Aestival Tide (27 page)

He thought he remembered which way to go. To the right; and yes, he found a wall there, damp and foul-smelling. His feet sank into some soft cold stuff as he walked on, one hand always on the wall. He tripped over chunks of concrete and once or twice splashed through shallow puddles. Always he kept one hand on the wall—that way, he thought, he could find his way back.

Once he stumbled. His foot hung in the empty air for what seemed like minutes, as he cried out, flailing, certain that he had fallen into the abyss that was shattering the Undercity like a porcelain cup. But it was nothing, just a gap in the walkway. He waited a few minutes, panting, and went on.

After a while it began to seem that it was not so dark here as he had first thought. At first he thought his eyes played tricks on him, making it seem as though there was a dimly lit doorway here, a glowing heap of embers there. But soon he discovered that there really
was
light, of a sort. A few feet in front of him something glowed like the remains of a fire nearly dead. He stopped to look at it more closely, and then in a spurt of bravery decided to walk over and investigate. When he removed his hand from the wall he had a horrible feeling, a vertiginous sense that he was going to pitch into some bottomless void: The impulse to fall back against the wall was nearly irresistible, but he bit his lip and stepped forward.

It was not the ash-heap he had expected, but a pile of stones, or broken concrete. They glowed a faint and ruinous green, not a solid color but pocked with different shades, here nearly yellow, there with a bluish sheen. He thought of the corpse-candles that were used in the rites of the Chambers of Mercy, tapers made from the organs of
rasas
destroyed illegally for such purposes. Hobi bit his lip, then touched one of the stones. His hand came away wet, and it too glowed. There was a foul odor of putrescence. He recalled the stories he had heard of
rasas
down here, and shuddered; but surely not even
rasas
would venture to the Undercity.

He wiped his hand on his trousers, leaving a long streak that faded into the darkness after a few minutes. He looked around in a futile effort to get his bearings and for the first time noticed that there were other scattered heaps glowing in the distance.

“Damn,” he whispered. He glanced down at the pile at his feet. It struck him suddenly that it might not be the artless heap he had first supposed. He nudged it with his foot. It didn't budge. When he looked up again it seemed that those other dim pyramids might be beacons of a sort, or markers; but he could discern no order among them, only scattered fragments of light, dull green or blue like the veins of an odorous cheese. It seemed that his eyes finally were adjusting to the darkness. He could perceive immense shadows that must be buildings, and smaller shapes that were the ruins of skyscrapers or maybe autovehicles. Dark as it was, some faint, almost imperceptible light trickled down from the levels above. His eyes aching, he turned and stumbled off once more.

As he picked his way back to the wall Hobi tried to imagine what would use such primitive means of illumination or navigation. He had grown up hearing stories about naughty children and recalcitrant servants who fell or were pushed from their warm havens on Cherubim, and tumbled to Araboth's primeval footing so far below. In the stories the children did not die, as they surely would if they were to actually slip from behind the protective barricades that ran along the outermost perimeters of each level. In the stories the children eventually found themselves in the Undercity, and it had always seemed to Hobi that it would be infinitely preferable to die. Mutated monsters were supposed to live there, creatures carelessly disposed of by the bioresearchers or dilettantes like Shiyung Orsina. Aardmen with too many eyes; hydrapithecenes that somehow flourished out of water; morphodites so hideous that even the jaded appetites of the Orsinate and their cohort had no use for them. All of these things (and betulamiæ whose treelike trunks had sprouted feet, and argalæ that snapped and clawed at their patrons, and things that went unnamed because gazing at them you were struck speechless) ended down on Angels, there to breed in the unkempt earth and ruined skyscrapers and abandoned refineries. Hobi had never questioned the veracity of such tales. Aristocrat's children
did
fall sometimes, which was a shame because there were always too few of them, and servants and other hapless persons
did
get pushed, more often than you'd think. It had just always seemed so impossibly far away. The Undercity might as well have been Outside.

But here he was, inching forward through the green-pocked darkness of the Undercity with some demented notion of going Outside, trying not to think of what might have gotten here before him. In the surrounding night he heard that faint susurrant noise, like water percolating through the ground or an animal moving among the glowing piles of rubbish. Beneath his hand the wall's surface changed from something slick and steel-smooth to rough brick or stone, all of it thick with algae or moss that came away in heavy foul-smelling wads when he pulled his hand back. He breathed through his mouth now, wishing he'd brought something to cover his face; wishing he'd waited for Nasrani to show up again. But then he would recall his silent grinning father, and the face of Nefertity, the dull flickering of her glass and metal atomies; and that would make him move more quickly through the muck.

Beneath his hand the wall abruptly gave way. Hobi stopped, gasping for breath, then reached until he touched something metal. A heavy beard of mold and fungi hung from the corners of the door, just as he remembered it. He traced its outline until he found the small metal plate where Nasrani had inserted his key. He breathed deeply, leaned forward until his forehead touched the cold dank door, then pushed with all his might.

Nothing. It wouldn't budge. He tried shoving against it with his shoulder, kicking it, pushing it again and again, until his clothes were soaked with mold and slime and he began to shiver from the chill. Finally he stopped, his head pounding with frustration. It had been madness for him to come here alone, no key, no lumiere, nothing. His eyes strained to make out anything of the door or what lay beyond it, but there was only darkness.

He stepped back and took one more deep breath. He stretched his hands out before him, lowered his head, and started to make one final lunge, when—

“
Mmmph!
” Hobi cried out. Something struck his back and he toppled, flailing helplessly at the rubble-strewn ground. A moment later and someone straddled him, someone large and heavy and reeking of decay. The smell made Hobi gag and he wept uncontrollably, his eyes streaming as its hands played across his face until they covered his mouth.

