Atlantis Rising (2 page)

Flight from Danger

Running came so easily to you. But seeking? Not at all.

—Another entry in her journal

D
own the alley dashed Promi, followed by all six vengeful guards. The young man veered onto a side street, vaulted over a wide gutter full of excrement and food scraps, and darted down another alley.

Right behind him came the guards, their boots pounding on the cobblestones. Desire for revenge twisted their faces. This was about more than just catching a street vagabond, a petty thief who’d stolen their master’s jeweled belt buckle. No, it was also about saving their own skins. For if they didn’t return with the young man’s head, Grukarr would make certain they’d lose their own.

Promi’s boots, by contrast, didn’t pound. Virtually silent, the light boots barely seemed to touch the stones before pushing off again. And that was the least of their special qualities. These boots were made from magical leather, with the power to grow as Promi’s feet grew. They had fit him snugly ever since the day he’d stolen them five years earlier from the Divine Monk’s traveling wardrobe. And in those years, they’d helped him outrun many pursuers and scale many of the City’s mud-brick walls and tile roofs.

But his pursuers had rarely been as numerous—or as motivated—as these guards. He glanced back over his shoulder. The guard whose breastplate had deflected the knife was only ten paces behind, curved sword raised. And gaining.

Even so, Promi couldn’t resist taunting him. “Come get me, you mush-minded moron! Or are you as slow as you are stupid?”

The guard charged all the faster, seething with rage.

Promi dashed down a narrow street lined with dozens of houses. Laundry lines stretched from one doorway to another, often obstructing the street. He leaped over several ropes, ducked under others, and kept running.

The guards weren’t so careful. They merely plowed right through, bursting laundry lines and scattering fresh-washed clothing everywhere. One guard’s legs got tangled, and he fell, skidding into the mud-brick wall. But the others ran on unimpeded.

Pounding boots echoed in the street. The first guard was now close—so close his sword could almost slash Promi’s legs. And the rest of the guards weren’t far behind.

How do I lose them?
thought Promi desperately. Beneath his tunic, the strange mark in the shape of a bird was burning hotter than ever.

He burst out of the street—and into the City’s central market square. People and carts crowded everywhere: fruit vendors setting up their stands, craftsmen displaying handwoven rugs and carved jewelry, and people offering to paint ancient designs on faces and hands. Monks wandered through the crowd, trying to sell strings of silver leaves that had been inscribed with prayers, to sing sacred chants, or to pound on their blessing drums—all to raise money to repair shrines and temple bells. Blacksmiths hammered, forging tools. A circle of women danced to the music of a bone flute. People led camels and herded animals as diverse as goats, boars, ducks, and pink flamingos.

Thinking fast, Promi rolled under one cart full of orange squashes, then zipped ahead of a woman leading a camel to a saddle maker, trying to put some space between himself and his pursuers. At first, it worked. But the lead guard thought equally fast.

Roughly, the guard grabbed the camel’s reins. “Give me your beast!” he commanded. “In the name of Deputy High Priest Grukarr.”

The woman, surprised and fearful, released the reins. Immediately, the guard mounted the camel and charged after Promi, knocking people and carts aside.

Seeing this, Promi knew he was in more danger than ever. He gazed around the market, searching for some way to escape. But what could that be? The camel seemed unstoppable.

If only I still had my knife,
he thought.
Then maybe I could—

He halted abruptly, seeing a knife on a blacksmith’s bench. Promi lunged for it, planted his feet, took quick aim—then threw the blade.

Snap!
The knife pierced the camel’s reins, yanking them out of the guard’s hands. The frightened animal reared back, kicking her legs.

Thrown off balance, the guard toppled off the camel’s back. He landed right in a pen full of ducks. The birds panicked and flapped wildly, scattering feathers everywhere. The commotion scared a large herd of goats, who ran wild, stampeding through the market.

Promi chuckled, watching the guard try to keep himself from being pecked to death by angry ducks. But that moment of triumph didn’t last long. The other four guards were pushing through the crowd, waving their swords. In a few seconds, they would be on top of him.

