The Rat and the Serpent

by Stephen Palmer

  Zveratu turned left and strode at speed along the street. A few nogoths raised their heads to stare at us, and some shouted at me to leave them alone, but I ignored them; though Blackguards’ Passage met Divan Yolu Street they were like foreigners to me, the intense localisation of street life separating brother from brother. We passed the Forum of Constantine then entered Yeniceriler Street, Zveratu glancing over his shoulder every few minutes to check that I was keeping up. My crutch thunked against paving slabs, while Zveratu’s boots click-clacked against the stones. At the Forum of Tauri, we halted.

  Zveratu raised one arm to indicate the structure. “What do you make of that?”

  “It is Tauri’s Forum. There citidenizens debate matters... I don’t know what matters, but they must be important.”

  “Our goal lies underneath.”

  “Is it dangerous?”

  “The Mavrosopolis is perilous indeed.” Zveratu glared at me. “Surely you are not afraid of subterranea? You, with your guides?”

  “I am not afraid,” I replied, “but I am concerned.”

  “You do right to feel concerned. It is a mark of wisdom.”

  I had never before been complimented, except by my mother. I began to feel that something here was wrong, yet I could not stop myself following Zveratu, for I knew that he represented my best chance of ascent.

  We entered a narrow alley set between the Forum and a terrace of buildings, the towers and arches of the Forum rising into heavy soot clouds. The alley was cobbled, and the sound of our passage echoed ahead of us. Pale lamps shone behind twinkling windows. The unintelligible signs of citidenizen houses hung like glowing white leaves from poles set perpendicular to the walls, each one marked with a single black symbol. I was assailed by unattainable meaning. I longed to know what the signs meant. I longed to ask Zveratu, but I dared not, for I knew citidenizenship was far away and I had taken only the first step on a long path.

  Zveratu broke my reverie by saying, “This is the door through which we enter the bowels of the Forum. Follow me, and do not be afraid.”

  I looked at the black hole before me. I did not want to enter. “Wait,” I said. “Will we be gone for long?”

  “Possibly.”

  I screwed my face up and moaned, “But I haven’t eaten for days. I must have food.” My eyes misted. “Please.”

  Zveratu glowered, but then his face softened. “I suppose you must,” he said. He looked at the buildings opposite the Forum then added, “I can buy you food.” From his pocket he withdrew several clinking metal disks, which he examined, then bounced in his outstretched palm.

  “What is that?” I asked.

  “It is called money. You will have to come to terms with it if you become a citidenizen.”

  “Is it sorcerous?”

  Zveratu’s face fell, as if I had made a crushing retort. “There are almost no citidenizens who do not believe that money is sorcerous,” he remarked. “But no, it is not, at least not in the way that you meant.”

  He walked across the alley to a door left half ajar, which he pushed open with his boot before calling, “Are you open yet, victualler?”

  A fat face appeared at the door. “I’m closed right now. I was jus’ cleaning out. What you want?”

  “Take these,” Zveratu replied, pushing some of the money into the man’s hand. “Bring us good food that we can eat without cooking.” He handed over another disk. “And take that for your trouble.”

  Grumbling, the fat man returned to his shop, to appear five minutes later with a box. Zveratu checked the contents, then nodded. “Thank you.”

  A shrug was the only reply.

  I took the box and with drool running from my mouth examined the contents: blackberries, grey bread, salted olives, a crumbling cheese that looked like chalk. I ate without thought for Zveratu, stuffing the food into my mouth. Too soon, it was gone.

  “Better?” Zveratu enquired.

  I looked at him. This man had given me a free meal; and thinking about it, with the food in my stomach, that was all I had wanted. I glanced at the Forum door and found the prospect of subterranea unwelcoming. I did not trust this strange man.

  “Got to go piss,” I said, clutching my groin.

  Between the fat man’s door and the next building lay a narrow alley, which I entered, hurrying along until I saw light at the far end. I did not expect any of the locals to stop me, so I stepped out into the street not looking left or right—to see a silhouette before me.

