At that sight my heart leaped with an overwhelming desire to see my people: Miramar and Ketura, Small Thomas and Benedick, even old Doctor Foster.
And Fancy. Most of all, little Fancy, who danced through all my dreams and alone remained a kind of light to me when I was most desperate. Even now, when about me reared the black spires of the Narrow Forest and lazars hooted in the distance, the thought of Fancy, somewhere, (missing me perhaps?) waking from her evening nap to dress for the ball calmed me as nothing else ever could. All the madness that had befallen me could be kept at bay by the knowledge that she sang and slept and danced there upon the Paphian’s hill; as if I was like the princess in the story, who could not be killed by fire or sword or swivel because her heart was hidden safely elsewhere. The bitter longing that had hurried me through the woods melted into a gentler need: for the comfort of those like me; for laughter and lovely things; above all for forgiveness for having valued wisdom above the varieties of love.
When Anku nudged me I started and nearly fell into the shallow water. I kicked him away from me. He growled plaintively, but suddenly I wanted no more of him, no more of this forest or of the Curators and the evils they had awakened in me. I was turning to wade upstream, to where I thought the Tiger ran into the river, when I saw the figures lined upon either shore watching us.
In the moonlight they might almost have been enchanted trees, betulamias or bitter alders: thin figures with spindly arms upraised, silent, their eyes black in haggard faces. Four of them upon one bank, three on the other. Most were smaller than myself. Even in the dim light I could see that they were children; but more than children.
Lazars.
Beside me Anku stood alert. I glanced down at him. The eyes that met mine were so obviously fired by some uncanny intelligence that I shivered, standing in the middle of that warm and languid river. I lifted my head and met the gaze of the lazar who seemed the eldest. A girl, flanked by two boys upon the farther bank. Her long hair burned almost white by the sun, face dark as though stained by some dye. About her shoulders hung the remains of a yellow janissary’s jacket. A carcanet of braided human hair hung around her neck. The boys beside her were very young, seven or eight years perhaps. One of them had flaming red hair, and was making faces at the group on the other bank. When I caught his eyes he giggled and hid behind the tall girl. The others were young as well, so thin and dirty I could not make out if they were boys or girls, with their rags and tattered hanks of hair tied about their waists. None of them bore a weapon, save their eyes—huge and glittering and feverish: starved.
Still, they were so young and thin, and really they were only children, after all. I smiled, and took a step forward.
In an instant they were on me. I had a sideways glimpse of the two little boys springing from the sward before I fell. One of them clung to my back, kicking and screaming as he dug his fingernails into my neck. The other wrapped his arms around my knees. Then he butted me in the groin with his head. I doubled over in pain.
And panicked. They were lazars, not children: diseased ghouls. I tried to flee, but tripped and fell into the river. I felt the first boy clambering up my back until his weight forced my head beneath the water. I tried to knock him away, but now the air was shrill with their cries. I inhaled water, choking; felt other hands swarming over me. Then another sound, a hollow roar booming through the rush of water in my ears. A shriek, abruptly cut off. The knot of squirming hands withdrew. I rolled a few yards downstream, gagging and trying to wipe the water from my eyes as I staggered to my feet.
In the river six children now stood, the water roiling about their ankles. Anku half-crouched in the shallows among them. At his feet lay the red-haired boy, blood streaming from his torn throat like a tangle of his own bright hair. Coughing, I splashed upstream. Anku lifted his head, dipped his dark muzzle into the river until it was washed clean. Then he bounded to join me.
Three of the remaining lazars grabbed the dead child by his hands and dragged him to shore. The others drew closer to the tall girl. One wept silently, thumb in her mouth. Her eyes met mine beseechingly and I felt a stab of regret, that she looked to me—the oldest one present—for comfort. I turned to face the tall girl.
“Let me go,” I called to her. Anku pressed close against my leg. “I only seek passage to High Brazil. I must attend a Masque there—”
The girl took the hands of the two beside her and for the first time spoke. “They are hungry.” The children began to cry.
I glanced at the near shore. The lazars who had dragged the dead boy there now crouched beside him. A third child fumbled at the sopping rags she wore until she withdrew something that gleamed. I averted my eyes.
“You have him now,” I said. “Let me go.”
“He is too small,” the girl replied. Her tone was surprisingly deep for one so young. She drew the two beside her closer, patting their heads in that absent manner that children have when they are imitating adults.
“Shh,” she said, glancing at the shore. “He sleeps now. Go help Tristin.”
Tristin. A Paphian name. I bit my tongue to keep from crying out at this awful thing: to think of one of my own cousins meeting such an end! And yet it happened to some of us every time there was a rain of roses. Children and older Paphians (but mostly children, because they could not run as quickly) were caught outside before they had a chance to flee. And I had never admitted to myself that the lazars hunting and dying in the streets were very likely lovers I had been paired with on the Hill Magdalena Ardent.
The oldest girl pushed away the two little ones. They splashed across the river to join the others, looking back fearfully at Anku.
“A star fell tonight,” the girl said after a moment. She scratched her chest, adjusting the torn yellow jacket until it closed about her hips. “In the Cathedral we saw fougas.” She cocked her head, listening to the dying echo of sirens.
“So did I.” I looked over my shoulder to make certain there were no others gathering there. Hugging my arms against my chest, I took a step toward the far bank. The girl regarded me with those piercing black eyes and kicked at the shallows.
“You are a lazar,” she said at last.
“No,” I said. “I am a Paphian. I go to the Hill Magdalena Ardent, to High Brazil for a Masque. Let me pass—”
“You dress like one of us,” she said, indicating my torn clothes. Anku tilted his head to watch us. The girl pointed at him with her thumb.
“That is a dog.” She said this as though expecting me to refute it.
“Of sorts. It’s a jackal.”
“We had a dog,” she said wistfully. “They ate him. I was too small so they took me. From the Zoo.”
“The Zoo,” I repeated. I glanced to the northwest, where on an unseen hill hidden by white oaks the Zoologists lived. A Curator, then. I looked back at her, the dark frets of her ribs shadowed beneath the torn jacket, her gaunt blackened face; the white scars on her arms where the rains had fallen. Thirteen years old, maybe. “What’s your name?”
“Pearl.” She moved closer to me with a slow uneven gait, as though immeasurably fatigued or sedated. I backed away. Behind her I could see the others swarming over the boy’s corpse, some of them heaping sticks and branches on the shingle beside him.
“Your skin is so white,” she said. She stretched a hand to touch my chest.
Anku growled, but the girl only glanced at him. I shrank from her touch. She shrugged and shuffled a few steps off.
“Let me pass,” I said. Anku’s eyes followed Pearl as she drew nearer. “I’ll kill you otherwise—”
She regarded my raised fist with its dimly glowing sagittal and shrugged. “I am pledged to Death already,” she said. Grinning, she bared her teeth at me. Then she tipped her head and stared at me more closely. “I think you too are promised to the Gaping One.”