The City of Nosh, like so many human cities, was built upon a natural harbor. While it may have once looked natural it now looked like a solid bastion of seawalls and jutting piers sheltered in the lee of a spit of rock running out into the sea. At the end of that barren rocky peninsula towered a lighthouse which was enough of a source of pride to the people of Drennos that it was emblazoned on one side of the most common coin in circulation—a mostly copper and often-clipped coin called a “light” in the common parlance.

  The city sheltered behind the harbor, in some places lying even lower than the seawall of the harbor, itself. The Manse of Nosh stood upon the most prominent point of the city, which could hardly be considered a hill. It was the chief example of Noshian architecture, which meant that its love of right angles could only be matched by an affection for copious and pointless tiered colonnades with plinths carved in ornate but repetitive fancies.

  Jareen did not care for it, but then the height of Vien architecture was constructed in, upon, and among groves of massive eucalyptus and gildenleaf trees that had been carefully braided while growing over thousands of years. One could hardly compare brick, stone, and mortar to such magnificence, yet her eye had long been brutalized into familiarity, if not submission, by the Noshian taste.

  As she finally strode up to the iron latticework gate in the massively thick protective wall—built lower than the Manse so as not to obscure its visual domination—she did have to acknowledge the scale that the humans endeavored to create. The ornate block structure of the Manse was truly a huge edifice. She had only been there a few times over the years, and she couldn’t help but be impressed by its size, at least. It was said to contain well over five hundred rooms on its four levels, not counting a multitude of basements and cellars below.

  One of the guards, wielding an impractically large and multi-pointed pike, stepped up to Jareen.

  “Name and business?”

  Jareen stood and met the guard’s eyes, but she said not a word. The guard squinted.

  “Name and—”

  “Hey, wise-ass!” another guard interrupted, stepping out of the side door that led into a small alcove built into the wall. “They can’t talk.”

  The blush was nearly instant on the first guard’s face. The second guard laughed.

  “Oh fire. I’m gonna tell everyone about this.”

  The first guard ignored him.

  “If you’ll follow me, I will take you to the chambers.”

  The guard led her not into the front entrance of the Manse but around the courtyard to the back corner of the building. A third guard stood beside a small peaked door in the stone. A little arch of roof hung over not the door but the guard, in case of rain. As the third guard saw their approach, he lifted a key from a chain on his neck and unlocked the door. There the first guard left her, and Jareen followed the door guard through and up the staircase beyond. The stairs turned at right angles to the third floor. There were no lower exits from the stair, but a hall opened out at the end, one door opening on each side.

  Jareen had been to this suite of rooms before. On the third story of the manse, on either side of this hall, were two separate suites of rooms set aside for isolation or quarantine. They were intended originally in case of illness or the Departing of the regent or other public figures who deserved proper care. They were little used for decades as most officials and public figures now had nicer private residences away from the city in the inner bits of the peninsula of Drennos, where the soil was decent enough to grow a few orchards. There, the houses of the wealthy stood like children’s blocks scattered on a floor. It was a way for the rich to separate themselves, Jareen knew. Noshians villages were mostly oriented toward fishing and beachcombing. The majority of the people lived within sight of the sea.

  The guard motioned to the door on the left side of the landing hall and waited. Jareen did not knock, pulling the latch instead. She knew the guard would lock it behind her. Without casting him another glance, she stepped through into the anteroom. She showed it no interest and and passed into a sort of drawing room. Stopping, she took stock. At least it had been swept, aired, and put to rights before the Departing had been brought.

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  He was a pale man—at least, so far as the people of Drennos were concerned. There were puffy dark rims beneath his eyes, and he lay on a reclining couch, one slippered foot hanging over the edge, one hand holding open a small sewn folio on his chest. He was younger than she had expected for an official of his distinction.

  The human lifted his hand from over his eyes for a brief moment, taking her in. He rested his head back against the pillows of the couch.

  “So they sent the elf,” he said listlessly.

  Jareen didn’t respond, though she moved toward him to make her initial assessment.

  “Stay back,” he said.

  “I am not in danger. I am immune. ”

  “You are not wanted.”

