“What do you mean?” I replied, wiping the soot from my brow. “It’s pandemonium out there. I only hope I survive tomorrow night.”
“Tomorrow night?”
“When the people choose.”
“Ügliy,” said the woman, “many people are suggesting that you are the one who murdered Garakoy.”
“What?”
“To gain entrance into the ranks of the counsellords.”
I protested my innocence as vehemently as I could, sparing no gesture, no word of proof. “I was a friend of Garakoy,” I declared. “Besides, I know who killed him. Raknia. The tiny bite on the arm. She’s a shaman of the widowspider. Go and fetch her now, she’ll confess!”
“You think we had not thought of that? Raknia is not at her abode.”
“Ah!” I shouted. I strode up to the woman so that we were an arm’s length apart. “Because Garakoy evicted her from her room in the tower, that’s why. She’ll be somewhere in the Gulhane Gardens.”
The woman glanced at her colleagues.
I felt on safer ground. “You didn’t know that, did you?”
The woman turned to face me. In a glacial voice she replied, “No. But how did you know?”
My mood was one of manic elation and I plucked an answer from the air. “Because Garakoy and I were friends,” I said. “He told me what he was doing, and I told him what I was doing. We were the friendliest of rivals.”
The woman said nothing. Her face suggested that she had been persuaded, but then she said, “We are officers of Stamboul, and we will keep you under observation during the investigation of this murder.”
“But I’m about to come to the climax of my candidacy.”
“No matter.”
I decided I would have none of this, and the words tumbled out of my mouth—from where, I did not know. “I won’t accept this!” I shouted. “These are special circumstances and I will have special treatment. I’m telling you here and now that I didn’t kill Garakoy, who was the only proper friend I had in the citidenizenry. Raknia is the murderer. But I won’t be restricted in anyway, this night, or tomorrow night. It must be a just and fair race for all candidates. Afterwards, yes, then you can detain me if you need to—but that won’t be necessary. You have access to sorcery. Use it! Cast a spell on me and on Garakoy to prove I didn’t go near him. Do it now. Right now!”
My challenge echoed around the chamber as five silent faces stared at me. I folded my arms and stared them out.
“Very well,” the woman said, “but the result of the spell will damn or exonerate you for the rest of your life. Do you vow to abide by what it says?”
A hint of doubt arrived in my mind. What if this was a trick designed to remove me from the race? I said, “Where’s Atavalens? Is he behind this?”
“No,” came the immediate reply.
I nodded. I could hardly complain, here in the Forum of Constantine. “Cast your spell, then,” I said.
The woman nodded once. “Follow us, Ügliy.”
I was led to a nearby room where, under a white sheet, the body of Garakoy lay. In that stark chamber I felt the warmth of the night draining from my face. “Do it now,” I urged. “I want to get this over with.”
One of the men spoke a few syllables and moved his hands in the air. There was an odour of incense and a hiss, as of a snake moving through the room. I felt something pass over me, like the shadow of a sootcloud, and I realised that a tiny part of the Mavrosopolis had sensed me, explored me, then spat me out: me, a shaman. And here, I suspected, lay the abyss between my inner self and my future in Stamboul.
“Well?” I asked, my voice harsh.
“Ügliy did not go near Garakoy,” the sorcerer confirmed.
“I told you,” I muttered. I strode forward and pulled aside the sheet, revealing an arm. “Look,” I said. “Didn’t you see this bite? This was made by an agent of Raknia, or by Raknia herself. Find her.” I took a deep breath, then emitted a cry of anguish. “When I took the citidenizen test I was fooled into thinking death was the civil reply to the crime of attack. I only hope death is the reply you offer Raknia, who deserves nothing else.”
The woman in ermine walked up to me. “Is that the kind of future you offer us? If it is, you can be sure I will not be supporting you tomorrow night.”
I was escorted from the room.
