Grey clouds hovered above the tiled rooftops of the village, stretching across the horizon like a gigantic shroud. A chill wind stirred the air, an unseasonably late breath of winter. From the brick chimneys of every house and hovel, thin serpents of smoke slithered upwards, adding to the already dingy atmosphere, blotting out the sun's feeble efforts to smile down upon the streets of Reuss.
The narrow lanes that wound their way between the sprawl of the village we subdued, despite the masses of grim-faced men and women. With winter's threat of a cold month the people of Reuss were eager to gather provisions for the harsh months ahead. Bakeries and wine shops bustled with commerce, and rang out with the clink of coins changing hands. But there was little conversation. Each tradesman's eye was narrowed with suspicion and fear. Gloves of garlic, pots filled with fragrant flowers and parchment seals marked with prayers to Verbum marked most doorways. The threat of a long winter was minor. But the threat of plague was already upon Reuss.
The disease had appeared in the poor districts first, the miserable ghettos to which urchins and labourers slunk back once their day's toil was at an end. Foul black boils festered upon the victim's skin until, at last, they burst open, weeping brown pus. The sick and dying would linger for weeks, their bodies becoming even more grotesquely infected until they had no nourishment left in their wasted frames to sustain the disease. Then they expired. It was an ugly, loathsome death, of a kind that the village's few apothecaries and scholars, even the temple of Verbum, had never witnessed before. But it was not all the victims had to bear. To the terrifying stigma of the disease was added the horror of the unknown.
Sinister shapes stalked the streets now. Strange figures born from the city's despair. One such apparition prowled that part of the village that had been given over to brothels and taverns. The stranger wore a heavy brown topcoat about his tall, elongated frame. On his head sat a wide-brimmed hat, it was battered and twisted, stained by the tainted rain from the smoke-befouled clouds. His gloved hands held a long, steel-handled walking cane and a dingy leather satchel. But his most distinctive feature was the mask that shielded his face from the elements - a mask of oiled leather with a long, bird-like beak, stretching out from beneath the shadow of his hat. Its smoky lenses were glazed, like the eyes of a vulture, hiding the human orbs that peered from behind them. The faint smell of lilac suggested itself as the stranger passed, seeming to exude from the bird-like bill.
The stranger was a plague doctor, one of the only men in Reuss with the courage to venture into the homes of those brought low by the blight. One of the only men greedy enough to make their suffering his business.
He reached the end of an alley, his steps frightening a starving cur from where it hid beneath a staircase. His masked turned upward, his eyes studying the red slash painted upon the doorway above the steps - the sign that the plague had struck. Without hesitation, the plague doctor ascended the stairs, rapping upon the portal with the steel crown of his cane.
Shuffling of steps told of movement, and the portal shuddered inward as its warped frame was pulled inside. The grimy face at the door considered the strange apparition with an expression between hope and terror. The plague doctor did not wait to be admitted, forcing the occupant to retreat before him. The interior was dingy and decrepit, dirt and debris piled against its cracked plaster walls. A small corridor branched off from the foyer while a rickety wooden staircase wound its way upward.
"Who is sick here?" All humanity in the doctor's voice was smothered by layers of leather and sheepskin.
"Four floors up," the concierge was quick to reply, stabbing a finger at the ceiling. The doctor's mask rose to follow the gesture, then fixed its lifeless lenses on the grimy little man. The concierge loudly swalloed the knot in his throat.
"This is the third visit I have paid to your household," the doctor stated. "Infection has perhaps taken hold."
"She's no kin of mine!" the concierge protested hastily. "A common whore, like the others!" His cry was desperate, as though denying any relationship with the infected woman might spare him from the disease itself.
"You will show me to her room." The concierge's face grew more pallid beneath its layers of grime as he hurried after the visitor. "I should like to examine everyone who resides here." the plague doctor said. "If the blight has appeared here three times, others are likely infected."
"Is that really necessary?" the concierge gasped.
"It is not you who pays the cost," the doctor consoled the little man, seemingly oblivious to the reason for his concern. "Ad it would be better than contracting the blight yourself." The concierge nearly tripped on the stairs as he forgot which foot he was using.
