Лилла Сомн – Blood-Stained Pages. Vol. 1 (страница 2)

Now for tissue… One could only hope this would shed light on the corpse’s profoundly unnatural state. Wait. Look here.

Dried bloodstains were visible on the shoulder. Old blood. A treated wound beneath the shirt, poorly bandaged. He’d clearly visited the Healer’s Quarters. Why hadn’t he at least changed his clothes? More pressingly, why hadn’t the drastic weight loss and alarming change in appearance raised alarms among the healers?

Such transformations couldn’t occur overnight. It would require at least a medium cycle. If not longer… Aaargh.

…When *did* these attacks commence? Need to cross-reference the VST dispatches.

…What *were* the Kantinese hiding *now*? Especially from those they themselves had summoned??

…Damn it…

Recall. What scant details emerged from that brief, brusque conversation with the harried healer? What preceded the man becoming “this starving wretch trying to devour everything in sight”? Fever. And insatiable hunger.

Assuming it *was* an illness.

That spawned more questions for the healers. Didn’t they attempt treatment? Feed him, clean him? Was the situation truly that dire here? Did they simply not care for their people until they became troublesome? Pity them, then. It explained the endemic local aggression but excused no one.

There was always a choice to remain human, even in harsh conditions. Like Amelia did.

So. They noted symptoms of a… novel disease, apparently… One symptom is heightened aggression. Significantly higher than the Kantinese baseline, which was saying something. Hardly surprising, given the apparent indifference to this man’s suffering…

And… the northerners? Were *they* deliriously sick? Did they bring the disease here? Accidentally? Or were they expelled from their own city? To contain… an epidemic? Or… as an act of deliberate sabotage?

Hmm… Curiouser and curiouser.

The pensive agent shifted the grimy bandage, scraping off a crust of dried healing salve mingled with pus. The salve had obviously failed. Miserably. It hadn’t even drawn the infection out properly.

Something had entered the bloodstream rapidly.

If his illness hypothesis held… He was no medical expert. It’s far too early to speculate, to jump to premature conclusions.

He’d have to wait for someone more qualified. Still needed to examine the other victims. And question these healers far more thoroughly. *If* they could be persuaded to answer cooperatively.

Working here was always… challenging. It wasn’t his first visit. He even knew the language passably well, unlike most colleagues.

Except Inga. She was a true professional, the best of her graduating cohort, and one hell of an agent.

She disappeared while working here. And he… He felt stuck, mired.

…What in the ghouls’ names *was* happening? What were they hiding? Why summon the VST only to conceal crucial facts??

The same criminal indifference they showed this poor wretch? Or did they genuinely have some inkling about the source of this aggression? And if it *was* a sickness… the critical question was its virulence.

They likely didn’t want their own people exposed once they more or less grasped the danger. Understandable caution, perhaps.

How long *had* they hidden it, muttering their usual mantra, “We handle everything ourselves, without any witches or other upstarts”? And how much longer would they have concealed it if it hadn’t become… utterly terrifying?

Anyway. If viral and lethal, hiding was futile. It would spread across the entire Mainland.

Summarising. This man sustained several severe wounds leading to death. Because. He was attacked by a northern assailant. Then he himself attacked locals here and was killed by them. Which wounds proved lethal? The central, massive one, obviously.

A smaller wound, presumably inflicted by the northern attacker… a torn wound, resembling a bite. It had been a long time since he’d seen one like that… Honestly… perhaps never outside Academy pathology texts. It revealed little about the causative object.

Imagine an *attacker’s* bite. What savagery. It seemed nonsensical.

Though, it could conceivably be a bite received in a drunken brawl over the exclusive right to “true knowledge” in one of the local taverns.

Regardless. It’s hard for a non-specialist to say, but the wound didn’t resemble a witch burn; it looked more like the mark of a strange, tearing Youllish weapon. A new weapon, perhaps? Technologically advanced, long-isolated Youlle – many innovations could have emerged. Likely poisoned. That would explain much.

Poison could cloud the mind, induce spasms, create such a ghastly appearance… And horrific agony.

How long did it last? Also unknown. Must enquire.