  An outstretched arm pointed in the direction from which I had come. “The Forum is that way.”

  I stared at Zveratu. For some time I was speechless, until I managed to ask, “How did you get here?” I turned, to see that there were no other passages. I turned back, to add, “You’re a sorcerer. That’s why you want me.”

  “I am Zveratu,” came the impassive reply, “and that is all you need to know for the moment.”

  “You want me for sorcery.”

  “I want your commitment, Ügliy. Did I not make that clear?”

  We stood in stand-off for a few moments, before I sagged, knowing that I had done a stupid thing. “Sorry,” I mumbled.

  Without reply Zveratu entered the alley, and soon we stood again before the Forum door. “This leads into a cellar,” Zveratu explained, “from which we locate the catacombs.”

  “What will we find there?”

  No answer. Zveratu strode into the blackness, and I followed.

  As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I noticed a radiance emanating from Zveratu’s parasol—the old man had not closed it—so that we seemed to be walking under a moon of white mist. I halted whenever Zveratu paused to get his bearings. I smelled mould and dust. From the sound of the echoes I thought we might be in a long corridor.

  “There are steps ahead,” Zveratu warned.

  We continued. I was desperate to know more about our destination, but I dared not ask any questions. After a few minutes we began to descend spiral stairs, the stone under my hands cold as ice, and clammy, with the echoes of bootsteps and crutch snapping back at me. I felt my guts churn. I swallowed, then belched. The sound made Zveratu halt.

  “What was that?” he asked.

  “Me,” I replied, grateful that the gloom masked my embarrassment.

  “No shaman of the blackrat should fear subterranea,” Zveratu said. “Believe in your guide. You will prevail.”

  “How did you know about the rats?”

  “I observed you before we met.”

  I had noticed that as the night progressed Zveratu became imperious, almost terse; either this was because his plan was coming to fruition and he was nervous, or because a natural arrogance was showing through. As we followed the corridor I again felt the need to run and hide, an urge that brought panic to my mind. I stopped. Zveratu stopped. I walked on. I heard cockroaches crunching under my boots.

  At the end of a short side-passage we rested. The echoes changed, became lusher, longer, as if we were inside a cavern.

  “Where are we?” I whispered.

  Zveratu took a tiny lantern from his pocket, whose pure radiance lit a tunnel; arched brick above us, passages to either side. Before us lay a channel filled with dust, soot and larger pieces of debris—bones, the pommels of swords long since disintegrated, the remains of carts and caravans.

  “This is but a tiny part of the sewer and catacomb system of the Mavrosopolis,” Zveratu replied. “Your emotional home is down here.” He pointed with one bony finger. “Do you see movement on the other side of the channel? Rats.”

  I nodded. “There are rats everywhere.” I knew this was true because I could feel them.

  Zveratu turned to look at me. “How many would you say there were?”

  I tried to survey the path to either side, taking the lantern and raising it above my head, but its light was too weak. “There do seem to be far more than I’d have expected,” I remarked. I sniffed the air. “But no stink of rotting food or anything.”

  �
�These rats are a force,” said Zveratu, in doomy tones. “They respond to what happens above. Excess food discarded by the Forum of Tauri descends to these levels and causes a population explosion.”

  I grunted at this. “I’ve got bitter experience of the so-called force of rats. It is the power of humiliation and pain. I will never again tell anybody I am a shaman of the rat.”

  “You will,” Zveratu said. “Allow me to demonstrate. Pick up that hide from the floor.”

  I did as I was told, releasing a horde of cockroaches and beetles that scuttled away to vanish into crevices. The tattered leather seemed once to have belonged to a dog. I held it at arm’s length.

  Zveratu proceeded to pummel the hide with his fists, sending up clouds of dust, and scattering pieces of fur to the ground. “As you see,” he said, “I am unable to damage the hide with the power of my fists. But watch.” There was a clink, then a scraping sound as of metal against metal. He raised his right hand to expose a framework of silver, five jointed metal bars along the undersides of his fingers, a disk in the palm, a hoop around the wrist; five sharp claws at his fingernails. There was a motion, and most of the hide fell away, leaving me holding a fragment.

