“I know.”
“You?”
Raknia sighed, then replied, “Nothing yet.”
From deep inside the tower a bell tolled, marking the division of the night. I cursed under my breath, then said, “We’d better sit down.”
Raknia grabbed my sleeve. “Even if somebody does come up with a better plan, nobody can tell Atavalens. We would have to convince him it was his own idea.”
I cursed again. I felt panic approaching—my future departing. “I’ll ask Karanlik,” I said.
Raknia frowned. “Oh, yes,” she drawled, “ask an outsider.”
I ignored this remark, replying, “You ask your cimmerian,” then returning to my chair, where I whispered in Karanlik’s ear. “Have you thought of anything?”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s beyond me.”
Fretting, I sat back. Atavalens sprang into the room and hurried to his chair, sitting down just in time to see the return of Musseler.
From the dais Musseler said, “Well?”
Atavalens stood, his manner unctuous, his expression a haughty smirk. “We have a plan,” he said. “We are ready. May we depart?”
Musseler gestured at the exit. “The sorcerer’s tower awaits.”
So we departed the Tower of the Dessicators, Atavalens and his henchmen first, cimmerian women in tow, followed by Yish, Kaganashina and their men, then me, Raknia and our cimmerians. I found myself stupefied, too frightened of failure to think of a plan, aware that this night might be my last before a return to the streets. I was shaking. Karanlik noticed, slipping her hand into mine as we walked along Sehzadebazi Street towards the ruined tower.
At the tower we milled around while Atavalens took his henchmen to inspect the walls. I surveyed the area. I noticed that the sorcerer had built his tower adjacent to the channel left by the River Lycus, long since diverted into the Propontis to reduce erosion. This channel, though many feet lower than street level, was used as a road south to the harbour—and so I was struck by an idea. In the space of a few seconds, I imagined water rushing down the channel to the sea, rejected this idea because of the erosion it would cause to the channel base and walls, then wished the water could somehow be made solid. I thought of water boiling, then of ice, but I rejected those ideas as unworkable. But then I imagined ice spheres rolling down to the sea, and I remembered the dessicating rods.
With a wave of my rags I gestured Raknia over, pulling her a few steps away, out of earshot. “I have it,” I said, gripping her shoulders.
“What?” she asked.
“The dessicating spheres at the end of our rods. Their sorcery limits them by weight, not by volume—”
“No, it would take months to carry all that water down to the sea—”
“Listen,” I insisted, “we fill all seven spheres with the water—”
“They will weigh a ton—”
“Then we just let them roll down the channel left by the River Lycus. It’s their weight that we exploit.”
Raknia glanced at the tower, then at me. “It might work, and it’s all we have,” she said.
I turned to examine the channel. “There’s only one problem,” I said. “It’s been centuries since that river ran and I don’t know if the channel retains a slope down to the Propontis.” I turned, grabbing Raknia again in the intensity of my thought. “You go and persuade Atavalens,” I said. “I’ve got to check the channel.”
“You?”
“As a rat!” I hissed. “Now go, before it’s too late.”
I thrust her in the direction of the tower, then hurried down to the channel. I gazed south through the mist of soot, catching at the extremity of my vision a glimpse of the Forum of Bovis upon Ordu Street, where the channel bent west then made for the sea; white lamps amidst shadows where windows pierced the Forum walls. I crouched down, pushing the Mavrosopolis from my mind and concentrating on the channel, setting my mind along the road to trance with a rhythmic beating of my hands and feet upon the ground: legs back, arms forward, nose twitching.
My senses leaped free, vision enhanced, hearing perfect, my tiny body aware of every nuance of the channel. Fast as water itself I scurried down the channel, detecting the slightest variation in slope below the caked soot and debris, aware through my whiskers of flaws in the stonework, then, before I knew it, standing before the Propontis with triumph ringing through my mind. Success! Yes, there were a few tiny ups and downs, but by the time the rolling spheres reached these obstacles their momentum would carry them through.
I shook myself. I found myself shivering on the ground next to the channel. I got to my feet, brushed myself down, then hurried back to the tower. Just in time, for Atavalens was displaying the sorcerer’s block, about to address the apprentices.