"That - that isn't - I couldn't..." the concierge stuttered. The doctor paused on the stairway. He looked down from the upper step as though he was one of the gargoyles crouched upon the cathedral of Verbum.
"Do not discount the possibility," the doctor asserted. "After you have shown me to the woman's room, I suggest you retire to your own. I shall examine you when I am done." His leather glove creaked as he made firm his grip upon his cane. "All it will cost is a little time, and a little silver."
The concierge swallowed again, and hurried to conduct the visitor to his appointment.
~-*-~
"Remove your clothing," the muffled voice intoned from behind the mask. Vira Staubkammer raised a slender hand to her breast, her fingers lighting upon the strings that dripped from her bodice. The plague doctor did not seem to notice, his gaze swept the room, studying its dingy squalor. Shabby excuses for a wardrobe and dressing table were visibly crumbling. There was a reek of dirty straw from the small bed-frame, its mattress supported by sagging ropes.
The woman might once have been considered possessed of beauty, but long years of squalor and shame had cheapened its bloom. Her mouth was too accustomed to false laughter and hollow pleasure, her eyes were pits of emptiness that had seen far too much ugliness in her short life. What remained in her shapely figure, in her long dark hair, was only the illusion of what stirred longing in the blood of men. But it was enough to suit her needs; enough to serve men who would pay for the tattered reflection of that which they desired.
"I am not accustomed to this," said Vira, her voice struggling to assume its normal bold haughtiness. "I am paid to remove my clothes. I have never paid for the privilege of removing them myself."
"You should change your bedding," the plague doctor said, completing his inspection of her room. He strode past the young whore as she opened her bodice, exposing the pale skin beneath. Oblivious to her partial nudity, he set his bag down upon the table. "All sorts of ill humors can gather in such squalor." He removed a set of gruesome picks and bone-scrapers. Vira blanched as she saw the ugly instruments, her face turning almost as white as her bodice. The mask turned to regard her once more. Vira quivered before its vulture-like eyes. She would have been more at ease to see lust, despair, even hate, in the man's face, but the mask betrayed not the slightest hint of emotion.
"Extend your arms," the plague doctor ordered. "Hold them to either side."
"It is only a cough," Vira protested even as she obeyed. "I was out late... a friend who was too eager to wait to reach indoors. It will pass."
"Perhaps," the muffled voice mused. Vira shuddered as the man strode from the table, a long, needle-like lance in his gloved clutch. The plague doctor circled her slowly, as though he really were a vulture circling some carrion before feeding upon it. The lilac scent exuding from the mask's leather beak filled her lungs. Vira cringed as the cold tip of the lance touched her skin, prodding her to raise her armpit. From the corner of her eye, she could see the mask nod u and down. What had he seen, she wondered?
"I fear that Herr Kemper is something akin to a biddy," Vira said, silently cursing the prying concierge who saw fit to send for this man. It was only a minor cold, she was certain of that. That it could be anything more was too horrible to contemplate.
The plague doctor strode back towards the table. Mira watched with relief as he began to drop the sinister instruments back into his bag. The vulture-like mask turned towards her once more. "LOwer your arms and restore your clothes." Vira breathed an audible sigh of relief, hurrying to comply.
"I am well then?" she dared to ask, unable to hold back the relief. The doctor removed a small bottle from his bag.
"Perhaps," he repeated. "There is no outward sign of the blight about you, but this cough disturbs me. It may signify an imbalance among your humors." He held the tiny bottle in his gloved hand.
Vira felt a wave of unease as the plague doctor approached, beyond even her earlier trepidations. Her eyes fixed on the clouded glass clutched in his hand. "What is that?" she asked.
""Medicinal vapours," came the answer. "They will restore the harmony of your body's humors. You should have a rag at hand, I fear. And I do hope you did not spend too much for your breakfast."
The young woman suppressed a cough and smiled nervously.
"What must I do?"
"Although she could not see his face, she seemed to sense the plague doctor smiling as he pulled the clay stoppers from the bottle.
"Just breathe deeply," he told her. "The vapours will do the rest."
Author
Topic: Battle of the Gods V (Read 27579 times)