  “Do you see?” Zveratu asked.

  Though shocked at the speed and effortlessness of the gesture, I had enough wit to realise that I was learning a lesson. After a moment I said, “You made a small thing more powerful than your fist.”

  “Five small things,” Zveratu corrected. “Imagine what I could do with two of these devices.”

  Dimly, I understood. “I see what you mean,” I said in the most confident voice that I could muster. “I should not underestimate the power of small things.”

  “Indeed.”

  Zveratu led me along the sewer channel until we came to a junction. We followed many more passages, descending by means of crumbling steps, until the air was so cold I began to shiver. Again I wondered why this man was taking such trouble over me.

  “Is it far?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “Why are you doing this? I want to get back to my alley.”

  “Those days are gone,” Zveratu said. He paused, then added, “But it is right for you to feel dislocated. You must realise that your desire to become a citidenizen of the Mavrosopolis means you will be wrenched from the alley you call home. If your desire is true—”

  “Oh, it is!”

  “—then you will overcome the difficulties of your ascent. Have courage. Do what is right.” Again he hesitated. “And do not suppose that you are the only one I have looked kindly upon.”

  I recalled what Zveratu had said when we first met. “Have you raised many nogoths into the citidenizenry?” I asked.

  Zveratu pointed to a dark chamber ahead. “There is our goal. There we will make a pact that will help you complete the great journey ahead.”

  “You and me?”

  “You and me and one other.”

  Again I shivered.

  Inside the chamber I examined every nook and corner. I found nothing and nobody. It was a rough cavern twenty feet on a side, a tunnel leading in and out, bones and stones covering the floor, the remains of murals upon the walls. It smelled of dust and mould.

  “What is this place?” I asked.

  There was no reply. Zveratu was a silhouette at the entrance, his face in shadow, tufts of hair like a halo around his head, the silver claws gleaming upon his right hand. I could not have imagined a more menacing figure, as if this man was somehow at one with the Mavrosopolis, as if he was its soul.

  Terrified, I shrank back against the wall. “You’re going to kill me,” I whispered, leaning against the wall and raising my crutch. “I can use this,” I warned.

  “Use it to walk,” Zveratu replied. He raised his gaze to the ceiling then said, “Remain silent.”

  The atmosphere of the cavern changed in an instant.

  From the air in the centre of the chamber motes of purest white dropped, like snowdrops illuminated from the inside, forming a pool on the ground that rippled as if responding to motion deep within. From this pool questing whiskers emerged, then a pointed nose, then a face, then in a single leap a rat of white light: black eyes, black claws, black teeth. I fell to my knees before this incarnation of my shamanic totem. I felt heat in my arms and legs as if I was being infused with emotional power. My face felt flushed. My ears were singing, my teeth throbbing in their gums.

  “Swear before this semblance of your totem,” intoned Zveratu.

  Looking up through my eyelashes, I nodded once.

  Zveratu continued, “It is my true desire to become a citidenizen of the Mavrosopolis.”

  I repeated this in full. It was true.

  “And I will do my best to ascend from nogoth to citidenizen, I will believe that I deserve it, I will assist other nogoths who deserve it.”

  I repeated this too.

  “And when I am a citidenizen, noble and good, I will wear my make-up with joy, knowing that a new meaning has been brought to my life. And I will do what is necessary for the good of the citidenizenry and for the good of the Mavrosopolis.”

  I said every word, then let my gaze drop to the ground. Shadow swept into the chamber. It was cold and silent.

  I heard the sound of robes swishing. “Good,” said Zveratu as he turned to leave.

