The Rat and the Serpent Read online

  I needed help, however. Daring the forbidden streets of the Mavrosopolis alone was not recommended. I thought of Raknia.

  So I returned to Raknia. She listened to me, and while she was not convinced by my idea, neither did she reject it. There was hope. She could be persuaded. With no other bargaining point I was forced to dangle the possibility of further intimate encounters before her, and though I suspected she grasped this plan, she nonetheless took the bait. We would explore together. Our arrangement seemed to me to be another indication of the possibilities to be found in friendship.

  Neither of us knew the locations of haunted streets, not least because nogoths never went there; or perhaps they did, and were unwilling to tell the tale. Raknia thought most streets would lie at the tranquil eastern and northern shores; not on the southern shores, where life was brutish. So we made up Vezirhani Street towards the Galata Bridge, though we were uncertain of what to do when we arrived.

  “We could seek areas where nogoths don’t congregate,” Raknia suggested.

  With no better plan, I agreed, knowing that I would be able to spot the signs of nogoth occupation without difficulty. An absence of such spoor would be suspicious. The night was sootless and cool, perfect conditions, though hardly comfortable. I thrust my hands into the pockets of my rags and strode on.

  The night seemed endless. We trudged through shambles after shambles, along a continuous path of debris and soot pawed over by hunchbacked nogoths like so many ink blots, with never a clean street in sight.

  And then something odd—a lane cleared of stone and masonry, yet lacking those winding trails in the soot produced by scavenging nogoths; just a single furrow in the middle, as if made by citidenizens going about their business. I stopped short, aware that something here was different, but unable to pinpoint what it might be. I looked around, but I saw nothing unusual in the buildings and towers—lanterns lit, doors closed, bleached signs hanging from poles carved in bone. Yet I felt something, almost a presence, as if the silence itself was a tangible entity.

  “Here?” Raknia whispered.

  I scanned the lane ahead. It was long, and, I noticed, did not carry a name. Suspicions struck me. All streets were named; why not this one? But perhaps it was marked, in writing only ghosts could see. And there was not a single nogoth in sight. I glanced at Raknia, and nodded.

  We waited. I did not know what to expect, if anything; I just knew that I must declare the truth burning inside me, that I must oppose the wraith on its own ground so that it never returned to haunt me.

  “Don’t think you can fight any ghost,” Raknia remarked.

  I turned to face her. “Can you read my thoughts?”

  There was the hint of a smile on her face. “You might say that. You have deep feelings, Ügliy, and I can see the ripples they create.”

  I turned away. I did not like the idea that I was so transparent to her. It gave her more power than she had already. Now I felt ill at ease. “I think we’d better go,” I said, “we’ve waited long enough.”

  “We’ve stood here less than a minute.”

  I fretted. Something here was pressing down on me, a force, a feeling, perhaps the rumour of this haunted lane. Then I saw a shadow move from the corner of my eye and I jumped, cried and clutched Raknia, who in turn squeaked and clutched me.

  I pointed at the shadow. “A wraith!”

  “No, no, it’s a shade—”

  “Run!”

  I felt all reason depart, terror enclosing me as if to fill my lungs with soot then dump me down some nameless hole: I just had to get away. The force was animated—after me, and me alone.

  Then from a doorway I saw a shape emerge. It was the wraith that had sought me out before. It blocked my way, and I felt two passions tearing me apart: the terror, which seemed like suffocation, and the urge to declare my feelings about my life. After a few moments spluttering I yelled, “Leave me alone! I’ll do what I want to do, so leave me alone!”

  I noticed little of the flight that followed: the flash and blur of lamps, clattering boots, voices, the stink of soot and urine, the jabbing of my crutch into my armpit. I stopped once to take my bearings, then felt panic descend once more.

  I was running alone.

  The return of calm was like a cooling of my body. The flicker of a lantern and the baroque curl of a wrought iron fence returned me to reality. I recognised the street I was in. I stopped, gasping for breath, my throat and chest aching, nose and eyes running. I coughed, then bent over my crutch, trying to calm the pains in my side.

