them by the door. Do not come in. If I am well tomorrow morning, we will know I do not have the sickness. At least it is quick."

  "But—"

  "Go," said Saliman harshly. "Do what I tell you. Go now."

  Hem nodded, swallowing, and ran blindly back to the tavern. Such was his distress that he ran past it in the dark, and had to backtrack: the glimveil was working all too well.

  Irc, perched on a chair near the fire, cawed in welcome and fluttered over to Hem's shoulder, and Hekibel came out of the kitchen, her arms still smeared with flour.

  "Where's Saliman?" she said, looking past Hem's shoulder.

  "You were a long time," said Marich at the same time. "We were about to send out a search party."

  Hem stood dripping in the doorway, and found that he didn't know what to say. He went over to the fire.

  "What's happened?" asked Hekibel. "Hem, what's wrong?"

  Hem felt tears gathering in his throat, but he refused to cry.

  "Saliman was attacked by a man with the White Sickness," he said. "He won't come in, for fear that he is infected. He's going to the ostler's room by the stables."

  The three players looked at Hem in shock, and Hekibel began to run toward the back door.

  "He won't let you near him," said Hem. "We'll know if he's sick by tomorrow. He might not be. He wants some dry clothes, and he'll need some food. He said to put them in the doorway of the ostler's room."

  "If he's in the stables, we can't get to the horses," said Karim.

  "He won't be near the caravan," Hem said, looking at Karim with open dislike. "He is trying to protect us."

  "No wonder this place is abandoned," said Karim. "The White Sickness runs through a place like wildfire. They say it only takes a touch for the corruption to spread from man to man."

  Hem said nothing. He took his pack and went upstairs so he could change out of his soaking clothes. The clothes in his pack were still damp, and after a little thought he opened the chest in the room. Inside were tunics and jerkins, a little big for him but mercifully dry, and he threw them over his head. He took his own clothes downstairs so he could hang them in front of the fire and dry them out. When he walked in, there was an uncomfortable silence, as if everyone had been talking about him. He saw that they were all pale with fear, and his stomach lurched with sudden contempt.

  "You leave here if you like," he said fiercely. "I'll stay with Saliman. You needn't worry. But we might as well have that apple pie."

  "There might be nothing wrong with him," said Hekibel, her voice wavering. "But if he is sick, no one can heal the White Sickness—"

  "Bards can cure it," said Hem. "If he's sick, I'll heal him."

  "Have you healed it before?" asked Hekibel. Her voice was almost a whisper.

  Hem hesitated. "No," he said. "But that doesn't mean that I can't."

  "I've heard that not even Bards can drive it out," said Marich, holding Hem's gaze. "And only a few live once the sickness takes hold. And all of them blind. I've seen it myself. I like Saliman, but I don't think we do any good by staying. Him or us. He'd say the same."

  "I don't want to leave Saliman like a—like a—" Hekibel's voice broke, and she turned her face away.

  "You were always soft on him," said Marich, turning on her bitterly. "He's a Bard, Hekibel. A Bard. They have their own ways. They don't have anything to do with us."

  Karim was standing by the fire, drumming his fingers on the mantelpiece. "Myself, I judge that we should leave," he said, avoiding Hem's eyes. "We can't go anywhere immediately, that's obvious. And we should wait and see if the Bard is sick. It may be that he is not sick. In any case, Usha will not be able to take us farther tonight."

  "Saliman said he thought she might be all right tomorrow, if we took her slowly," said Marich.

  Hem felt a sick, impotent rage welling up inside him. "It smells like the bread is out of the oven. And is that stew cooked?" he asked coldly. "I'll take some to Saliman. He deserves something for healing Usha's lameness enough to get us here in the first place."