“I took the liberty,” Atavalens said, raising the block above his head, “of borrowing this sorcerous item for tonight’s task.”
Raknia was at my side, listening with an expression of fear on her face, and I realised that she had not yet managed to speak with him. She glanced at me, and I nodded once to indicate my success.
Atavalens continued, “We will dunk the block into the water by dropping it from the top of the ruined wall. Soon—it does not matter exactly how soon—the water will boil.”
Raknia laughed, a sound false to my ears, making me wince. “How clever to use hot water,” she said. “Of course the spheres will absorb the steam and water so much better.”
Atavalens frowned at her. “The spheres?”
“Yes.” She swung out with her left arm, indicating the direction of the channel. “The idea of letting them roll steaming down to the Propontis is very clever.” Again she managed a hollow laugh. “We’re lucky to have you as our leader.”
Atavalens frowned at her, but then he glanced aside at the channel. Uchagru also frowned, but Yabghu, scratching his unshaven cheeks, looked from tower to channel and back again.
Atavalens took a breath and said, “No—”
“Six, not seven,” Yabghu interrupted.
“Pardon?”
“We’d need to hold back one dessicating rod to absorb the moisture left in the stonework itself.” He turned to the tower, then chuckled, “You keep your best ideas to last, eh?”
Atavalens said nothing. I felt my heart thumping in my chest. I knew Atavalens had grasped the plan and realised that it was better than his. Nobody spoke: ravens croaking in the distance, the sound of voices in adjacent streets.
With a grunt Atavalens said, “We won’t bother heating the water.” He gestured at the apprentices and said, “Hand over your dessicating rods. We’ll drop six spheres in, letting them absorb all the water. When the tower is empty I’ll go in to absorb what is left, then we’ll smash the wall next to the channel and let the spheres roll out.” He tapped his fingers together. “Yes, that’s what we’ll do.”
He took our dessicating rods and unclipped their spheres, then gave them to Yabghu, who stared, dismayed, at the climb facing him.
But then Atavalens turned, a grin on his face. “Wait,” he said, “I had better use somebody disposable.” He pointed a forefinger at me. “Rat boy. You look like a fit individual. Take the spheres from Yabghu and put them in your pockets. Then climb to the top of the tower and drop them in.”
I did not hesitate, for I knew that a show of fear, even of weakness was what Atavalens wanted. Karanlik followed in my footsteps.
“Not you,” Atavalens said, waving her away.
I stopped, and we both looked at Atavalens, who in turn glanced into the darkness around him, then muttered something and gestured us on. So... he was frightened of Musseler’s power. Now I felt a mixture of confidence and dread. I doubted my withered leg would support me, but taking the spheres from Yabghu I nonetheless stood before the wall. It was twenty feet high. For some minutes I surveyed the sills and projections, seeking a route, before a cry of, “We’re waiting rat boy,” spurred me on.
I turned to Karanlik. “Follow
me up,” I said, “using the same stones I use.”
She nodded; a hint of a grin. “I can climb,” she said.
I placed my crutch against the wall and raised my body up on my good toes, reaching out to grab a stone before hauling myself up into a sitting position. With my good leg I supported myself, raising myself again to locate and grasp two steel poles. I heard Karanlik below me, her mukluks scuffling against the stone; I did not look down. I paused for breath, then pulled, so that I was able to swing myself upon the poles, raise myself, then stand and reach out for a window sill. With questing fingers I determined the state of the sill, found it crumbling, and decided to use a stone instead. I turned so that my left side was pressed against the wall, placed the instep of my left foot on one of the poles, and again stretched, pulled and swung, twice in succession, from one window to the next. I was two thirds of the way up. I glanced down, only to see Atavalens standing head bowed. Panther shaman! Suddenly afraid, I redoubled my efforts, knowing that invisible paws could yet knock me off balance. It was a half deliberate, half improvised scramble between steel projections and stones. Then I felt my hand free in the air. There was a hiss, a growl; the smell of fur. I glanced up to see the ragged top stone of the tower, which I grabbed, hauling myself up with a cry. I lay on my stomach, panting, hands clutching stones on either side of the wall. Karanlik clambered up behind me.