He dashed off—but suddenly stopped when a small girl, her orange hair tied in two braids, screamed just a few paces away. Several goats were running straight at her, about to trample her under their hooves.

Promi swerved, ran to the girl, and snatched her out of the path of the goats—just as the herd stampeded past. He didn’t pause to say anything, but their eyes met, and she looked at him thankfully. He placed her gently on the rim of a cart loaded with carrots the same color as her hair.

Off he ran, hotly pursued by the remaining guards. They chased him across the market square, knocking over people and crashing into carts. One guard tripped and fell into a table of magical fruits from the Great Forest, shaking a crate of singing pears so hard the pears started wailing loudly.

Promi leaped over lines of prayer leaves, hurdled barrels of country ale, and dived under another camel. Still the guards kept up the chase.

Spying a wooden cage filled with color-shifting pigeons, Promi veered, grabbed it, and hurled it straight at the closest guard. The cage smashed at the guard’s feet, sending up a furious cloud of scarlet, blue, and yellow wings. Meanwhile, the pigeons’ owner, an elderly woman, started angrily beating the guard with her cane.

Promi ran off, but three guards still pursued him. More wrathful than ever, they hurled spears as well as curses. If they ever caught him, he knew, his remaining seconds alive would be very brief. And very painful.

Turning into an alley at the edge of the square, Promi sprinted down the cobblestones. Then stopped. The alley was blocked! A massive load of mud bricks lay just ahead. It was twice his height—and so unstable it looked ready to fall over at any moment. Sizing up the precarious pile, he hesitated. If he tried to climb over it, the tottering mass could easily come crashing down on top of him.

All at once, his three pursuers came pounding down the alley. Seeing their prey trapped at last, they stopped. Eyes bright with victory, the trio formed a line to seal off the alley, eliminating any chance for escape. As one, they held out their swords and marched toward Promi, pressing him back against the pile of bricks.

Just as the swords came almost within reach, Promi did something wholly unexpected. He turned and started scrambling up the unstable pile. Aided by his supple boots, he climbed higher than the guards’ heads before the pile started to tumble down. Just then, with a powerful leap, he jumped over his pursuers.

In the instant he flew over their heads, Promi spied a big gold earring on one of the guards. Never one to miss the chance to pinch something valuable, he deftly grabbed it and pulled it off the surprised guard’s ear. Even as Promi landed, he put the gold ring on his own ear.

The guards spun around. More enraged than ever, they glowered at Promi with unbridled hatred. Unfortunately for them, in turning their backs on the pile of mud bricks, they didn’t see it fall. Two of the guards were completely crushed, while the third barely escaped by rolling aside.

That lone remaining guard instantly bounced to his feet. Sword firmly in hand, he roared and lunged for Promi. The young man dodged the blade. Then, rather than go back into the marketplace where he might run right into the other guards, Promi chose a different escape route—one he hoped would leave this foe behind.

He grabbed an awning, then swung himself up to the alley wall. Swiftly, he climbed the wall to a roof covered with red tiles, each of which bore the design of a gold turban with a large ruby on it—the symbol of the Divine Monk. All at once, he realized that this roof was connected to the Divine Monk’s temple, a mass of buildings, archways, and domes that culminated in an enormous bell tower.

Safe at last,
he thought with relief.
Nobody can follow me up here.
He fingered his new gold earring.
And I managed to give Grukarr and his guards a very bad day.

Suddenly the remaining guard’s head appeared above the roofline. With surprising agility, he pulled himself onto the roof, not two paces away from Promi. The guard’s eyes sizzled with desire for revenge.

Promi turned and dashed. He sprinted across the tiled rooftops of the temple, leaping over the gaps between buildings. But the guard kept up with him, swinging the deadly sword. None of Promi’s maneuvers could shake this pursuer.

