jolly rotten.”
“Aye, me as well,” another agreed.
Spearjab’s fingers waggled with agitation. “Anyone else?”
The rest of the Yatsill shook their heads and there were various murmurs of, “No,” “Not me, sir,” and “I feel fine.”
“Rightio,” the colonel said. “Wheelturner, Flapper, and Stretch—remain here. We’ll call a carriage and get you to a bally Magician. Humph! The rest of you are dismissed.”
With a last glance at the ailing guardswoman, I divested myself of the practice padding, saluted Colonel Spearjab, left the military compound, hailed a cab, and was driven home.
It was plain that Wheelturner and the other two had come down with the sickness that was now endemic across the city—thousands of Yatsill were suffering, Aristocrat and Working Class alike. Last time I’d seen Clarissa, she was close to a breakthrough in her analysis of blood samples. I hoped she’d now have something to report.
The cab dropped me at the corner of Dissonance Square.
My friend was outside Number Three, tinkering with the engine of our new autocarriage.
“Hello!” she said. “Have they let you out early?”
“Yes. Three more of the Yatsill have been taken ill. Has your laboratory borne fruit?”
“I’m afraid so.”
I strode over to her, noticing as I did so that three top-hatted Aristocrats were loitering nearby. They were glancing repeatedly at us and muttering among themselves. My arrival appeared to have disconcerted them somewhat. Perhaps they wanted a private word with my friend. They could wait until I went indoors to bathe.
“Afraid, Clarissa? Why afraid?”
She used a rag to wipe oil from her hands. “I’ve been working with Mademoiselle Clattersmash—she’s still weak but manages to get around—Father Spreadflower Meadows, and another Magician, Tendency Clutterfuss. They all specialise in medicine. They’ve examined the blood samples and have reached the same conclusion as I.”
“Which is what?”
“That the infection was brought here by you.”
“Me?”
“The illness is kichyomachyoma, Aiden. There is a microorganism in your blood, presumably injected by the spider that bit you on Koluwai. A counteragent of some sort—I’ve yet to identify it—has rendered you immune to its deleterious effects, but it’s still active and has somehow been communicated from you to the Yatsill, and now from Yatsill to Yatsill.”
I slumped against the autocarriage. “No!”
“The infection caused severe malarial symptoms in you, but in the Yatsill it manifests more like a mild flu but with one noticeable difference: the victims experience a debilitating ‘loosening’ of their telepathic connection to their fellows. This lessens the intelligence of the Workers and causes a sense of isolation in the Aristocrats, which, Clattersmash says, is by far the most disturbing aspect of the illness.”
“Have you found a cure?”
“Not yet, but the microorganism cannot survive in the blood of the islanders, and as I say, though active in yours, is rendered harmless to its host by an active counteragent. Those two lines of inquiry will, I hope, lead me to the solution.”
“I can’t believe I’ve been the cause of this,” I groaned.
“There’s every chance you’ll also provide the remedy.”
“Should I be quarantined?”
“It would be pointless. The infection is already too widespread.” She looked me up and down. “And speaking of health, Aiden, my goodness—what a transformation has been wrought in you! You’ve filled out so much we’ll have to ask the tailor to supply new clothes. You look a different man.”
“A man who can’t remember the last time he didn’t ache all over. How I miss my quiet little vicarage and my books!”
“Do you really mean that? Are you not feeling a certain fulfilment in the physical challenges you face every day?”
I snorted, as if she’d spoken an utter nonsense, but as a matter of fact, she was right. Physically—despite the disease I apparently carried—I’d never felt better in my life. I didn’t even notice the drag of Ptallaya’s gravity any more and was experiencing an unexpected exultation in our strange new existence. However, for whatever reason, I couldn’t quite bring myself to admit to this, so I replied, “Constitutionally, I’m more suited to holding a Shakespeare than a sword, but I’ve lost my position in life and am left with no options. I have no social standing. I’ve become naught but a common soldier. And now you tell me I’m a plague carrier!”
“Hardly that!” she objected.
“I’m going to take a bath,” I grumbled, and marched into the house, feeling inexplicably irritated that my friend should have identified that I, a scholar and clergyman, was starting to enjoy spending my every waking hour in mock combat.
I was halfway up the ramp to the upper rooms when I heard