We had made it.
The feeling of triumph was so intense I was unable to stop myself cheering, then waving at the apprentices, heedless of the fury this gesture would provoke in Atavalens. We rested for a few minutes, discussing the climb, smiling at one another, until I took the spheres from my pockets and displayed them to the apprentices. In a rage Atavalens put his hands to his mouth and yelled, “Throw them in, rat boy, before you drop them.”
I did as I was told. The spheres floated for a few seconds, then dropped like stones beneath the surface of the water, lost to view. I waited. Nothing happened; no bubbles, no noise, nor did the spheres reappear. Inside the ruined tower all was in shadow, but when for a few moments the moon appeared behind a break in the soot I saw a black ring on the stone above the water, and I knew its level was falling.
“It’s working,” I shouted.
Atavalens called back, “Stay up there until all the water has been absorbed.”
I was relieved to hear this command, since I wanted Atavalens to enter the tower from the ground while we were still aloft; that would distract Atavalens while we clambered down.
Time passed. The water level dropped. The moon reappeared ever nearer the horizon. When it touched the horizon, I saw a darker shadow at the bottom of the tower that I suspected was damp stone and wood. Taking my water-locator I pointed it into the tower, whereupon it showed only a trace of moisture in the air. I decided that the water had all been absorbed.
“Ready,” I shouted.
Atavalens walked to the door of the tower and began tapping it with a piece of steel; checking for echoes, I knew. All seemed secure. He gestured Yabghu and Uchagru to his side and acting togther they smashed open the door. There was no flood of water. With Atavalens absorbing moisture from the inner walls, his dessicating rod tied to the end of a hooked pole, Karanlik and I clambered down the wall, slowly and with care, until we stood on firm ground. Raknia approached, elbowing Karanlik out of the way to hug me and hand me my crutch. I smiled, relieved it was all over.
It was the hour before dawn, a quiet time in the Mavrosopolis, when citidenizens prepared for their beds and nogoths huddled in their street dens. The channel would be quiet, though not empty, and I realised that we would have to clear the way when the six sorcerous spheres began rolling. But this should not be a problem; it would be simple enough to arrange ourselves in a string of fourteen along the channel, ready to call out warnings to the unwary. I suggested this to Raknia, who mentioned it to Yabghu, and so Atavalens came to agree the idea, convinced it was his own.
The distance between the sorcerer’s tower and the Propontis was too long for us to remain in eye contact, so Atavalens placed us in those areas that he thought might be occupied by locals. Soon, we were ready. I stood nearest the tower—under Atavalens’ eye—and so I witnessed the moment when the tower wall was pierced at the point where the spheres rested against it. There was a crack and a puff of dust, then a noise like thunder as the six tiny weights rolled down the slope and into the channel, their inertia causing them to oscillate from side to side before settling. Then they were on their way, slowly accellerating. I watched them pass with hope in my heart. It had been agreed that once the spheres had passed any apprentice could try to run after them, and this I did, hopping as best I could.
I could not keep up, however. A jeering Atavalens sprinted by, jumping into the channel to follow the spheres, disappearing into the gloom ahead. I struggled on towards the Propontis.
I was the last to arrive at the harbour, where the dry outflow of the River Lycus met the dark, whispering shore of the Propontis. I saw a laughing, happy crowd massed around the figure of Musseler. Karanlik noticed me first, and she ran up to tell me the news. “It worked,” she said. “The spheres fell into the sea as you hoped.”
I grinned. Despite the plan being my own I felt no pride, rather a sense of relief that we could all now progress to the citidenizen test. “Well done,” I said. “Thank you for helping me with the climb.”
“I did nothing to help.”
“That you would follow me up was all that mattered. Thank you.”
Karanlik smiled. Her face was filthy and her hair was tousled, yet I was dazzled—not by beauty, but by confidence. I knew that this change had been instigated by my own concern for her wellbeing.
