TI: The Rookeries (Chryril 22nd, TT)

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The Rookeries

While much of the City's institutions and public buildings were located under one of the three major domes dominating the center of Sabata, there were several more smaller domes that surrounded these...and two if these domes were known throughout Sabata simply as The Rookeries. Narrow, closed-in, winding streets were stifled by a dense collection of tall, bare buildings made in the most humble style, buildings that most often had two or three levels upon them despite their tiny size. The narrow slits of the dome visible above were frequently broken by boards or planks placed over the ground streets below to ease the traffic of moving bodies, a second level of traffic on the second floor of all buildings and, in some areas, the third as well. Upon entering the twin-domed borough, one was left with the impression that they had just entered a dense maze of tiny houses and a few unlicensed shops instead of a proper community of the working class.

The strong press of bodies all around...as well as above and sometimes below...gave off the powerful odour of humanity tempered only just by the dry, arid airs. The Rookeries seldom experienced a merciful breeze, so the scent lingered upon the air and followed wherever one went within. But there were also the smells of roasting lamb, boiling soups, and fragrant flowers...for while the Rookeries were overcrowded and dense, they were the home to literally thousands of the city's families, families that lived literally door-to-door with their immediate neighbors.

Of course, legend has it that there are buildings in the Rookeries that can be found only by those shown the way. That can't be too far from truth, as no ten paces in the Rookeries can be taken in a straight line. For the casual visitor, a guide is traditionally the custom...and young boys and girls waited at the entrance at all marks of the day to provide just this service for a minor fee.


The heat... the press of bodies... the smell... H'saan had never liked the poor quarters, being a clean man by nature and fastidious about his person. It was one thing to be grimy out on the Sands, where every drop of water was precious - that at least was an honest kind of dirtiness - but here in Sabata there were baths, not to mention a nearby ocean.

He tried not to let the distaste show too much, smiling mildly as he stood at the entrance to the Rookeries, leaning on his staff, keeping an eye out for one of those scruffy little ankle-biters who would doubtless be of eager assistance once he showed them the colour of his money. As a standard precaution he kept his coin purse strung around his neck and underneath his robes, far from the reach of any sticky little fingers, but the rest of his equipment he carried in a leather stachel - bandages, herbs and other healing supplies, in case his services were needed.
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It wasn't always easy to know where the Rookeries actually began. If one were to gauge such a thing by the massive, cement columns that supported the domes above, one might find a clear position where he left the Ergus Dome and entered the Rookery Dome...but it was always better on this side of town to keep close eye upon one's possessions instead of the sky above. The buildings gradually reduced in size as H'saan advanced, reducing until they were little more than squalid huts made of clay, mud, and fired, ceramic tiles...and towering up two or three stories high despite the very uncertain foundation that the lowest level could provide.

The best way to know when one entered the Rookeries was the children. A flock of them, ranging from six to twelve yahren, awaited all visitors to the Rookeries that arrived...and it was hardly difficult to distinguish visitors from residents. The children spotted H'saan from some distance away, and they immediately exchanged a number of glances as if to decide who's turn it could be to escort the foreigner. The winner of that decision...a gaunt, wasting young boy of perhaps nine yahren...jogged forward and offered an introduction.

He was small, even for his age, and clearly struggling to survive. Sunken, hollow, dark eyes over a sharp, angular face stared up at his guest with open opportunity, his dark, caramel skin a strange contrast to his off-white head wrap. A shapeless, undyed blouse typical of the region covered his spare frame, with only a short length of rope holding his breeks upon his narrow hips.

"Heffa, kurdi-ged. I am Tul'Is..." he pronounced this Tool-Ees, typical of a nomad name though Tul'is didn't seem entirely local. H'saan could detect a hunt of Amun Rah in the boy before him. "I will take you where you wish to go. Do you wish to find food? Perhaps you wish to find a girl? Perhaps you are searching for something very special. Tell Tul'Is what your heart wishes, and he will take you there."
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H’saan smile deepened, amused he was by the scrawny boy’s flowery sales pitch. “Kal’essen. Your kindness speaks well of you, little one,” he rumbled in reply. “May your wits and your honour serve you as truly.”