  Hekibel nodded and hurried out of the room, while Hem stood awkwardly in front of Marich and Karim, scowling at the floor. She returned swiftly with a bowl of stew, into which she had stuck a large hunk of fresh bread. She had covered it with a plate to keep it warm. Hem took it without speaking, and marched out to the back. He stood for a moment in the doorway, looking across the flagged yard. The rain was a solid curtain over the night; there was something merciless about it. He could see a light in the ostler's room. Hem crossed the yard as quickly as possible and opened the door.

  Saliman was inside, sitting at the table on the far side of the room. He had changed into some unfamiliar clothes, which had clearly belonged to the ostler, and had lit a fire, obviously by magery, since it was burning brightly and the room was already warm. He smiled when he saw Hem.

  "My thanks, Hem," he said. "Just put it on the floor inside the doorway. And cleanse yourself when you leave—wash your hands, in particular. I've touched the latch on the door."

  Hem nodded. "I—I forgot your pack," he said. "I'll bring it in a moment. And I didn't bring any wine."

  "The dinner is very welcome," said Saliman.

  "I'll bring the wine with your pack," said Hem. "And some apple pie, later."

  "That, too, would be good. But I don't want you getting soaked again, being my messenger boy."

  Hem hesitated, and then said with a rush, "If you have the White Sickness, can't I heal you?"

  "We don't know yet if I have it," said Saliman.

  "But I could heal you!"

  "I don't know if you could, Hem. I know you are a talented healer, but this is a sickness which defeats many Bards, even healers. Only the greatest healers have been able to drive it back. It is probable that if you tried, you would catch the illness yourself. In the meantime, I don't want to take any risks. In any case, I feel perfectly well at present. It's very pleasant to be dry and warm at last!"

  "The players want to leave."

  "That doesn't surprise me. Now, Hem, I know this is difficult. If I have this disease, we will know tomorrow morning; I should have the first signs then. At the moment, I feel no fever. Go back to the tavern, and get warm, and try not to worry."

  "I'll bring your pack."

  "Yes, bring me my pack. And the wine. You mustn't worry, Hem, I am warm and dry and fed. Now, boy, go!" Hem realized that Saliman would not pick up his dinner until he had left, and that it would be growing cold. He shut the door behind him and ran back across the yard to the tavern.

  Hekibel's stew was very good, as were her pie and bread. Hem ate them for the nourishment, but the food turned to ashes in his mouth. He could not get the image of the sick man out of his head, the horror of his ruined face; the thought of that decay happening to Saliman was unbearable. Irc sat on Hem's shoulder, accepting scraps of food, but he was unusually quiet. It was an uncomfortable meal, as a heavy silence cast its pall over the table, and neither Karim nor Marich would look at him. When he had finished eating, Hem went upstairs and walked into a bedchamber at random. Irc flew to the bedstead and ruffled his feathers, and Hem threw himself on the bed and fell asleep almost at once.

  When he woke up, it had stopped raining. Hem lay sleepily in bed for a little while, letting the peace wash over him, until he remembered his anxiety about Saliman and leaped out of bed. It was still dark, but he knew it was early morning, and he could hear movements downstairs.

  Hekibel was setting o
ut bread and cheese on the table, and frying some beans on the stove. She bade him good morning, and returned to the kitchen. There was no sign of Karim and Marich. Hem suspected that they were harnessing the horses, getting ready to leave.

  They are afraid, said Irc.

  So am I, Hem said. But I'm not running.

  They do not love Saliman as you do.

  Don't they? thought Hem savagely, looking at Hekibel's ashen face through the open door. No, they don't, he said to Irc. J. would never abandon Saliman.

  Irc flapped off to investigate their surroundings now that it wasn't raining, and Hem made a quick breakfast, trying not to think about what would happen if Saliman had caught the White Sickness. Then, his heart hammering with apprehension, he made a parcel of bread and cheese to take to Saliman. When he opened the back door, he saw that the yard was flooded. The water wasn't very deep, but it already lapped at the first step that led up to the back door. He took his boots off and left them by the door and then, grimacing, waded through ankle-deep water, its coldness shocking him properly awake, and knocked on Saliman's door. There was no answer. He pushed the door open and went inside.