Sleep was impossible. I locked and barred my room, then sealed all the cracks, even where they were already sealed, so that there was no chance of insects entering my room. I paced from corner to corner, unable to rest, drinking watered raki, eating nothing, urinating in the corner of the room because I dared not break the seals I had made to go to my washroom.
The final night of my candidacy brought an unexpected problem. I had spoken so much over the previous days that my voice became hoarse, even, on the noisier street corners, inaudible. Out of nowhere a handful of people, and then a crowd, brought every kind of remedy they could think of; herbal coffee as black as night, frozen cream, hot peppered raki. These gifts did little to help me, but the support I experienced drove me to speak hour after hour, as if on the emotional shoulders of my followers. And everywhere I was showered with coins.
An hour before dawn exhaustion overcame me. In the middle of a speech on currency I fell from my podium, landing like a cat on a cushion into the arms of scores of people, who took me to the nearest house and brought me around with white mints and coffee. I could talk no more. There were fifty people or more crammed into the house, every one enthused by my message, every one vowing to convert their friends, every one telling me they wanted me as counsellord. Dazed, I let them feed me food and drink. Then it was dawn, and I was carried, half drunk, sick and dizzy, into a cool room and to a bed with clean sheets, where I lost consciousness.
I woke at dusk. Tonight, most of the citidenizens of Zolthanahmet would make for the Hippodrome to show their support either for me or for Atavalens.
“What are the odds?” I asked somebody.
“Evens,” came the reply.
I sighed. The death of Garakoy meant that a large number of people had transferred their allegiance to Atavalens, who, with his noble bearing, was their next best candidate. There was still no clear winner.
But now my campaign was over and I could do nothing. I felt tired beyond the capacity of my body, and I did not want to get out of bed. Some people suggested walking as a party down to the Hippodrome with me at their head, but when they asked me I made noncommittal replies, hoping they would go away.
All support had to be voiced by midnight at the latest. With an hour to go I was pulled from the bed and led out into the street. Hot coffee and raki were put under my nose, and I felt better. It was a warm and sooty night. With two men carrying parasols above me, I was led with cheers and shouts down Divan Yolu Street, then along Blackguards’ Passage to the Hippodrome. The irony of this chance did not escape me, and passing my mother’s cellar I shed a tear. But in the atmosphere of jubilation it was impossible to be sad.
The Hippodrome was crowded. I was led to the east end of the main auditorium, where I saw the shock of white hair marking out Atavalens amongst the parasols and the people. There were dozens of booths arranged around the place, each containing a sorcerous pot. I took the pebble proffered by one of the officials and studied it. One half was white, one black. I could indicate preference for a candidate with the black or, if I so desired, strong dislike with the white—the ratio of black votes to white was normally around ten to one, but the white always negated the black and thus were subtracted from the black total. All pebbles were placed in the pots, where, through a spell wrought by the Mavrosopolis itself, the tally was made and the name of the new counsellord declared by the presiding official.
Midnight arrived and the doors to the auditorium were shut. At least half of the citidenizens of Zolthanahmet were packed inside, two thousand and more all awaiting the result with excitement. The group of people who had appointed themselves my kin shielded me from the cr
owds by linking arms. I knew not one of their names.
The presiding officer spoke to the crowd in a voice augmented by sorcery. “The Mavrosopolis has decided,” he declared. “For Atavalens, black stones to the number of one thousand, six hundred and sixty. For Ügliy, black stones to the number of one thousand, five hundred and two.”
I put my hands to my face.
I had lost.
“No, no,” came the clamour of voices around me. “Not yet! If more people hate Atavalens, you could still win.” They pulled my arms to my side and forced me to look upward.
I felt faint.
“For Atavalens, white tokens to the number of two hundred and ten. For Ügliy, white tokens... or rather, a white token—”
A great cheer rose up to echo around the Hippodrome. I was deafened by the screams and cries at my side, buffeted by the people jumping up and down waving their hands, knocked by slaps on the back, attacked with wild hugs and by grinning faces, by shouts and by laughter. I struggled to keep my balance. I pulled my hat firmly onto my head.