Must also ask about the weapon. These locally pragmatic minds wouldn’t discard something potentially useful.

He wished he could examine an attacker, but the locals weren’t known for gentleness with outsiders, alive or dead; they simply disposed of the bodies. Work with what’s available. Nothing was ever straightforward here.

Needed to examine the wound more closely. Interesting. If it *was* poison… a deeper sample was needed. From the side. Leaving the wound intact for later examiners.

Pursing his lips in concentration, Kyle took the knife and carefully cut away the shirt fabric and bandage to access the area.

Almost finished here. This poor soul needed cold storage until medical help arrived. For a fuller understanding, they’d need to examine other victims.

A shadow fell across the corpse. How typically rude to intrude upon a crime scene examination. Very much in a habit…

– That’s how they all look, – a voice announced from above.

…of local Order Management officers.

Perhaps she could be a source of information? If he could coax her into conversation.

The speaker squatted down unceremoniously beside him. He remembered her. And her colleagues. Amusing, really.

Now *these* people were asking for *his* help. His help. A fine time to recall how much “help” he’d received investigating the high-profile amnesia case that originated here. Their “help” had practically been obstruction.

So. He returned to Prime VST practically empty-handed. And disguised Inga had secretly taken his place.

…He could almost hear the disdainful snort in his ear from his Kantinian apprentice, who’d endured this swampy-toxic atmosphere long enough to know the “joys” of service in the Kantine Place of Truth firsthand. Their acquaintance began precisely with Amelia expressing sympathy over his frustrating experience with her former colleagues…

Kyle, however, bore no grudge. The local clayheads had punished themselves this time. Three sat insane in Order Management cells; one was dead. The price of arrogance. Life, though unintrusive, proved a cruel teacher.

– What was he like before? Was he ill? Why so thin? – Kyle asked, not pausing his meticulous examination.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noted the officer’s face assume a haughty, slightly affronted expression.

– Otto? Nah. Healthy as a warm-season akra, he was. True-blood Kantinian man, through an’ through.

– Why wasn’t he helped? His wound is… appalling. As is his general state.

The Order servicewoman exhaled, a flicker of discomfort crossing her features.

– He *Was* helped! But he scarpered. First from the Healer’s Hut. Then from our lock-up down cellar. Hoboed around somewhere fer three lights, he did. Then comes back lookin’… Like *This*. An’ his rabid mate too. Same story. We clapped ‘im in irons right off. He… he’s thrashin’ around in the cage like a scalded cat. Gnawin’ the bars, tryin’ to sink his teeth into anythin’ that moves. Ghouls only know what’s got into ‘em… Fourth one I seen like this. Pure manure… They was normal folk! Them northerners brought somethin’ foul, the swamp-rattlin’ scum…

– So all the trouble starts after contact with these… northerners?

Predictable. Why even ask.

– Course it does! – She threw up her hands violently, as if astonished he’d question the blindingly obvious. – Always been the root o’ all our woes, since the dawn o’ time! Always will be. Witches is witches… Treat ‘em decent, they still show their rotten core soon enough.

Kyle raised a single, questioning eyebrow. The speaker caught herself, remembering whom she addressed.

– What about the others involved… in the altercation? – the Primian inquired smoothly, letting the previous remark slide.

– The attack? Yeah, same lot… Locked up too. Gnawin’ the bars somethin’ fierce. – his companion shrugged, as if discussing unruly livestock.

– And this one… was simply running loose in the streets?

– Yyy… yeah. Gnawed right through the bars, he did, busted out… Like I told ya. Swamp only knows how, but he managed. Strong as a bog-ox, that ‘un. First time in my service anythin’ like that happened. Cells ain’t built fer bein’ battered constant fer lights on end. Usually, they sleep it off, come to their senses, an’ we kick ‘em out.

Kyle frowned thoughtfully.

– Usually… But lately, “usual” seems in short supply. What if the others break out?

The orderist shook her head firmly.

– Won’t happen. Our lads took measures. Barricaded ‘em in proper with heavy cabinets hauled from the Archives. Solid oak, them. They ain’t goin’ nowhere.