He reached into his an opening in his robes, somewhere at the chest level, and withdrew from it a copper banner which he tossed to Tul’Is. Uncharacteristically generous for a Sabatan, perhaps, to pay the guide before he’d taken him anywhere, but the little urchin looked as though he could catch a break and besides, the healer was feeling magnanimous.

He crouched down to the boys level and looked him in the eye, white teeth still flashing with that friendly grin. “Now, Tul’Is, I know you are a good boy and you will take me directly to where I wish to be. But I know also that sometimes, bad men will try to stop us. Of course, they will not be able to. I have crossed the Sands to Dragonskeep and no-one has stopped me yet. But it will be better for us all if they do not find us.”

H’saan knew the perils of walking into that labyrinth of streets looking as though you had too much money. Better to take a few precautions now than to lose everything later.

“Now, where it is I need you to take me, I do not know. I search… not for girls, but for men, and they will have come here last yahren from the desert, from a mine, bearing tales of plague... or worse. I wish them no harm, only to speak with one of them. To hear more of these tales from their lips," he added. The boy might have known nothing of the escaped slaves, but if he had, the half-giant guessed that he would be sympathetic to their plight. Many Sabatan slaves came from Amun Rah (including H'saan's own parents), and Tul'Is looked as though he had some of their blood in his ancestry. It might have crossed the ragged child's mind to lead a slave hunter astray.

That was probably enough exposition. Now to the important part.

"A bronze in it for you, if you find me the ones I seek, or someone who can lead me straight to them."

That probably worked out to be around half a week's wages for a common labourer. H'saan was feeling very magnanimous.
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Catching the coin, Tul'is knew he was in for something...unusual. When he heard the request, his eyes wandered for a moment...a very clear indication that indeed, he knew exactly the men H'saan wanted to see. "It was not last yahren," he replied quickly. "Some came last yahren, but they are long since dead. There are more that came this yahren...not a few weeks hence...and they still live, though they have the stink of death upon them. You need fear nothing, kurdi-ged. No one will stop us in this path, for no one wishes to approach them. Come...I will show you..."

Turning, the boy didn't lead off into the narrow, winding maze of buildings...but instead moved to an alleyway that would require H'saan to move sideways...and from here, a rope ladder made from old, worn nautical line. From this level, the boy launched off on a path through the dizzying myriad of corridors, plank bridges, ledges, and a few rooms (most of which were inhabited, though the squatters gave the pair no mind at all). H'saan could tell their general location from the brief glimpses of the dome above, navigating by the many breaks in the construction that allowed light and air to filter in...and based upon this, he could tell they had come well past the center of the dome and almost out the opposite side.

Leaping down to a narrow corridor in the ground level, the boy motioned towards the end of the 'street'. "They are in that building there, marked with lamb's blood," he indicated. And sure enough, H'saan could see the very building...tall, narrow, and typical of any other building in the Rookeries...though this one had a curious, simple rune scribed upon the door in the rusty black of dried blood. Curiously, the sounds of life were faint here...as if no one would happily live or even approach the building too closely. "This is as far as I take you, kurdi-ged. The Lady of Death haunts this place, so you must not remain for long."
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"My thanks, Tul'Is, you have led me well. And please, call me H'saan. I have not aged so greatly that I could be considered anyone's grand...mother," he added with a dry chuckle. Cheeky little brat.

Before proceeding any further, the half-giant wound a facecloth around his nose and mouth. A long strip of material attached to his turban, it sat loosely around his neck most of the time and was designed to keep the sand out of one's face when the turri winds blew fiercely. In this case, the healer hoped that it would provide some protection from any evil vapours lingering within that house of death.

"Tell me, do you know the meaning of that marking on the door?" he asked his guide, examining the rune curiously, commiting it's shape to his memory before stepping inside the building.
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Caught using the local tongue imperfectly, Tul'is grew somewhat sheepish. "The symbol?" he glanced at the building. "It means death. It is often used in times of plague. It is the symbol to ward away all but those skilled in the treatment of plague here in the city. It is often scribed from the blood of a ram or goat, as this will dry and remain for some time."