  I had been a fool to think that I could reverse a haunting. But I realised one thing. I had shouted at the wraith, words I could not remember, but they were bitter words that would be interpreted as a declaration of intent. Those words were unambiguous.

  I must become a citidenizen.

  30.2.583

  What is this strange emotion that is seeping up from my toes, from my legs—this is the only way that I can write what I feel, though it is inaccurate—and entering into the place inside my chestwhere my heartbeats? Some, I have heard, call it joy. Some say it lives in a bottle of raki. Some know it as the daemon spirit of the countless taverns that line the harbour. I have never been drunk in my whole life. Thrice, perhaps, I have sipped alcohol from a glass and felt a few minutes later its inevitable effect on my head, accellerated by an empty stomach. My precious head! But what I feel now is other than drunken pleasure, for it is deeper, finer, more noble, and I will call it joy.

  I think I feel joy because I tread my wonderful path of bright light.

  I cannot be certain of this. I do not deal in certainties—though I do like them. Nogoth life is uncertain life and I have learned this lesson well. But it seems to me that joy is approaching, seeping down from the high strata of the citidenizenry, offering me hope, and, perhaps, though it seems unlikely, sustenance. And yet, why not? Why should the Mavrosopolis not recognise the potential that resides in me? I am sensitive to absurdity, and I find it absurd to think that the Mavrosopolis would ignore anyone so useful, not to mention so driven as myself.

  I am an apprentice now. I have to show myself not as the person I am, but as the person I will become. I have to think forward into time and imagine how it will be when I am a citidenizen—so good, so true, so right—that somehow I might clothe myself in correct attributes, and be recognised as the fine fellow I will be.

  I am impatient with the people of the Tower of the Thawers. They are stolid, rational, slow, deliberate people, and I do not like their attitude. They see me as a freak because I like poetry. Might a nogoth not find poetry if he was desperate?

  May there not be a poetry of gutter despair? I contend that there may be. But these thawers do not like it. They say I speak out of place. I tell them that I will speak in place for the sake of the Mavrosopolis, but inside my head I am formulating verse.

  Inside my head is a place they can never reach.

  I worry too about the emphasis they place on physical labour. I am tall and I bend like a reed. My back is weak. There is nothing wrong with this. My arms are thin and the lumps of muscle upon them are slight. There is nothing wrong with this, either. If I run fast I am soon out of breath, for I have poor stamina, and if I am asked to lift anything, or to fetch anything, I do the job poorly. But physical labour is not a task meant for one such as I. A thinker, me, one who considers, one, most important of all, who wants to find the location of peace. Is this so much to ask? Certainly, others have asked similar questions, and these others may also have sought the bright path. But where are they?

  I have decided on one thing. I am prepared to give that I might receive. I know what I want and I am prepared—though perhaps not happy—to work for the end that I desire. My apprenticeship has shown me that such an equation is possible, indeed that it is one of the backbones of life in the citidenizenry. This strongly suggests that the citidenizenry is a happy place, a station in life where people may find fulfilment. I am looking forward to passing the
test.

  Chapter 4

  It was evening, and Musseler’s apprentices were sitting before his dais in the Tower of the Dessicators. I knew a speech was coming because of the serious look on Musseler’s face.

  “Apprentices,” he began, “we have arrived at the penultimate stage, the task prior to the citidenizen test. Those of you who undertake this task in the manner I expect will be recommended for the test.” He paused, glanced down a moment, then continued, “Though I should not say this, I confidently expect all of you to be put forward. But because the task you face—not to mention the test itself—is difficult, even dangerous, we have decided to allocate cimmerians to you. One each.”

  Musseler paused, glancing towards the door behind the dais, then snapping his fingers as a murmur of conversation arose from the apprentices. Cimmerians, I thought; what are they?

  In walked a column of dark-skinned people, the men naked from the waist up, the women dressed in tunics, every one athletic of build, though nervous in manner. I counted six, three men and three women.