  Jareen knew from the glance he’d given her that he was astute. There was a fine sheen of sweat on his brow. “I know the consul sent for you,” he said. “I know that they will not let you leave until I am gone, and the Order will not recall you because of the donation that will be made. But you can let me be. There is a chamber there—” he nodded towards a door across the room. “They bring food and drink.”

  “I must complete my assessment.” Jareen reached out for his hand but he pulled it away.

  “You will find I am far more stubborn than that. There may come a time when you can force your care, but it is not yet.”

  Jareen might have smirked if she was not tired. By the look of him, she would not have to wait long to overpower the lanky human. But feeling the pulse on his wrist was a mere formality. The archivist had the mildest jugular distention, and it pulsed faintly with the beat of his heart. She had already found its tempo. It was steady, not the pace of an athlete but reasonable for a sedentary individual in decent health. She didn’t need to lay her head on his chest to hear that his breaths came easy without sound of fluid. Jareen could identify much without resorting to the hands-on approach of her human Sisters. Sometimes, Jareen wasn’t sure if it was so much the acuity of the senses or simply a different relationship to time and task—she could observe and think at once.

  If the man had the Seven Isles Fever, it was not advanced. After only two weeks, that was no great surprise. One of the reasons this particular disease was so dangerous was because it could take so long to claim the sufferer’s life, leaving him functional enough to spread it to many before he succumbed. An outbreak could be well established before it was readily apparent. Sooner or later, the archivist would permit her care. In the meantime, she could use a rest.

  “If you need, call out,” she said, and left to make use of the chamber set aside for her.

  Jareen had long ago given up on trying to force her care upon those who did not wish it—at least until they were too weak or disabled to resist. More than anything, she wished to rest. It had been a long spring of training Silesh and working both the Wards and a whole city district. A private duty such as this, with just one cantankerous and resistant Departing, was a chance for rest—at least until the brain swelling set in. Delirium would increase as time went on, and like as not he would forget who he even was. Then it was just as likely that he would start throwing his own filth onto the walls.

  Opening the door to the side chamber, she stepped into the room set aside for the use of the Sisters. She frowned at the sight. On either side of the door, sheaves of parchments loosely tucked into leather cases had fallen over and lay half sprawled across the floor. The leather cases bore the seal of the Archives of Drennos, which hardly explained their presence in the chamber set aside for her. For whatever reason, they must have been brought here with the archivist, and some fool had dumped them in the little room.

  Besides the fallen stacks of leather and parchment, there was a bed and a table with a basin of water set before a narrow window that looked out over the western, newer suburbs of the city. In those suburbs, the wealthier sorts of people had whitewashed their walls and painted orange, red, or blue accents around their windows and the corners of their roofs. Trailing vines hung from window boxes. The difference between the view and the part of the city she had been working for months was drastic. The western part of the city even had a working sewer, although it dumped its effluence directly into the sea. She could even see a little patch of sea between two tall painted-brick homes.

  Daylight flowed through the window, but it did not matter to Jareen. She locked the door to the room behind her, then turned and removed her wimple and veil and washed her face in the basin. She let her hair down from its tight bun, unbelted and removed her outer mantle, unlaced and slipped off her shoes, untied her hose above the knee and slid them down. Reaching into her shift, she unbound her chest, let out a sigh, and turned to the bed. It smelled stale as she opened the blankets, so she pulled them from the mattress, shook them out, and draped the heavier of the two blankets on the single wooden chair that sat in the corner.

  The rest of the suite of rooms was relatively lavish, but the Sister’s chamber was always kept simple in the quarantine apartments. Still, it was more spacious than her room at the dormitory, and the view was superior. As much as she resented the idea that the rich could languish under the continuous care of a Sister devoted only to them while scores of the poor Departed in the Wards and lower districts with the most meager of attentions, a selfish part of her enjoyed the solitude and rest of such an assignment. Some of the other Sisters would mutter at Jareen’s fortune in getting assigned to this task, but it was not because they envied being anywhere near the Seven Isles Fever. They envied the immunity. Jareen knew it, and the divide it caused, but she could do nothing about it.

  She was hungry again, and thirsty, but that could wait. First, sleep.

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