It was true, of course. Blood stained doors, curtains, walls, just about anything it contacted...and it lingered despite one's best efforts to clean it. This particular doorway featured a genuine door made of rough, mismatched planks...clearly salvaged from some crate or broken up sea-going ship. There was no window facing forward...just a door, and one stained with markings in blood.

Tul'is backed away slowly, leaving H'saan to do as he pleased. There were rumors circulating in the city about plague, of course...especially the Rambles, which seemed to come out of nowhere and leave a man weak, dead, or raving mad...and the boy was not about to take his chances here. "Will you go in? Or will I take you elsewhere?"
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Men died. Oftentimes, there was naught that could be done except to make them more comfortable until the Red God or the Dark Lady came to take them away. Sometimes, there was no-one on hand to provide even such basic care - healers too avoided the plague-ridden, especially in their poor quarters. To attempt treatment was considered too much risk, for too little profit, with slim chances of success.

H'saan did not think any differently. But nothing in his current line of work was without it's dangers... and he knew better than most the kinds of precautions that could be taken to avoid contamination.

"I will enter. Wait for me here," the half-giant instructed Tul'Is solemnly. Not a trace of emotion showed on his face as he slowly pushed the door open with the end of his staff and stepped into the building, taking care not to touch anything with his bare skin.

Men died. H'saan knew this, and taught himself not to care so hard.
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Tul'is blinked and watched the large man move towards the plague house. Stay? Is it so? he thought with a smirk. He had no intention of being anywhere within one hundred paces of H'saan when he emerged from the marked hovel, but he would at least wait until the half-giant had disappeared inside to scurry away and find something to eat. After all...this large man will not survive it, thought Tul'is to himself. The djinni take him.

Inside, the hovel proved to be rather simple. Not surprisingly, there was no access to the levels above...not from the inside, that is...making this tiny dwelling a very sparse, one-room affair. A trough of fresh water was placed near the window and apparently routinely filled, and a wash stand stood to H'saan's right complete with basin, pitcher, and a few woolen towels and scrapes. A row of smoked fish were hanging just within as well, though they hadn't been touched (save by a few curious flies), and spread out upon the broad, earthen floor were several blankets. And on these three blankets were two men.

Each of them were nearly naked save for simple wraps that gave them some modesty. Despite these wraps, it became quickly obvious to the half-giant that they had been lashed and beaten savagely, the criss-cross scars of the lash both in the distant past as well as the more recent past were plain to see upon them. The lash wounds hardly seemed severe, though...not near as severe as the illness from which they clearly suffered.

One of the men could shake his arm slightly, turning it and opening his eyes to star at the half-giant through a half-lidded gaze. The other managed to sit up properly, though his swollen, puffy face was loose and weak as well. It was apparent that he could not see, and for this reason, he was the one who spoke first. "Have you brought the Shaman?" he gasped weakly. As he did this, the first man spoke, though his forced, shaky words hesitated to be heard as if he muttered under his breath. "Where did he go where did he go? He said he would kill me he said he would kill me. Why won't he kill me? Where did he go has he left us here?"
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He gazed around the hut, assessing the two sick men calmly as the bloodied door swung shut behind him. It appeared that they were being cared for - but by whom, it remained a mystery. "No, no shaman have I brought," H'saan replied gently to the blind man. "I am not the one who has been seeing to you here, may the spirits bless his kindness."

He stopped then, interrupted by the ravings of the shaking one. All hope seemed to have deserted that wretched soul - the half-giant noted this with a clinical detachment, before he proceeded with his questioning, firmly but as gently as before

"My name is H'saan. I have come here seeking word of the happenings at a mine, southeast of the city - answers, perhaps, to the source of the illness which plagues you."