Deciding to try something bold, Promi ran to the very edge of one building and took a mighty leap—all the way to the bell tower. He landed, barely clinging to the tower’s gutter. Then, aided by his special boots, he started to scale the vertical structure. At last, he managed to pull himself up to the base of the copper dome that shielded the bell itself. A pair of frightened doves flew away, shrieking.

The highest point in the City,
he thought, amazed to find himself above everything he’d known all his years on the streets.
Probably the highest place I’ll ever see.

He scanned the remarkable vista. Below him sprawled the temple buildings and, beyond them, the entire City of Great Powers. Just outside the temple gates, people were gathering to celebrate the annual holiday feast of Ho Kranahrum—one of Promi’s favorite events, since it offered plenty of food that was both tasty and easy to steal. There was even a special holiday pastry made with honeyed filo dough and almonds, so good that he always grabbed several.

He could also see, at the City’s southern edge, the deep canyon of the Deg Boesi River, filled with mist rising from the rapids far below. And there—the dilapidated bridge that reached only halfway across the canyon, with silver prayer leaves strung from every post and plank. Even from so far away, he could see the prayer leaves flapping in the wind. Farther away, beyond the canyon, he could make out the dark line of green that had to be the edge of the legendary Great Forest.

Slam!
The whole tower shook as the determined guard leaped onto it. Just as Promi had done, he scaled the wall with help from the gutter.

A bolt of fear shot through Promi. The guard would reach him in seconds. And from the top of this tower, there was no way to escape.

Except one.

Promi knew what he needed to do, though he’d never tried anything like it before. But now, with the guard fast approaching, there was no alternative.

Grabbing hold of the base of the copper dome, Promi planted his feet against the bell itself, a huge iron instrument whose loud bongs had called people to prayers for centuries. He pushed off, vaulting himself onto the dome.

The force of his push tilted the bell just enough that its clapper struck the side. A single, resonant
bonnnggg
rang out, echoing across the City.

Far below, people gathering for the holiday feast looked up. Gasps of astonishment came when they saw, against all odds, the figure of a young man climbing to the top of the bell tower, somehow clinging to the dome. Another round of gasps soon followed, for now the villagers could see an armed guard climbing right behind. The whole crowd hushed.

Teetering unsteadily, Promi stood at the very top of the dome. The only thing higher than himself was the pole with the temple flag—and beyond that, nothing but sky.

The guard, almost within reach, grinned up at him malevolently. “You shan’t escape now, you mis’rable thief.” He cackled with satisfaction. “No way down from here, ’cept through my sword.”

Promi looked down at him. “Wrong.”

He reached for the temple flag, a deep green sheet of silk with dozens of golden stars on it, one for each Divine Monk who had led Ellegandia since the country’s founding thousands of years before. Grabbing hold of the flag, he tugged hard, ripping it off the pole.

The guard, meanwhile, clambered up to face him. Sword raised, he swung with all his might at Promi’s chest—but struck nothing but air.

Promi had leaped off the dome. The guard’s jaw dropped. Like the people far below, he watched as the young man plunged to his death.

Definitely Not Virtuous

The mark of a good pastry chef is that he can change his recipe on a sudden whim—and still make something edible.

—From Promi’s journal

W
ind rushed past Promi, shrieking in his ears, as he hurtled downward. The crowd below, like the astonished guard on the bell tower, gaped to see him plummeting to a gruesome death.

With all his strength, Promi spread his arms wide. Just before leaping off the copper dome, he’d grabbed two corners of the silk flag with his hands and stuffed a third corner into his mouth.

Hope this works . . . or I’m deader than donkey dung.

Whoosh!
The flag suddenly filled with air, slowing his fall.

Seeing this, the crowd outside the temple gates gasped in unison. Then, as the parachute carried Promi safely down, several people cheered. Up on the bell tower, though, the temple guard could only swear angrily. Even in this land where cursing was a longstanding tradition, there weren’t enough curses to convey the fullness of his rage.

Promi floated down to the City, drifting toward a maze of side streets near the river canyon. Still grasping the flag tightly with both hands and teeth, he thought proudly,
Not bad for a miserable thief.