Then Musseler called us together. “Very well,” he said, “good work, though the loss of six dessicating spheres is unfortunate. However, so elegant a solution deserves praise. I can now announce that you are all in a state between nogoth and citidenizen. You are pre-citidenizens.”
There was some cheering at this—Musseler let it pass. My heart was pounding so fast and strong I felt it would leap out of my chest. I was breathing like an athlete after a race.
Musseler continued, “This however does not entitle you to any citidenizen boons. You will sleep where you slept before, although for any of you in dire need the Tower of the Dessicators may be an option.” He paused, gazing across the white sand, that seemed like granulated milk under the light of the stars. “So the test awaits,” he said, “and you’re all wondering what it’s like. I can tell you that it’s quadrapartite, some parts difficult, with the final part more of a formality than anything.” His gaze strayed to me. “For most of you, anyway,” he remarked. “The test will begin tomorrow night. There will be no declaration of test conditions, no defined start or structure. You are pre-citidenizens and you will be expected to recognise the elements of the test and respond in an appropriate fashion. Though I shouldn’t tell you this, I’m sure some of you will have realised that your apprenticeship serves as a foundation for the test. You have not just learned the ways of the Mavrosopolis, you have learned something of cultured and delicate society—so different to what you were used to as nogoths. For this test you will require a different attitude. Cultivate that attitude. I trust you will not fail.” He looked us over, then said, “That’s all.”
A hum of conversation arose amongst the apprentices.
“Except for this,” Musseler added. He raised what looked like a pebble, which exploded out of his hand with a bang. We all jumped. Then a troupe of people ran down from where they had been hiding above the shore. I looked in astonishment at them—musicians and dancers and women bearing trays of food. “Learn from this, too,” Musseler said. “This is what it’s like to be a citidenizen.”
I examined the food as it was passed around. “This is lokum,” Raknia told me, taking a piece of sugar-coated jelly and dropping it in my hand. Then she proffered what looked like a black worm. “Liquorice,” she said.
“And tha
t?” I said, pointing to bowl of powder.
“Sherbet.”
A song and dance was set up. The musicians were asiks, singing traditional songs accompanied by saz lutes, ney flutes and by the frenetic rhythms of their kudum hand-drums. Musseler passed around his coffee, and for the first time I felt that the blunt man might be the equal of me. I felt that I was experiencing the remainder of my life compressed into one frantic moment, scented by lokum and coffee and lived against the pure music of the Mavrosopolis. This must be what it felt like to be happy. My mother had told me about happiness. Now, I knew it.
5.5.583
Today was a milestone in my life. I will never forget today. I must write this again, lest I forget the importance, lest I sink into idle contentment—though contentment be what I seek. I will never forget what happened today. For today, on the shore of the Phosphorus, I was told that I had passed the final obstacle at the end of my apprenticeship and that I was to be put forward for the citidenizen test. Seven of the eight others in my thawer group were also put forward. One was not. He was of insufficient standard. Interestingly, he was a rebel, and he refused to blend himself with what the thawer masters wanted. At first I felt equally rebellious, but then I realised that I had to balance progress with principle. The important thing is that my principles remain locked in my mind, which is a place where I can store things until they are needed. Because this store is metaphysical, I feel safe. Only memory loss can foil me. I fear memory loss. As a consequence I am fascinated by the obsession citidenizens have with stopping all forms of erasure.
When I am a citidenizen—I am absolutely certain that I will be one—I will undertake a research project into the origins of this obsession. It seems to me that the repose I so desire may be located in the peace generated by zero erasure. It may be that the form and structure of the Mavrosopolis is well suited to one such as me. It may even be that this explains why I feel that I must become a citidenizen.
Or there may be another explanation. As yet I do not know enough details. But this is no worry to me. Though I am young, and feel young, I also feel old. I do not know what it is like to be old, but I have spoken with old people and I feel that I know the state well. Many characteristics of the elderly apply, bizarrely, to me: wise, or so I hope; aware of my path and direction; conscious of the greater scheme of things; thankful for the delights of the non-physical life, such as reading, composition, and conversation and debate. It would be nice to debate with the cimmerian girl who has been assigned to me.
The Rat and the Serpent Page 7