"Tell me, have you come from that place? And can you help me with my questions?"
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"No they cannot," came H'saan's answer from the doorway behind him. As if summoned by thought, the very shaman they desperately sought had wandered over after the half-giant, curious who...or why...they might warrant such attentions. The shaman's first impression held that this giant man must be from the Society of Cirurgiens, perhaps here to learn of the plague that even now spread through the city...but in fact, this man was more interested in some mine.

But then, one couldn't tell from his appearance that he was even a shaman at all. Dressed in the clothes of the wet-lander, he was festooned with trinkets of all nature...from tiny bones, alabaster buttons, vials, and feathers, as well as at least one medicine pouch and several larger pouches that held whatever materials made his craft easier. He stood over six feet in height...a respectable height, and typical of the nomads...but hardly up to H'saan's towering form, which had to crouch and stoop to move around the interior of the little hovel. The mark of nomad could be seen upon this curious man...in his complexion, his eyes, and even his accent.

The raving, prostrate patients were ecstatic to hear his voice, instantly settled and relaxing before H'saan's eyes. One of them inspected another and declared, "do not fall asleep. If you do, Hemmi will steal your tongue. I have known him to do as much..."

"They will not speak to you of these things," came the sound of the man at the doorway, his words directed at H'saan. "Come away with me now," he ordered, before turning away from the doorway and walking away.
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"As you wish. I hope, however, that you can help me find someone who will." He followed the shaman out without further question, before introducing himself.

"Are you the one who cares for these men, then or are you the shaman they spoke of?" he asked.
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The shaman (if indeed he was such a thing) waited for H'saan to join him outside the building. There were a few gawking locals watching the events before the quarantined building with curiosity, and once H'saan emerged, they gawked at the large man with much of the same. They hardly seemed surprised at the presence of the healer.

"I am," came the man's reply. He wasn't old, but he was far from young...perhaps in the middle of his yahren, with decidedly nomad features that conflicted with his clothes, clothes that might have been recently imported from Dort or the Citadel that included a dark, light-weight cloak and cotton breeches. Glancing back over his shoulder, H'saan couldn't help but notice that the man had been recently wounded...perhaps in the last few seasons...for a fresh, great scar could be clearly seen upon his arm. Regardless of how well it had healed, the visible signs of the injury would no doubt be there forever. "And I would be pleased to offer what knowledge I have. I am their care-taker, in so much as they have any at all."

"Tell me what you would know of them? Do you wish to know of their symptoms, or how I have tried to treat them? It is the plague, of course...but it is unlike any plague I have ever seen."
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He was most curious, this man who stood before him. Well travelled, perhaps, judging by the garb he had chosen to adopt, although H'saan could not think of any reason which would call a Shaman so far away from his tribe. He wondered what reason he had to care for the men in the hut - the People, in general, were not so considerate of wetlanders and their foreign diseases.

"It is most kind of you, Master...?" he left the phrase hanging and raised his eyebrows, waiting for the man to offer a name or a title of some sort. Once he had found out who he was talking to he nodded his head and pressed on with the investigation.

"Their symptoms, your treatment and the response - yes, I would wish to know that. And the course of the disease as well - how their health has changed over the time you have seen them and, if you know it, how the disease progresses without treatment. More importantly, sir, I would like to find out how it was contracted and how it spreads - I am to be part of an expedition which will travel to the region these men came from, and I wish to keep my party in good health."

"I understand if you do not have all the answers, but any insights you might provide could prove helpful."

He stroked his beard thoughtfully. "And not like any plague you have seen before, you say? In what ways does it differ?" He hadn't had a chance to examine the men closely himself, but the shaking and raving of feverish men was not unknown to him. Although... he could not remember, had the men actually appeared to have a fever?[/url]
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"...T...ah...Wale. My name is Wale," offered the healer, dismissing his own name with a wave of his hand. He listened to H'saan as he spoke, nodding as if to confirm that he had been right. Indeed, the half-giant had come to learn of the illness...not the curios coins, like everyone else.