  Saliman was asleep on the narrow bed in the far corner. He lay so still that Hem thought for a heart-stopping moment that he was already dead, but then he muttered and turned over. Even from this distance, Hem could see that he was ill. He had clearly had a restless night: the blanket lay on the floor and his clothes were twisted around him; his skin was slick with sweat, and his hair was soaked, his braids tangled.

  Hem sagged against the doorframe, trying to catch his breath. At that moment he could not have said what he felt: it was as if he had been dealt a mortal wound, but was yet to feel the pain. Saliman was deathly sick. And he had no idea how to help him.

  XI

  THE WHITE SICKNESS

  H

  EM splashed back through the yard to the tavern. He heard Marich and Karim talking in the stables, but didn't turn to look at them. The water had risen even in the short time he had been outside, and it had now spread over the first step. He looked up at the sky: it was still overcast with heavy clouds. There was more rain on the way, surely.

  In the kitchen, Hekibel was perched on a chair, her head in her hands. She looked up when Hem reentered and met his eyes. Hem didn't say anything, but she read the news in his face. She bit her lip and turned away.

  Hem sat down opposite Hekibel. "I suppose you'll be leaving," he said, his voice harsh.

  "Yes," said Hekibel. Her voice was so soft he barely heard what she said.

  "It's flooding outside anyway. The river's broken its banks, I think."

  "Then you will have to leave here, as well," Hekibel said, turning back to face Hem. "Are you going to stay with Saliman?"

  Hem met her eyes, and she saw the anger inside him. Hekibel blushed and dropped her gaze to the table.

  "I suppose I didn't need to ask," she said. "But the White Sickness, Hem ... it's a terrible, terrible thing ... and there's no cure."

  "I am a healer," said Hem. "And I'm not leaving him, no matter what. He's my friend."

  "If it's flooding here, you'll have to move him."

  "There's a wheelbarrow in the stables. I can put him in there and push him somewhere. There's higher ground behind the tavern—there will surely be some byre or hut where we can shelter. If it doesn't start raining again, we'll probably be all right."

  Hekibel stared at him, and Hem saw the fear and shame and pain in her face, and his rage spluttered out, leaving behind a bleak despair. It was no use being angry. What could the players do if they stayed, except become as ill as Saliman? And they had to part ways, in any case.

  "You should go," he said, with an effort. "Saliman would say it was right."

  "But what about you?"

  "I'll be fine. There's a path that leads uphill, which I saw earlier, we'll follow that. Anyway, I think the water is rising, so we had better move quickly, or we'll get stuck."

  Hekibel nodded, and Hem ran upstairs for his pack, stuffing his dried clothes inside it, and quickly gleaned some food from the tavern kitchen. Then he went to the stables, where Marich and Karim had already put aside food supplies from those in the caravan. Fenek was on the back step of the caravan, growling uneasily at the rising water. The horses were harnessed, and stood in the water up to their fetlocks, looking miserable. Hem picked up the supplies and thanked them gruffly.

  Karim cleared his throat. "The water's rising all the time," he said.

  "I know," said Hem. He didn't want to hear any excuses. "Thank you for the food. I'm just going to take that wheelbarrow, so I can carry Saliman to higher ground."

  "Hem, it's not that we don't want to stay," said Marich. "But it won't help him if we all get the sickness. I saw him; he has it. It's deadly, Hem. He won't get better. Nobody does."

  Hem met Marich's eyes, and then looked away. He liked

  Marich, and could even see his point of view. That didn't mean that the players' decision didn't hurt. "Farewell, then."

  "May the Light shine on your path," said Marich.

  Hem nodded. He didn't feel generous enough to make the courteous return, and sloshed over to where a large wooden wheelbarrow was propped against the wall. It was heavy, and he felt a pang of anxiety as he took it down and pushed it out into the yard, shrugging off Marich's offer of help. How was he to get Saliman into it by himself, let alone push it any distance?