  “What’s a cimmerian?” Yabghu asked.

  “A nogoth from one of the settlements at the periphery of the Mavrosopolis, very rarely seen. I will allocate one to each of you. Rely on your assistant, for you will need every particle of help in the forthcoming days. They are here to aid you.”

  I frowned, a nervous tremor beginning in my stomach; six cimmerians but seven apprentices, and it did not take much thought to understand the reason for that. I ground my teeth, took a deep breath, then stood up.

  “Musseler,” I said, “I apologise for interrupting, but I’ve got to point out that there are only six cimmerians.”

  “Yes?”

  “Who won’t get one?”

  Musseler stared at me. “You want one too?”

  “I am doing the task, aren’t I?”

  “Well... I suppose so. Of course, you won’t be taking the test.”

  I could not help but shout, “I will take the test!”

  Musseler’s eyes narrowed, making me wonder if I had gone too far, but then he said, “Very well, Ügliy, you’ll get a cimmerian too.”

  I sat down. “Thank you,” I said.

  Under his breath, though not so quiet I would not hear, Musseler added, “Though what good it will do you I don’t know.”

  The others stared at me. Atavalens had returned from his sick-bed and his gaze was the most aggrieved. I looked away.

  “So to the task,” said Musseler, returning to his brisk manner. “The sootstorm destroyed a sorcerer’s tower, the upper half of which has collapsed, leaving the lower half standing. A great well of water has gathered inside, and you have to decide how to deal with it.” He began pacing the circumference of the dais, hands behind his back. “Obviously you can’t let it flow away because of the erosion that would cause. No, rather you have to transport it, or perhaps encourage it to seep.”

  I returned my gaze to Atavalens, recalling our disagreement during the soot storm over the merits of freeing channels or blocking them. Musseler’s remarks proved me right. Then I realised I was grinning. Shocked at myself, I returned my face to nonchalance, but Atavalens grimaced and raised his right hand, fingers curled like a feline paw, moving it slowly through the air. Feeling a touch on my arm, I looked down to see four white lines appear on my skin, like scratches. I jumped, forcing my chair back and making it squeak against the floor.

  Musseler stopped pacing. “Ügliy! Be quiet.”

  “Sorry.”

  There was silence before Musseler resumed speaking. “As I was explaining, you cannot allow any water to leak out of the tower since the pressure inside could be enough to magnify any flaw in the stonework to the point of collapse, and that would be a disaster for the local area. There must be no erosion. Could you transport the water? There are thousands of gallons trapped inside, it would take a month. So here is your dilemma. You will have to think, work as a team, and the result must be a success, for your test depends upon it.” He looked us over, then added, “Of course I won’t be with you. Nor do I require you to tell me your plan. Just succeed.”

  He stopped speaking, nodding to us, then gesturing for Yabghu to approach.

  “This is your cimmerian,” he said, taking the wrist of one of the women and putting it in Yabghu’s hand. In turn he allocated cimmerians to apprentices, until I was left standing alone, whereupon he grimaced, then made for the door, where he whistled. A fourth woman entered the room, and he thrust her in my direction.

  “Think hard on your plan,” he told us. “I will return at midnight.” He departed without further instructions.

  But before one word of a discussion could begin, Atavalens walked over to where I stood and slapped my face with one of his gloves. “Rat boy,” he said, “you embarrassed us.”

  Despite my apprehension, I was not intimidated. “I have the right to do this task,” I said.

  “Don’t you see, you fool? The test requires physical perfection. How many citidenizens do you see walking with crutches? None. Part of this test is the ability and desire to use make-up, to become flawless under the aegis of the Mavrosopolis, and I’m telling you that I for one will never allow a cripple to be ranked as a citidenizen alongside me.” He spat at me. “You are nothing but a vile cretin, and that is the reason Musseler arranged no cimmerian for you, because he knows malformed nogoths cannot pass the test.” He gestured at my withered leg and concluded, “What kind of make-up is going to hide that?” And he strode away.

