Now what? someone said. Jayne wasn’t sure who. There were new voices here, and she wasn’t sure she recognised them. Or perhaps her pain was distorting the voices of those who had saved her, and making them strangers.
Now we find a cure.
Or try, Marc said, and there was an emptiness in his tone that Jayne could hear clearly, even with sight taken from her. She wondered if she would ever see again. The churu was playing with her, and each game was a fresh agony.
She’s really immune, a new voice said, full of wonder. It had a strange accent that she could not place, which gave it a sense of distance.
Just like your Mannan.
‘Who’s Mannan?’ Jayne whispered. She recognised her own voice – even felt her jaw and mouth and tongue moving as she spoke – but the words came from a very long way off.
‘Jayne?’ Sean said. ‘You’re awake. Can you move? Can you open your eyes?’
‘Nnnn,’ she said, because she could do nothing. It had her in its grasp.
‘What’s wrong with her?’
‘A disease,’ Sean said. ‘Churu. It affects her joints and bones. She can usually massage it away, but—’
‘Does Mannan have the same disease?’ Marc asked.
‘No,’ said the stranger. ‘But this looks like chero-blight. My wife would have known for sure.’
An awkward silence. Jayne breathed deeply, felt hands on her that she knew were Sean’s. They gently massaged her shoulders and neck. She opened her eyes to find that, mercifully, her vision had cleared.
‘It was a common disease in our world,’ the man said. ‘Paloma would have known how to cure it. But we have books, a medical room, herbs, chemicals. We make do.’
‘Then Mannan’s immune for another reason!’ Marc said, and he sounded alive for the first time since Gary’s crash.
Jayne gazed around the room. It was quite large, functional, with tables and chairs and a handful of comfortable sofas. One sofa was bloodstained, and some of the tables and chairs had been overturned. Air conditioning hummed. She felt the weight of the rock and soil around and above them. But she did not feel safe.
The people she had come to know during the past few days were assembled around her – dear Sean, Vic and his family, Marc looking thoughtful – and there were also some whom she did not recognise. One was a pale woman, leaning against a chair and pressing a hand to her side. Then there was the tall man dressed in strange clothes, a strong-looking black woman standing beside him, and several others. Beyond her field of vision she could hear adults and children talking, and smell cooking food, rich wine.
Jayne looked up at Sean, and his smile warmed her. ‘What did I miss?’ she asked.
17
Jonah had been too amazed at what he was seeing to consider what he might see. And from the moment when he had voiced his acceptance to the Inquisitor he had placed himself in that strange being’s hands, and in his own hand lay the certainty of the Inquisitor’s demise. Warm and flexible, the small trigger sat in Jonah’s palm. When he rolled it, he felt a linked sensation in his chest, a twisting knot against his heart that took his breath away. There was such potential there. But not yet.
‘Time to leave these unclean worlds,’ the Inquisitor said, and held out his hand. Jonah looked close, and was shocked to see the clearly defined lifeline on his palm, hairs on his arm, and dirt ground into his creased fingertips. It looked far too human.
‘How do you speak English?’ Jonah asked. ‘How do you know so much?’ But the Inquisitor did not answer. Jonah took the proffered hand and saw the smudged tattoo on the inner arm again, its shape ambiguous, its edges bled and faded. And then he recognised it, and the shock struck him numb.