Myths of the Fallen City

by James Derry

  Jamal strummed his ‘borrowed’ harp. “You want to teach me about ambition?” he asked the sleeping man. “I think you need a few lessons yourself.”

  ***

  The palace courtyard was laid out as a square, with megalithic statues looming over its four corners. Sygne found her eyes drawn to the statue of the Kritan love goddess Ulthal, which was thirty cubits high. The fables said that Ulthal had four breasts (all the better to succor and feed the passions of men). By comparison, the Issulthraqi goddess of passion, named Bliss, had a bosom that was more anthropomorphic in its wondrous abundance. So Issulthraqi craftsmen had removed two of Ulthal’s teats in an effort to create a closer accord with the Fabled Pantheon of Issulthraq. Ulthal’s extra breasts were currently propped onto a construction platform that had been raised on a massive pile of sand around the goddess’s hips.

  At the southwestern corner of the courtyard stood a statue of Xir, the Kritans’ beardless god of war. The Issulthraqis worshipped a war goddess, called Victory, and soon Ulthal’s extra breasts would be rolled across the lawn so that they could augment the southwestern statue. Xir would transition to the goddess Victory, and the deities of Krit would be one step closer to being supplanted by the Fabled Pantheon of Issulthraq.

  For the moment Ulthal’s spare breasts were left unattended, and Sygne found the courtyard mostly deserted, except for two men huddled over mugs at a table on the far side of the lawn. She was particularly glad that there were no cavemen roving about. The Issulthraqis had aligned themselves with several clans of cavemen (Sygne preferred the more culturally conscious term ‘troglodytes’), and now the troglodytes had been wandering the grounds and harassing everyone they met. Sygne had been warned about strolling through the palace unattended. But at this point, she didn’t have much of a choice. She wanted her fireworks display to be a complete surprise, and that meant she had to prepare it alone.

  First she stood on the stage where she would make her presentation. General Yur’s chair was stationed at a place of honor on the dais, giving him a sweeping view of the stage and the beautiful blue pool that marked the center of the courtyard. A series of squat bronze braziers lined the pool, and Sygne decided that was where she would arrange her pyrotechnics—where their light would be magnificently reflected by the water. She wanted to create a spectacle that was as bold and as glorious as possible—a display that would leave Yur feeling intoxicated on his own sense of triumph, and more receptive to Sygne’s proposals about water purification, medical sterilization, and techniques for sanitary food storage.

  Sygne paced toward the pool where it butted against the open edge of the stage. The water was far too deep to be a wading pool. In fact, Sygne could not see its bottom at all, even though the water seemed to glow eerily, as if it was illuminated from underneath. She’d heard whispers that some sort of mythical entity lived in the tidal caves beneath the palace’s basalt peak. Was this glowing water a sign of that creature’s magical energy?

  A huge bronze bell dangled over the center of the pool. It was suspended by a massive archway with a webwork of ropes and streamers branching out from it. It was obvious that the pool and its enormous bell were meant to be the centerpiece of the courtyard—and of Yur’s victory celebration.

  In all, Sygne had prepared two dozen fireworks. Charcoal, sulfur, and saltpeter—all rolled into small tubes with additional chemicals to add color. She had a combustible compound for every hue of the rainbow, if she didn’t count indigo. (And several Mentors at the Academy had argued vociferously that you shouldn’t.) Sygne tied at least two cylinders to the edge of each brazier, using knots of nearly invisible thread. She would pull the threads during her performance, which would slip loose the knots and let the tubes roll into the lighted braziers. A few seconds in the fire—and boom!

  When she was done Sygne stood straight and dusted her hands against her thighs. She was proud of her work, and she turned to see if anyone was watching.

  The table at the far end of the courtyard was now empty. Sygne caught sight of the two men lurching through a colonnade and toward the southern edge of the gardens. That was where the lawn of the Palace-on-the-Peak dropped away to a sheer cliff overlooking the Slumbering Sea.