“Greet your Mother,” it said. Its voice was utterly toneless. A cold tongue snaked inside his ear, and icy hands pushed his face into the ground. “Greet your Mother, once-born.”

“Aaagh!” Hobi shut his mouth and struggled as the thing atop him pushed his face into the ground. The horrible thought seized him that it was his
real
mother the thing meant; that what he had watched burn at the Reisling Gallery a year before was not her corpse but “another's, and this was all part of some awful plot against his family by the Orsinate.

“Your
Mother,”
it hissed again. It grabbed him by the hair and pulled him up, then jammed its fingers into his mouth to pry it open. Hobi retched at the touch of rot and slime on his tongue. “Show some respect for your
Mother
—”

This time when it slammed his face to the ground his mouth was open. He choked, tasting dirt. The thing relaxed its hold a little, and gasping and sputtering Hobi finally pushed it from him. It seemed to be satisfied; he heard it step back, its feet splashing fetid water on him.

“Wha—” Hobi began, sobbing with fear and disgust as he tried to see what it was that had struck him. The unseen creature made a gurgling noise and cut him off, its glottal voice slow and measured.

“No questions. How did you get here?”

Hobi pointed vaguely, wiping his mouth and spitting. Filth dripped into his eyes as he strained to see what was there. Something as tall as he was, but wraith-thin. He dimly made out long lank hair, glowing with the same greenish phosphorescence he'd seen on the little pyramids, and a fish-white face. Something about it, the hair perhaps, or its voice, made him think of it as female. Abruptly one hand struck out at him like a snake, grabbing his chin. Its fingers were long and had very sharp nails. They felt pulpy, and seemed reluctant to touch him.

“How did you get here?” it whispered, its nails digging into his skin. Hobi cried out as he felt blood trickling down his neck.

“The gravator—ow, I swear! the
gravator
—”

The thing gave a bubbling sigh. Its arm flopped to its side. “No respect for your Mother,” it murmured thickly, “no respect at all. What were you doing there?”

“I was—I was trying to get in,” Hobi coughed. “To see what's inside.”

“How do
you
know what's inside?”

It was just a few inches from his face. Its eyes were pale sacs flecked with green, sagging within hollows as though someone had scooped the flesh from its face. Hobi felt his insides bunch together.

A
rasa.
The stories were true: corpses walked in the Undercity.

When it spoke again he felt its breath against his cheek, cold and smelling of decay. “Are you one of the fallen?”

“
Fallen?
” Hobi's voice quavered so that he marveled the thing could understand him. “No! I just—I just came to visit, that's all.”

The
rasa
thought about this, then shook its head. Its skull bobbed precariously on its narrow neck.

“You came to see Mother?” it asked suspiciously. Hobi flinched as it stretched its hands to touch his face. He realized that it could not see well—not that anything could see well in that infernal void.

“
Mother?
” But they were getting nowhere like this, so he quickly added, “Yes. Of course, yes, that's right. I came to see Mother.”

The
rasa's
fingers flicked across his cheeks. It seemed satisfied by his answer, and drew back from him. “Come then,” it said, and turned away into the darkness.

For a moment Hobi thought of fleeing. But then he thought of what might happen if the
rasa
called others of its kind after him in pursuit. He groaned softly and followed it.

After a few minutes he could think of nothing but trying to keep from losing his way, as the
rasa
led him through black alleys and under moldering arches. There was a constant sound of water underfoot, as though just beneath the broken earth an underground stream ran along with them. The
rasa
moved quickly, in a sort of shambling crouch. It was surprisingly strong, pushing aside a great steel door that blocked entry to what appeared to Hobi to be nothing more than a huge pile of broken concrete and twisted metal beams. When Hobi tried to follow, he got wedged between the rubble. For a horrible moment he thought he was trapped, pinned between a huge girder and a half-fallen brick wall. But then he got through, his trousers ripping and his chest grazed by broken bricks as he slid after the
rasa.

They were in a sort of tunnel, a clear space no wider than ten feet across. Perhaps because the tunnel was empty of wreckage, it felt more open than the noisome spaces outside. And it seemed brighter here, too. Hobi blinked, then rubbed his eyes. No: it really w
as
brighter. The tiled walls bulged outward, as though they were inside a huge culvert. Flowing from the curved ceiling to the floor were curtains of fungi, long beards forming glowing draperies that emitted enough light that Hobi could read broken letters set mosaic style into the wall.

“ ‘Ewage station'?” Hobi pronounced, trying to recall why this was familiar; but ahead of him the
rasa
waited impatiently. He hurried after it.

The tunnel was straight and seemed endless, though they didn't go very far into it. After a few yards water started pooling up, growing deeper every few steps until it came to Hobi's knees. He was shivering so much it was hard to walk. The
rasa
's sickly sweet odor had dissipated into another smell, no less choking to Hobi for all that it was more familiar. It was a scent that dredged up queer memories, the sort of dimly lit memories you have of things that happened when you were drunk or drugged or very young: and that was how he realized the smell had something to do with Æstival Tide. It filled his nose and throat and mouth like bad water. After a few minutes he realized that's exactly what it was: water. They were in the ancient sewage tunnel Nasrani had told him about, the tunnel that led Outside. What Hobi smelled was the sea, unfiltered by the domes.

The realization brought him to a dead stop. Ahead of him the
rasa
splashed on, pausing now and then to peer off to the left, as though looking for something.