  12.11.582

  I must get off the streets. I cannot be a nogoth forever. There are only so many cockroaches that I can tread on before disgust becomes unbearable. I have heard that there are some nogoths who, out of an existential repulsion for their position, throw themselves into the dark waters of the harbour, never to be seen again. It is known that underwater beasts consume them, though what those beasts are is a mystery. In other words, it is known that death is definite in the harbour. I will not face a demise so certain.

  Yesterday I was twenty. It was as if I crossed a boundary. My childhood is behind me now, and the rest of my life... no, it does not stretch out before me like a bleak, black road, it stretches out before me like a bright path. But I am not sure where that path leads.

  From where do I get this manner so nice, this philosophical quirk? Imagining bright paths when they do not exist. I suppose it must be from my mother. But my over-active mind makes life even more difficult for me. Were I a citidenizen, the Mavrosopolis would find a place for me. But I am a nogoth.

  I must write this down, this fate that faces me: I live on the streets, I have no sure supply of food, I drink filthy water, and the constant fall of soot is like an eczema of the air that ruins my skin. I am a nogoth.

  Is it so much to ask that I find a place where living is not a trial?

  All I know is that I am in the wrong place within the Mavrosopolis. The Mavrosopolis must—it must!—draw me up into a place where I fit, and where, I hope, I will find peace. For there can be no peace on the streets. Cacophany distracts me, tumbles my finer thoughts into a storm-like brew that never calms. It is not good to live with a mind like a storm. Nobody has told me this, yet I know it is true, as if something inside me is guiding me. My conscience, perhaps. I have heard that everybody is born with the possibility of finding a conscience. (This implies that some never find such a thing. What happens to them? Are they nogoths? Or are there evil citidenizens of which yet I know nothing? I really must find out.)

  Crossing the line between nineteen and twenty has given me a new direction. However I do not know why this should be. Perhaps it is because they say that most nogoths die in their twenties. For sure, it is a brutish life, the life of the street. It is not a humane life, certainly. It does seem wrong that the Mavrosopolis allows such lives to exist.

  I think it is this thought, this central thought with which I have wrestled all day, that is leading me in the direction of the bright path. The bright path! What nonsense. But something is leading me, or pushing me. The only way is up. That is not true. There is one station lower that nogoth, and that is corpse. But that dread station is not for me. Up, then. I
will become a citidenizen. I have heard that it is possible for nogoths, through the force, goodness, purity or otherwise of their character, to pass a test and so become a citidenizen of the Mavrosopolis. I must find out whether such a test exists.

  If it does, I am determined to take it. If I pass, I am determined to discover why it is possible for nogoths to die on the street aged twenty.

  I am determined. And I am no cripple—I have a chance of passing.

  But I cannot believe however that I am the only man to have given this elementary problem some thought. Am I the only one who ponders? Is pondering a lost art? I believe it must be, for if others ponder as I do, and become citidenizens, what is there to stop the continuance of their path? I can think of no obstacle that would stop me pointing out the poor quality of street life, and therefore it stands to reason that no such obstacle exists that has stopped others. Yet where is progress?

  Chapter 2

  It was an hour after nightfall when, with trepidation, I approached a tower on the junction of Gedik Pasa and Divan Yolu Streets. There I saw a flight of black steps, a single lamp at the top, a half open door, and above that dozens of windows and balconies topped with a conical roof: the Tower of the Dessicators. Earlier, I had made a parasol from cloth and wood fragments found in the gutters of Blackguards’ Passage; this I put into the bin at the foot of the steps, knowing it would be there when I returned. An unspoken nogoth custom.

  I was nervous, aware of my naiveté, but more aware of my crutch, which I knew would mark me out even in a group of novices. I was in two minds. I had sworn the oath, but doubt remained. For some minutes I looked up through softly falling soot, studying the lamp, the solidity of the door, the pale windows above it. Then I sighed, and with heart thumping I began to hobble up the steps.

  In the entrance hall I saw a man sitting on a black velvet couch; burly, swarthy, smoking a clay pipe and writing with a feather upon a scroll. He looked in surprise at me. He was a citidenizen—kohl around his eyes. There came a single word. “Yes?”