  One of the men looked highly inebriated; he was leaning heavily on his younger companion. Was the younger man taking him to the cliff’s edge so that he could relieve himself? Sanitary concerns aside—the older gentleman looked drunk enough to topple at the slightest breeze. He would be in serious danger near those cliffs. Sygne decided to follow them.

  The men passed under a wooden archway that was draped with wisteria; then they disappeared behind a small grove of budding sycamores. The Kritan courtyard was quite lush—and filled with hiding places. Quince trees, figs, palmettos, hanging grapevines, and an assortment of flowering bushes that overflowed from marble bulwarks.

  Sygne broke through to the open strip of lawn that skirted the cliff’s edge. The setting sun had decorated the open sky in colors of orange and purple. Strong gusts of wind rose up from the sea, which was a good two hundred feet below her.

  Where were they? Was it possible they had fallen already?

  Sygne trotted to a large, twisted oak with roots that flowed like octopus tentacles over the side of the cliff. She nearly stumbled into the younger man.

  “Gozir’s gaze!” The younger man sprang backward and gripped the handle of a peeling knife tucked into his belt. He didn’t draw the blade; instead he brandished a brilliant smile at Sygne. He was handsome, and Sygne might have blushed if her face wasn’t already reddened by the strangeness of the scene. The man was of Ardhian descent, and a beautiful tortoise-shell lyre hung across his shoulder.

  “What are you doing?” she asked. She could see that he had set his sleeping friend down into a crevice between two large roots.

  The man answered, “My friend wanted to take a nap. He… he’s my manservant. He drank too much, and he didn’t want to embarrass himself, as he so often does. So I told him I’d help him sleep it off in a discreet location.”

  “That man is not a servant,” Sygne said definitively. “He’s a musician.”

  “Huh?”

  “I saw him at the rehearsal this morning.” Sygne tread carefully between the roots; then she knelt to check his pulse. “I didn’t catch his name, but I recognize his face.”

  “You… recognize his face?”

  Sygne clucked her tongue. “Wait. This man’s been drugged!”

  She glanced up to again see that overbearingly charming smile. Now it was Sygne’s turn to bound backward.

  The stranger held out his hands. “Wait! Wait!”

  Sygne cried, “You drugged him!”

  “I did. I did.” He nodded eagerly, as if this admission of guilt would somehow make her more likely to hear him out. His clothes were fine, but the crimson and purple colors were too gaudy for Sygne’s taste. He wore a vest of dyed ox-hide, but no shirt underneath. He was probably fond of showing off his muscles.

  “My name is Jamal. You’re that scientician aren’t you?”

  “‘Scientician?’”

  “Yes. A magician who specializes in science.”

  “No. I’m not a magician.”

  “But you’re smart. I can see that. I was at the rehearsal too, but Hadat made me stay in the back. I’m his apprentice.”

  “Aren’t you a little old to be an apprentice?”

  Jamal blinked. “Of course I am! I made a career change late in life. But that’s not the point. Hadat is a jackass. If anyone deserves to be drugged—”

  “I’m going to find a guard.”

  “No! Please don’t do that.”

  Sygne thought of the mess that the Issulthraqis had left in the streets of Krit. The chances were probably pretty good that an arrested Ardhian would also end up out there with the blood and bile.

  “Let’s keep this between us,” Jamal pleaded. “Can you do that? You don’t want this to be my big
break.”

  “What are you going to break?”

  “No. That’s a phrase I came up with. I’ve heard it’s important for famous poets to invent their own phrases. To call a thing by other words that have nothing to do with it.”

  “You mean a metaphor?”

  “Yes!” Jamal said. She could tell that he was happy to change the subject and add a distraction. “Hadat taught me that our language is still young, with hundreds of phrases just waiting to be spun into existence. One good turn of phrase can make a poet famous.”

  “So he offered you helpful advice… before you drugged him.”

  “Well, he surely didn’t offer any advice after I drugged him,” Jamal said. “Anyway, a ‘big break’ is any horrible event that breaks your heart. And trust me, I’ve had more than my fair share of heartbreak. I was an orphan. And a slave. And a conscripted soldier. Then a bodyguard. And a seafarer. And a soldier of fortune… Little fortune… How about you? Have you had heartbreak?”