I was going to be a counsellord.
For some time the auditorium around me was a mass of dancing, shouting people, until the inner circle of citidenizens moved so that I stood near the presiding official. Then the announcement was made. “I declare that the Mavrosopolis names Ügliy its newest counsellord of Zolthanahmet.”
More cheers, more dancing, and the circle became a corridor allowing people to approach and hug me, showering me with praise, looking forward to the reforms to come, congratulating me on my success.
Then Atavalens appeared. He said, “I have not lost, rat boy. I am moving to Psamathia, where in time I will become the counsellord I am destined to be. We two shall meet again, in a different arena.”
I said nothing. I was afraid that Atavalens would hit me.
Then the press closed, and all was chaos. I was shuffled through a sea of bodies, deafened by cheers and shouts. I kept one hand firmly on my hat. There was a moment when I caught sight of a familiar face shrouded in wisps of white hair: Zveratu. I tried to reach out, but we failed to grasp hands. Zveratu cried, “Well done!” Then the moment passed and I saw only unfamiliar faces.
I was out on the street. The crowds were beginning to disperse, though my core of anonymous supporters stood firm. Many now were drinking raki from hip flasks.
“It’s going to be a wild night!” somebody shouted. I was going to be a counsellord. “You’re a counsellord!” somebody else shouted.
It was true.
1.11.604
I will be forty two in ten nights.
I am still not a counsellord. But the election that I hope to win—that the mathematician-prophets suggest I will win—is half a moon away, new to full. A win would be a wonderful present, quite apart from its significance to my life and to the lives of the people in Bazaar whom I would direct.
I have discovered the art of being popular. Or at least an art. But it has been made at great cost to myself, and I do not know if I can carry on with the great task that I have set myself. It seems that the nearer I get to my goal, the worse is the burden that I have to bear. A point will come, I keep telling myself, when I will not be able to live with myself, and then I will stagger like a drunken animal all the way down to the harbour, where I will consign my body to the underwater beasts—with not even a first thought, let alone a second.
This is not a good mode of consideration. It is depressing. It accentuates my loneliness.
Popularity, then. This is my fourth attempt at becoming a counsellord. I have realised that the way to succeed is to insert my character—my appearance, which thankfully is striking and not repellent in any way, though hardly, I suppose, attractive, and my ideas and plans, and my eloquence, and my rigorous insistence on quiet when I declaim—into the minds of my listeners. Plus those populist phrases. To do this I must not make the listeners suspicious. The moment they are suspicious of me, I have lost them. I have spent years cultivating contacts, describing myself to all who would listen, devising community plans, being of assistance here and there, and so forth, so that my character has become a familiar part of Bazaar, a foundation stone, almost; and it is upon such a stone that I will speak, and in fourteen nights, hot and probably rather sweaty along with the mob inside the Hippodrome, win the election.
But this understanding has been grasped at great expense. I have been forced to act most unnaturally. The Mavrosopolis has done this to me, and it will pay. It will pay if I do it on the last day of my life unknown to anybody else, but it will pay. I will not be treated like some puppet in a back street grotesque-show, sooty and quiet and oh so flexible, praising the Mavrosopolis and making myself look ridiculous in the process. Nobody—nothing—makes me look ridiculous.
Though I cannot declare it openly, I declare it here, to myself. I am an independent. I may not be a sorcerer or a shaman, but I will not be shoved around. I have my own ideas, and they are valid.
There: that is my secret fuel. It is with this heresy (it was not too strong a word!) that I find my most potent source of energy. Now all I require is power.