  He returned to the stables to pick up the supplies, and put them in the wheelbarrow with their tent, and then went to the tavern to get his pack. Just before he left, he stripped some blankets from a bed and took them too. Then he went to the ostler's room and opened the door.

  Saliman was sitting on the bed, his head in his hands. He looked up when Hem entered. His eyes were bloodshot and he looked fevered, but otherwise he didn't seem too ill. "Hem," he said. "I am sick. Go away."

  "I'm not going away," said Hem. "I've decided. I don't care if I get sick."

  Saliman smiled wearily. "The problem is that I do care," he said. "Please, for once in your life, listen to me. Go with Hekibel and Marich. They'll look after you."

  "The tavern is flooding," said Hem, picking up Saliman's pack. "You'll have to move in any case. I got a wheelbarrow for our things—I thought you could get into it as well."

  "I'm serious, Hem. Leave me. I am already very sick, and I can feel the illness creeping through me. It is vile."

  Hem turned at the door, and his eyes burned with a despairing passion. "Saliman, I know what I am deciding. I am not leaving. I can't. So don't tell me again, because I won't listen."

  There was a long silence.

  "We have to move, and find some shelter, and then I will heal you, and then we will be all right." Hem went out the door and threw Saliman's pack on the wheelbarrow and returned. "Can you walk to the wheelbarrow? It might be better to stay barefoot. I'll put your socks and boots in there so you can warm your feet afterward."

  "I can walk," said Saliman. "I can even walk out of this ill-starred village. I won't forgive you, Hem, for risking your life like this."

  "I'm not risking my life. You said that Bards can heal the White Sickness. So I will heal you, and then we can just go on looking for Maerad. It was probably time we left the players anyway, given that Karim seems to be a friend of the Hulls."

  Saliman stood up and swayed, putting out his hand and steadying himself against the wall.

  "Do you want some help?" asked Hem, starting forward.

  "All right, Hem. I have not the strength to oppose you. But if you're going to do this, let's be sensible. I don't want you to touch me, and you must come near me as little as possible."

  "Do you want some help?"

  Saliman shot Hem a look of black anger. He drew on his cloak over the clothes he had slept in and stepped shakily out of the door. He waited by the wheelbarrow at a safe distance while Hem checked it over, making sure he hadn't forgotten anything, and then ran inside to take some firewood from
the pile in the kitchen. He spread the tent over their belongings to keep them dry. Saliman could sit inside the barrow comfortably enough, though Hem nervously wondered if he would be able to push it with Saliman's weight as well. As they stood there, Hekibel emerged from the back door of the tavern, holding her boots in her hands. She started when she saw them and hesitantly stood with the water around her ankles, brushing her hair out of her eyes.

  Saliman raised his hand in farewell, and Hekibel waved back, unable to speak. Then she burst into tears and hurried to the stables, where Karim was already guiding the caravan and its grumpy horses into the yard.

  Hem stood by while the golden caravan pulled out of the yard, out of his life. The water was almost up to its axle, and neither the horses nor Fenek looked very happy. Usha, he saw, was still lame, if not as seriously as she had been the previous day. Then he mindtouched Irc, who was nearby, and told him they were leaving the tavern.

  Is Saliman sick? asked Irc. We should stay to look after him .. . and I haven't finished looking here yet.

  We can't stay, said Hem impatiently. There's water everywhere. And you shouldn't be robbing empty houses, anyway. If you want to join us, we're going up that hill behind the tavern.

  I'll catch up with you, said Irc. I'm busy now.

  Hem sighed and turned to Saliman. "Can you walk, do you think?" he said. "There's higher ground behind the tavern, some rising hills. I think we should go there. We might find an empty house or barn, if we're lucky."

  "I can walk," said Saliman. "Though I fear I can't take a turn on the barrow, alas."