  “I…” Sygne nodded cautiously. “I grew up an orphan too.”

  “See? You and I. We understand each other.” Jamal took a few steps closer, his arms outstretched. “What’s your name?”

  “Sygne.”

  “Ah. A very pretty name. Now, are you going to let me take this man’s place and live out my dream of becoming a world-famous singer-songwriter? Or are you going to let this be my big break?”

  Sygne heard a rustling of leaves from the thicket of olive trees behind them. She turned to see a troglodyte emerge from the trees. He wore a regular-sized helmet and breastplate, which were awkwardly small on his massive body. He carried a bronze sword in one of his hairy fists.

  “Me hears you,” the troglodyte grunted. His eyes gleamed as he saw the older Ardhian lying helpless on the ground. “Me sees bad thing.”

  Sygne held out her hands. “Wait. You don’t understand.”

  The troglodyte lumbered closer, and Sygne’s knees locked. She couldn’t run.

  “Me no wants understand! Me knows you.”

  “Listen, this man is not dead, but he needs to be moved so that he can be monitored.”

  The caveman’s face contorted into an even uglier arrangement of features. One eye squinting, the other bulging. The left side of his mouth peeled back to show yellow fangs. “Me hears smart words from you. Me feels brain hurt. Me no wants understand. Me over-stand!” With that, the troglodyte loomed over Sygne and raised his heavy sword.

  “Wait… I… I…” Sygne glanced over her shoulder. “Help me please?”

  But Jamal was gone.

  She turned back to the troglodyte and began talking very fast. “It was that other man. I didn’t do this! I am just a witness.”

  “Me chops smart head. Me hears no more smart words.”

  “Wait!” Sygne cried. “Wait!”

  In a blur, Jamal swung out from the tree trunk, appearing behind the troglodyte and kicking hard at the back of his knee. The troglodyte stumbled, but he grabbed a root before he toppled off the cliff. He squatted there for an instant, with one leg dangling over empty space. Then he twisted his body backward and swung his sword at Jamal.

  Sygne shrieked. She was certain that she would see the caveman’s sword cut through the aspiring poet-singer’s guts. Instead the sword stopped short with a clank of metal against metal. Jamal looked as shocked as Sygne felt. She glanced from his face to the peeling knife clenched tightly in both his hands.

  For three seconds they struggled against each other, their two blades grinding together. It was nearly ridiculous. The troglodyte’s bronze sword was three feet long. Jamal’s knife blade was less than six inches. The brute was sprawled awkwardly on one knee, and he could hold his sword with only one hand. But still, Jamal must have been very strong to fight back against the troglodyte. Most troglodytes were strong enough to heave boulders or crack sapling trees with their bare hands.

  “Ugh,” Jamal growled at his hairy foe. “You’re mouth-breathing on me.” With that, he leaped backward.

  The big hominid pulled himself upright and away from the edge of the cliff. He chuckled and slashed the air with his sword.

  “Me has big sword. Big sword BEATS puny knife!”

  Jamal’s blade flashed in the sun as he drew his knife hand back to his ear. Another flash, and his arm arced out and down.

  A loud thwack cut short the troglodyte’s laughing. The caveman turned until he was facing Sygne. Jamal’s peeling knife was buried up to its handle in the troglodyte’s eye socket. The caveman burbled some inscrutable curse, and blood streamed from his nose.

  “Ah,” Jamal said. “‘Puny knife’ emerges victorious.”

  The troglodyte swayed, dropped off the edge of the cliff, and vanished. The sea was far below them; Sygne didn’t hear a splash.

  She was stunned, but Jamal brushed casually past her. He bent over Hadat the Harmonious and looped one of his slippered feet under a tree root.

  “There,” Jamal said. “I think he’s pretty stable. I’m going to be on my way…”

  “You’re just going to leave?” Sygne asked. “You think I’ll keep quiet about this?”