As the night of the full moon approaches I will fling myself around Bazaar, smiling at everyone with my winning smile, abstractedly combing my remaining tufts of hair with my fingers in a winningly eccentric manner, agreeing with everybody, saying those phrases... and so forth and so forth. It is all planned. It is all set. I have the courage and I have the determination—sometimes, in fact, I wonder if my whole essence is composed of determination. I imagine that it must be philosophically possible, just as many women consist entirely of lust, or of seductive tendency, or at least of romantic pleasantry.
Good. I am energetic. I am confident. Now I will go out into the soot.
15.11.604:
I won!
Chapter 14
The home of the counsellords was a street in the north of the Mavrosopolis, close to the Galata Bridge, running parallel to Ragip Gumuspala Street, and when I was led there I knew I had walked it before, for this was the street in which Raknia and I had been haunted. I nodded to myself, remembering that day.
The counsellord at my side was called Katurguter, a tall, reticent man who spoke in grave tones, as if some disaster was about to happen. “This is Siyah Street,” he explained, “and here all the counsellords of Constantinopolis have their homes.”
“Of where?”
“It is what we call the Mavrosopolis. Stamboul is rather too vulgar a name for the conurbation in which we live.”
I nodded. “I’ve been in this street before,” I said. “At the time I thought it had no name.”
“It is nameless only to those who do not belong here—citidenizens and nogoths. Only we know the truth.”
“But I was haunted here.”
Katurguter nodded once. “Of course you were.”
“And will I have a home here?”
“You must move out of whatever cheap and unpleasant lodgings you used to reside in. You are a counsellord now. Leave in that place all belongings except those personal to you, for you will have no need of them. Also leave all money. Counsellords take what they want.”
I was shocked. “But money was the platform on which I arrived here.”
“Platform?”
“Yes. The citidenizens want me to reform the coins and the different currencies. Having paper money, for instance.”
“Reform?” Katurguter queried.
“And I must do it, because I promised everybody in Zolthanahmet.”
Katurguter was not given to smiling. With a twitch of his lips he said, “Counsellords have no opportunity to make laws. We are executors. But it is in our gift to take the laws of Constantinopolis to those standing below us, and for that we accept both strict responsibility and many rewards.”
“We cannot make laws?”
“Law making is for elitistors.”
“Who?”
We were half way along Siyah Street. Katurguter pointed to its further end and
said, “Do you see anything?”
“A very dark shadow, tall and square.”
“That is House Sable. There live the six elitistors of the Mavrosopolis, and it is they who make the laws. We are but functionaries compared to them, a poor lot, yet not without our pride.”
“But I promised,” I said.
“Your promises were in vain. Do not look unkindly upon yourself, for you were not to know.”
I felt despair that for the second time my wishes would have to defer to a higher level of Mavrosopolitan life. I felt I was doomed to ascend, forever accepting tighter restriction, yet never able to do what I wanted—what I needed—to do. I let out a great sigh and let my chin fall forward so that it rested on my chest.
“Alas that you used citidenizens as your support,” Katurguter said. “Had you followed the way of others, ascending on strength of character, you might not now feel so bad.”
“I am not like those others,” I bitterly replied. I sighed once again. “I will have to become an elitistor then.”
Katurguter shook his head. “You cannot.”
“I was told that before.”
“This time there is no alternative. To become an elitistor is to become part of a cult, a body devoted to the dark heart of Constantinopolis. I believe I am correct in thinking you a shaman?”
“Yes,” I replied. Anxiety perturbed me.
“As a shaman, you already carry throughout your body the power of your totemic animal. It is impossible to turn back time. You could never pass the initiation rite because you could never renounce your shamanic heritage to become free and empty, like ordinary counsellords, that the particular sorcery of the cult then seep into you. Apostasy of that profundity is impossible. This is as far as you go.”
I could only repeat, “I have been told that before.”
“This time,” Katurguter replied, “believe me.”
I felt numb. We were standing in the middle of the street and all was chill shadow around us. I felt heavy, cold, weak. I felt that despite snatching success I had in fact failed.
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