'How many do you think have it now?' he asked the mage.
Vituul was a young elf of average height, his dark blue eyes set in a classically angular face. His long black ponytail fell down the back of his light brown leather cloak. He had no family in the plague city and to be offered – with his equally poor friend, Eilaan – a good wage and a way out was a prayer answered. People were increasingly demanding that elven mages produce a miracle cure. The miracle wasn't going to happen.
'It's almost impossible to say,' he said. 'The total is probably in the region of a third of the population, but as people start to die in large numbers so the actual number of live cases, if you'll excuse the term, will decrease also.'
'But there are a hundred thousand people there,' breathed Jevin.
'Not any more,' said Vituul. 'Thirty thousand are already dying.'
'And no word on a cure,' said Jevin.
It hit him then like it hadn't before. He'd managed to ignore the ramifications of what was going on in front of his eyes but Vituul's numbers scared him to the bone. If those numbers were right, in fifty days there'd be less than twelve thousand people left alive in Ysundeneth, and four thousand of them would be dying. And with that level of mortality possibly affecting the whole continent, Jevin wasn't just witnessing a devastating plague, he was witnessing the death of the elven race. He shivered.
'How can there be a cure?' Vituul looked at him matter of factly.
'No one is going to be alive long enough to do the research. And there's no spell that can even slow its course. We don't even have a lead yet.'
'What can we do then?' Jevin felt helpless. 'There must be something. '
Vituul smiled but there was no humour in his face. 'Wait for it to pass.'
'And if it doesn't?'
'Pray that Yniss forgives whatever sin we've committed, because the way it looks now, we're all going to die, sooner rather than later.'
Jevin leant on the rail. He should be doing something. Every elf should. To his knowledge no one had survived having the plague so far, but then not many were in the final stages yet. Just one survivor could give them some hope. But what could he do? This wasn't a question of tending the sick or supplying the herbologists with raw materials. There was no battle to be won. Not yet. Elf catches plague; elf dies.
Jevin's own family lived deep in the rainforest and he preferred not to think about them. It kept his hopes alive.
'So why have none of the crews gone down yet?' asked Jevin. 'Odd, don't you think? Surely that's a lead?'
'It's a point, I suppose. No stranger catches it. No travelling elf catches it. Yet.'
'Surely it means something?'
'We are still Tual's creatures. Perhaps the curse of being away from the forest also carries a blessing. Perhaps your sin isn't as great as ours.'
Jevin had been looking for something less theological. But this mage, at least, had no answers.
'You see what I'm getting at?'
'There is no biological reason why any particular elf catches the plague,' said Vituul with a shrug. 'It must be something else. I don't believe you, I or any of the crew have greater immunity than the poor souls on shore.'
Jevin was considering his reply when his eye was caught by movement on the dockside. There was activity on the approach roads to the east and the odd shout echoed out across the water. The tone was of surprise, even astonishment, but not fear. People were congregating on the dock. Not a mob. Not the hundreds, even thousands, they'd seen a couple of days ago, but a slowly growing crowd.
It continued to grow over the course of most of the morning. Jevin thought at first that it was city folk gathering for a demonstration, but every time he looked up from his duties there were more of them. Just standing there like they were waiting for a ship to dock. Then Jevin realised what he was looking at. These weren't Ysundeneth elves; the city folk's clothes were so much brighter than the greens and browns he could see.
Around midday he rejoined Vituul, who had barely left the rail all morning. Despite his life taking him from the land of his birth and his Gods, Jevin prided himself on having enough of the Calaian elf in him still to understand his people. But not this. Left and right, the rails of other ships were crowded with crew and it seemed a quiet had descended across the city and the sea.
'They are who I think they are, aren't they?' he asked.
Vituul nodded. 'TaiGethen,' he said, pointing vaguely, but his voice was edged with excitement. 'Al-Arynaar. And ClawBound. I see the panthers. I see them.'
It was something most elves had never expected to see in the forest, let alone on the dockside at Ysundeneth.
'What are they doing?' Jevin implored anyone who might hear and answer him.
These people never, but never, came out of the rainforest. Never stepped on the worked stone of the streets. They thought them evil. Necessary but evil. A sin Yniss allowed because civilisation had to flourish. To them a city was an alien landscape. An imbalance in the harmony of the forest, its air, magic and denizens. Yet here they were, gathered and waiting, and quite suddenly, the disaster that faced the elves became so much more real.
'What do they want?' This time the question was directed at Vituul alone.
'Whatever it is, it isn't good.'
'We should launch a boat,' said Jevin. 'Ask them.'
But answers came far more quickly than that. Up in the crow's-nest, the lookout shouted and pointed east. Two dots were flying in from the forest, low and erratic. They swept over the docks, stopped momentarily and spiralled into the sky again, before moving out to sea and the ships moored there.
Jevin followed them, half knowing who it was, seeing them change direction twice before heading straight for the Calaian Sun. One of them dipped very low, called out, rose and then fell into the water a hundred yards from the ship. The other didn't pause but flew over the deck, landed and collapsed in a flurry of limbs. When Jevin reached him, Ilkar had managed to turn onto his back and was gasping in air.
'Ilkar?'
'Jevin,' Ilkar gasped. 'Better… better get a boat over the side. Don't think Denser can float for too long.'
The order was given. 'Where have you come from?'
'Shorth Estuary. Flew all night.' He struggled to a sitting position. 'Explanations later.'
He stopped to gasp in more air. His hair was plastered to his skull and his face was drawn and exhausted.
'Xeteskians have desecrated Aryndeneth. They've destroyed the harmony. But we can stop them. Tell all the ships. They've got to take the elves to Balaia. A stranger is holding part of Yniss's statue. And we've got to get it back before the plague takes us all.'
'And me?'
'You're coming with us. Got some friends to pick up at the Shorth.'
Jevin nodded. Answers were before him and his desire to help was satisfied.
'Bosun!' he called. 'Signal the ships. I need to see the skippers and it has to be now.' Turning back to Ilkar, he grasped the elf's shoulder. 'Let's get your wet colleague on board safely, then you can both tell me over a goblet of wine just exactly what is going on.' The trio of Xeteskian vessels was under full sail, moving well across a swell of six to eight feet. The wind was strong and constant beneath thin rolling cloud and the acres of canvas billowed dirty grey.
Captain Yron sat beneath the mainmast of the lead vessel on some netted crates, turning the fragment of the statue's thumb over and over. No one had dared come near him all morning. He must have looked a frightening sight with his hands and face covered in balms and bandages, but it wasn't that which kept them away.
Throughout the night he had prowled the deck, unable to sleep despite his fatigue. Healing spells had been cast on him as he moved and the bandages were only there because Erys had made him stop for long enough. After the eighth or tenth man had congratulated him on the success of the mission he had exploded with vehemence enough to wake the slumbering on all three half-empty ships. It needed saying. As if any bounty could justify this loss, let alone the pathetic collection of parchments and texts Erys had brought out.