Prologue
Smoke billowed into the air, swirling and blending into a murky gray fog whose tendrils reached into every hidden corner of the city. Mantra remembered the pungent smell even though it had been ten months since he’d fled his home. A lot of good it did him to hide in the countryside. The deadly plague called the Farg had spread its tentacles until it reached him even there. The pestilence touched everyone, regardless of location or station in life. It was a great equalizer, as Mantra had come to learn.
Huddling in the shadows of a doorway, he clutched his cloak tighter around his trembling body. It wasn’t the cold that concerned him. Mantra dared not risk being seen. The telltale ugly swellings on his thick tan hide would condemn him on sight. If he were caught, he would be sent to the pest-house. He wanted to die in his own bed, not in a chamber of horrors.
A paroxysm of coughing struck him, and he stooped, hacking and trying to clear the phlegm from his lungs. When at last he straightened, his face was red, his breath coming in short, painful bursts. In the dim light of the streetlamps, he could see the winding cobblestone street disappearing into the mist ahead. Only a few more blocks to go, then he would be home. With a stab of fear, he wondered if anyone was left to greet him. His mother and father... his sisters... had they all succumbed to the plague? It was selfish of him to return like this, to put them all in danger, but he craved one last glance of his loved ones before he died.
It was difficult to breathe the dry air after the relatively moist freshness of the country, and he had to stop every few paces to catch his breath. He was grateful that the streets were deserted. Public gatherings were forbidden, and all transportation had come to a halt. It was as though the very lifeblood of the city had stopped.
Sewage flowed freely in the streets, and even the wooden structures surrounding him seemed to lean inward with despair. Mantra cringed from the shrieks and lamentations he heard as he passed the homes still inhabited. Nearly everyone was affected by the horrifying visitation, if not themselves, then their dearest relations. The city had become a harbor of death.
Mantra’s shoe slipped on a water-slicked stone. He flailed and caught his balance to avoid a dangerous fall. Voices ahead made a curse choke in his throat. He sagged against a wall, his heart thumping. Go away! he cried in silence.
A searcher and a chirurgeon hurried together on their gruesome mission to examine the dead. One of them held aloft a red rod, warning off anyone approaching not to come near. Mantra held his breath as they passed, for all the good it would do him. He was already infected. Soon he would become their next victim.
When the voices faded, Mantra stepped out and moved forward at a faster pace. His temples throbbed, and a wave of dizziness threatened to overwhelm him. He pushed on, determination giving him strength. He nearly sobbed with relief when he rounded the corner of his street.
What he saw made him stop short.
Oh, no. Was that a watchman with a halberd in hand guarding his front door? Mantra slowly approached. A large red circle was painted on the door with the piteous words scrawled across it, HAVE MERCY UPON US!
Terror struck his heart. “What is this?”
“You approach a closed house. Be gone,” the watchman said. He was a stout fellow whose facial hair was thick and coarse. From the set of his shoulders, he appeared muscular beneath his robe.
“I must enter,” Mantra replied, frantic with concern. “It is my home.”
The watchman took a closer look. “By the sun, citizen, are you ill?”
“Aye.” Mantra gave a wicked grin as he thrust up his sleeve to reveal a rash of purplish blotches discoloring his thick hide.
The watchman’s eyes widened, and he stepped back. “You have the Farg!”
“Unlock the door. I wish to join my family.”
The watchman withdrew a large key from the folds of his garment. He fumbled with the lock, swung the door open, and stood aside for Mantra to pass. “The faith be with you, citizen,” he said, making the sign of the circle as Mantra went by.
“Mantra,” his mother screamed as he entered. She flew down the stairs, and Mantra barely heard the door bang shut behind him, or the key turning in the lock a second later. He raced to greet her, flinging his arms around her and sobbing her name.
“Alas, I forget myself,” he said, suddenly pulling back. “I am infected by the Farg.”
“Mercy!” his mother cried.
Now he saw how haggard she looked as he stood back to examine her. Her hair, once her crowning glory, hung in stringy reddish-brown strands down her back. Her luminous eyes were dull and sad. Even her garment, a softly woven fabric in green to match her eyes, was creased and stained. A wave of guilt swept over him as he thought about how he had left.
“Who else is ill?” Mantra asked, afraid to hear the answer.
Malika’s shoulders slumped. “Your sister Zunis. She has the fever.”
“And Father?” His supply station should have kept them all well fed, at least until they were shut in.
Malika looked away. “He took sick all of a sudden. Two days didn’t pass before the dead cart came to take him away.”
“No,” Mantra howled, rage and grief overwhelming him. He sank to the floor, squeezing his eyes shut to hold back the tears.
“Mantra, promise me you will not die, too,” Malika cried, kneeling beside him.
“I’m so sorry. Mother.” He gazed at her with sorrowful eyes. “I should not have left as I did. I ran at the first sign of the plague. I was a fool and a coward.”
“Hush, my son.” Her voice was gentle as she put out a hand to soothe him. “You were not the only one trying to flee. The streets were thronged with carts and beasts of burden, with wagons and goods, with people and baggage. You were lucky to get out before the barriers went up.”
“The barriers are useless. The distemper is everywhere.” Mantra ran his fingers through his rusty brown hair. “Curse this maug planet. If we lived closer to the sun, we might not be so horribly affected.”
Malika straightened. “It is harmful to listen to rumors from offworlders.”
“We have to ask the Coalition for help. It is the only way.”
“The only way is for the Coalition to leave our planet alone. We joined for the trade only. Any other contact is forbidden.” Malika’s voice was firm. “This is an old discussion. Come to bed.”
Mantra rose slowly, his limbs stiff and sore. He ached in a hundred places. “Joining the Coalition isn’t enough. We need to become active members. We need to progress—”
“Progress brings corruption. We will talk no more of this.” Malika peered at him closely, and her eyes darkened with anxiety. “You are trembling, and your face is a ghastly hue. How long have you had the distemper?”
“It’s been five days since I got sick. The fever was the worst. It was not thought I would survive, but a kindly caretaker gave me a posset-drink, and I recovered.” A rattling wheeze choked off his words, and he struggled for breath. His chest constricted as though a painful vise were around him, and he coughed, clearing the obstruction. “But as you can see,” Mantra said, gasping, “the infection has spread to my lungs.”
His mother’s countenance paled. “Upstairs with you,” she ordered, lifting her skirt and preceding him.