  I was left standing alone, thirteen pairs of eyes locked upon me. Total silence.

  I replied, “I will take the test. If I don’t I automatically fail, but if I do take it and then fail at least it will be because of my own actions.”

  Atavalens turned to point at me, his whole body shaking. “You will fail,” he said. “You will fail because I will see to it that you fail.”

  I nodded, forcing my face to remain expressionless. “Then you admit that I will be taking the test,” I said.

  Atavalens was about to reply when Raknia raised then dropped her chair to the floor; the crash echoed around the chamber. “We need to discuss our task,” she said.

  The atmosphere was broken. Grumbling, Atavalens arranged twelve chairs in a circle, pushing two others aside that I realised were meant for me and my cimmerian. Without comment I sat down, as did the cimmerian woman. She was short and slight, her soot-stained tunic ripped and worn. She wore leather mukluks not unilke my own. Her jet-black hair was fine and long, and she had made some effort to comb it.

  I glanced aside, then said to her, “I’m Ügliy—don’t worry, we’ll manage.”

  She attempted a smile, but she was afraid. “I’m Karanlik,” she whispered.

  Silence descended upon the chamber. I whispered back, “I’m glad you were allocated to me. We must remain true against the wayward methods of this group. Don’t worry. I am a shaman.”

  Karanlik nodded. The fact that she comprehended the word ‘shaman’ was a great comfort to me.

  For an hour the group discussed options, with me contributing not a word, nor Atavalens, who sat head bowed as if enduring the idle conversations of children. The apprentices discussed the possibility of transport, of natural seepage, even of sorcery, but they could not agree on a solution, not least because the amount of water was so large.

  Then Atavalens rubbed the back of his neck, sighed, and looked up. “I cannot credit what I have just heard,” he said. He stood up, jumped upon the dais and began walking around it, hands behind his back. “Have none of you any imagination? Midnight is close and you still haven’t seen the obvious solution.”

  “Tell us,” Raknia said.

  “That is what your leader is going to do. The answer is simple. Do you think Musseler used the sorcerer’s block merely to fry fungus? No. It was a clue. We have to use the block to boil away the water.”

  Raknia laughed. “Haven’t you seen a can on a bonfire? It takes a long time—”

  �
�This is a sorcerer’s block,” Atavalens interrupted, “not a child’s fire. We are dealing with the implements of the citidenizenry here. We face a big problem so we use big tools. Please—have some realism.”

  “Carry on, then,” Raknia said.

  “The sorcerer’s block will be lowered into the water, and after a short time the water will boil away. There, that is decided.” He jumped down from the dais, adding, “Remain here, all of you. I will return before midnight.”

  I watched as Atavalens approached the door through which Musseler had departed. He crept through the doorway, and I knew he was going to steal a sorcerer’s block from the equipment room. I glanced at Raknia, who shrugged, then smiled; a gesture of sadness, not confidence. So I turned my attention to Karanlik, but before I could strike up a conversation Raknia was at my side, grabbing me by the arm and pulling me from my chair.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked.

  “This plan can’t work,” Raknia said.

  I nodded, saying, “You could be right.”

  “I am right. Have you seen a can boiling? It’s violent. If Atavalens boils a tower full of water it will break the stonework, or explode, scalding us and everybody else in the area. We have to stop him.”

  I saw her reasoning. If Atavalens was allowed to pursue a scheme that failed none of the apprentices would be allowed to take the test. Suddenly I felt desperate. Atavalens was not a man who would listen to reason. “We have got to do something,” I said, “before it’s too late.”

  “Exactly. Have you thought of a plan?”

  “No.”

  Raknia glanced at the door. “Musseler will return any minute, and I have a feeling Atavalens won’t discuss the details of his boiling plan.”

  I sensed my chance of becoming a citidenizen slipping away. I bit my bottom lip, then said, “We’ve got to think of something!”