  “You should.”

  “But you killed a man!”

  “I didn’t kill Hadat. He’ll wake up in the morning. And that other thing,” Jamal gestured to the sea, “that wasn’t a man.”

  “But…”

  “I just saved your life, Sygne. I didn’t have to come back for you just now.”

  “That’s true.” Sygne let her hands drop to her sides. “And you only had a knife. You beat an armored troglodyte with one puny knife.”

  “Well,” Jamal shrugged with ostentatious modesty. “If you thought that was impressive, wait until you hear me sing tonight.”

  With that, he slipped away into the lush greenery of the garden.

  2 – Paean and Suffering

  A small swarm of flies had infiltrated the courtyard, just in time for General Yur’s celebration. Sygne watched the insects whirl in the air over her head. Their restless, nauseous motion made for a good impression of her stomach. Ramyya was currently performing. Jamal the impostor poet would go next, and then it would be her turn.

  From her spot hidden behind the braziers at the left side of the stage, Sygne studied the dreaded General Yur. He was a heavyset man, with a bald, pointed head that looked like an egg settled in a nest of jowls, chins, and neck-fat. Yur had watched the night’s festivities with a perpetually glum look on his face, even as his soldiers and sycophants hurried around him, offering drinks and tiny plates of food.

  Issulthraqi emissaries and devotees from many leagues away had converged on Krit to take part in the night’s celebration, and so the garden was filled with guests. Dozens of finely dressed Issulthraqi nobles were lined up along the dais—and at the edges of the courtyard pool, which emanated an unearthly turquoise glow.

  Many of the guests had come out of a morbid sense of curiosity—to see what had been done to the formerly proud rulers of Krit and to see the wonders and riches that had been plundered from them. Others had come as a political maneuver. They planned to pay their respects to Yur—and vicariously to the Emperor in Issulthraq. With tonight’s celebration, Emperor Avrarrnuvanin would officially add ‘Regent of Krit’ to his growing list of honorifics. In the name of Avrarrnuvanin, General Yur had conquered two minor empires, three middling city-states, one smallish plutocracy, two nomadic tribes, and a half-a-dozen unaffiliated villages. It was widely accepted that the Emperor was quite pleased with his growing list of titles and territories, but most assumed Avrarrnuvanin would never see his new fiefdoms. Supposedly Avrarrnuvanin’s feet were swollen with gout and his brain was withered with syphilis. He rarely waddled beyond the front door of his harem.

  In Sygne’s mind, that fact made the fall of Krit even more tragic. It was simply another hollow accomplishment meant to feed the egos of two men: Yur and his Emperor. Could such men ever truly care about the al
truistic power of science?

  For a moment Sygne tried to focus on the dancing girl gliding across the stage. Ramyya’s performance was long and lithely exaggerated. With each minute, she shed a few more layers of clothes.

  Sygne felt fairly underdressed herself. Upon Ramyya’s recommendation, Sygne had dressed in the current fashion of an urbane Issulthraqi woman. That meant she wore a pair of elegant, strappy sandals that laced up to her knees, and a tiny pair of bloomers that barely covered her backside. Ramyya had advised, “Just in case Yur isn’t impressed with your brains, you better show off some of your other assets. The Issulthraqis have historically appreciated a pair of long legs.” Sygne was tall, like most folk from the Northern Hinterlands. But her long legs were also very pale—and here and there they showed blue veins running underneath her skin. Also the smudge of a bruise on her left thigh. Her top was a very loose and blousy kaftan, but its hem ended at a point slightly higher than her hips.

  Someone leaned close and murmured in her ear. “It may be too late to tell you this, but I think you forgot your pants.”

  Jamal had strolled up behind her. Every other eye in the courtyard was glued to Ramyya, but Jamal was staring keenly at Sygne’s short shorts.

  “These are my pants.” Sygne tugged at the tail of her tunic, but it didn’t provide any extra sense of modesty. She felt her face turning red. “Aren’t you supposed to perform next? Shouldn’t you be preparing?”