"Pro...gresses?" repeated the man slowly, clearly not following much of what H'saan said. It was never difficult to learn the Common tongue...but it could be tricky at times to learn inflection, meaning, and idiom...and the half-giant used words where they did not belong, and in ways that were unfamiliar to the shaman. Workers are contracted, not an illness. How strange. "Will it not spread similar to any other plague? Vapours in the breath. Stale meat. Bad water. I have heard of other people behaving in a similar fashion...the Shambles, they have come to call this plague...and I have merely given these men measures of laudanum to ease their sufferings. This has answered well to give them peace, but their minds are lost."

"What is unique of this plague is the absence of bulboes upon their bodies. No festering blisters, bleeding rashes, blackened eyes or tongues...merely the shakes and insanity. And death, of course, though none of mine have yet perished." That had indeed been the only visible symptoms H'saan had seen as well, specific symptoms that lacked the usual sheen of sweat or glassy eyes of the feverish. "I have tried to feed them fruits, as their teeths and gums gave me to think of the Sailor's Disease, but this did nothing for them. I advise you to take the usual precautions against the plague in your travels, sirrah. A face cloth soaked in urine will protect from the bad vapours, and you must bring vinegar to wash your meals. You must not eat horse or camel...the meat of these creatures does go rancid quickly, and might bring plague...and you must carry a short beer in your supplies instead of water. It is either this, or you must collect your water at the Western wells, where it is most fresh."
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He may have lacked the fashionable jargon used more commonly in Sabata than out in the deserts, but it seemed to H'saan that the Shaman spoke with knowledge and experience. Actually, what impressed him was that Wale prescribed to natural theories regarding the causes of disease and its spread, a position that H'saan himself was quite comfortable with - curses and spirits and magical potions he viewed with distaste and mild contempt.

Wale's colourful recommendation for the protection against vapours was not one the half-giant had encountered before. He wasn't sure whether he would actually be able to persuade the other expedition members to adopt the precaution, but decided that it was worth consideration if things got bad.

"Sound advice," H'saan nodded with respect. "And if it was any ordinary plague I would adopt all your measures immediately. But there are matters in this case which trouble me."

"In most ways, sir, I think you are right. There is something in the air, the food or the water that is causing this disease, for how else could such large numbers of people be affected? But as you have seen, these men show no blisters or rashes. Furthermore, they suffer no fever. The only thing this sickness has in common with ordinary plague, or any other infection, is that it has affected a large number of people at once, coming from a similar area."

"I will require further investigation before I can be certain, but Master Wale, I do not believe that these men have the plague. If that is the case, there is only one other explanation I can think of. I have heard tell that a strange substance, the 'philosopher's stone, has been found in the region that they came from... perhaps that is what is causing the illness."

"Not plague, but poison."
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"It is no difference," shrugged the shaman-like-person casually. "If it is bad meat...a rancid crop...a well that has gone stale...then it is poisoned, either by disease or otherwise, and almost two score have suffered from it. It is not impossible to see such effects from those struck by the poppy...perhaps it is that poppy husk has been discarded into a well? I cannot say. I also cannot discard the slaves' ramblings of a curse, for such a thing is not unknown."

The shaman paused. "Did you notice that they were slaves? I did not quickly see this, for they hid their marks well...but slaves they are. They are burned with the mark of the Flesh Peddler...down on the harbor..." By this, the awkward shaman no doubt referred to the slave barge that remained moored in the city's harbor, a barge from which Silberstein's grisly auctions continued daily. It would come as no surprise that the slavers tended to brand their marketable assets as they would any other beast of burden.

The pair had withdrawn well away from the "plague house", though distances could be tricky to guess in the catacombs of the Rookeries. Above H'saan's head, upon many of the catwalks, bridges, and ledges of the upper levels, small collections of locals congregated to glance at the pair as they moved. Thankfully, they afforded no unusual looks at H'saan. Sabata was a very diverse city in recent times, and a foreign half-giant was hardly cause for great alarm or interest.

"Perhaps it is to the harbor you must look for this plague? I have heard that it has struck fishermen the worst. I have heard that their children suffer terribly. I have also heard that many fishermen have tuned to Beshel for salvation from what he has named the Water Devil that so curses them. Such a curse is possible, though I say to you that I find no stink of magicks or ghosts upon them."
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