Spotting a wide intersection below, he tugged on one side of the flag to steer himself there. Down he floated into the jumble of mud-brick buildings. Below, the street was empty, a good place to land.

Just then he caught one of his favorite smells—the sweet aroma of pastries coming out of the oven.
Mmmmm . . . honey glaze. Roasted almonds. And maybe fresh raspberry syrup.

Distracted by the whiff of sweetness, he drifted too close to the side of one building. Suddenly the flag caught on the spout of a gutter.
Rrrrippp!
The silk tore apart.

Promi plunged straight down. Luckily, he tumbled onto an awning, then rolled off before it snapped under his weight. Thanks to his boots that always seemed to help put his feet in the right place, he landed with a thud in the middle of the street.

Tossing aside the torn flag, Promi drew a satisfied breath. “Not too graceful,” he muttered. “But still, on the whole . . . miraculous.”

He grinned, stroking his newly acquired gold earring. Quite pleased with himself, he felt the bulge of Grukarr’s belt buckle in his tunic pocket, right next to his journal. “The only thing I could have done better was to—”

Strong arms grabbed his shoulders from behind. “Got you!” boomed an angry voice. “You rascally thief!”

No,
thought Promi, his heart pounding.
Not that guard again.

Roughly, the arms spun him around. He found himself facing a wrathful man—not the temple guard but a burly baker. The fellow’s apron, covering his ample belly, was splotched with fruit stains, flecks of dough, and sprinklings of flour.

Scowling at Promi, the baker growled, “You’re the rascal who stole a whole tray o’ my best huckleberry tarts last week. Aren’t you?”

“Well, I guess so.” Promi smacked his lips at the memory. “They were awfully good, I promise you. A fine recipe.”

“I don’t care a cursed clump o’ crab claws what you think o’ my recipe!” Keeping his hands firmly on Promi’s shoulders, the baker nodded toward his pastry shop beneath the awning. “You robbed me!”

“I did. And . . . I’m sorry.”

“Don’t you have an honest trade, rascal?”

Promi nodded. “Yes.”

The baker peered at him. “What is it?”

“I’m a thief.”

The baker shook him hard. “That’s no trade!” Glowering, he demanded, “An’ now you dare to come back to steal somethin’ more?”

“No, no, that’s not why I’m here.”

Skeptically, the baker waited to hear an explanation.

Promi felt sure the truth—that he’d been escaping from another, much more brazen theft—wouldn’t improve the baker’s mood. So he declared, “I came back . . . um, well, to pay you for those tarts.”

The baker scowled even more fiercely. Squeezing Promi with his powerful hands, he snarled, “I’ll show you how to pay.”

Grabbing hold of the young man’s neck with one hand, he clenched the other into a massive fist. “I’ll pound you like a lump o’ dough. That’ll teach you not to steal from me!”

He drew back to slam Promi’s jaw. Hard as he tried, Promi couldn’t wriggle free. Beneath his tunic, the mysterious mark burned hot.

“Wait!”

A young girl rushed out from the pastry shop. Though her hair was sprinkled with white flour, there could be no mistaking the carrot color of her twin braids. “Papa, wait!”

“Back inside, child,” the baker commanded, without turning from the young rascal he intended to strike. “I got some punishin’ to do here.”

Undeterred, his daughter clamped her arms around his apron. So wide was her father’s body that she could only reach a small way around his waist. But she squeezed hard and begged, “Don’t hurt him, Papa.”

“An’ why not? He’s a thief, bad as a rotten egg.”

“Because,” she explained breathlessly, “he’s the one who saved my life!”

The baker caught his breath. “From them tramplin’ goats? In the market?”

“Yes, Papa.”

Turning to her with disbelief, he asked, “Are you sure, child?”

“Totally sure.” She nodded, making her braids bounce up and down. “He’s the one! Snatched me out o’ harm’s way, jest in time.”

The baker sighed, then released Promi. “Lucky for you, thief.”

Rubbing his sore neck, Promi nodded. He looked down at the girl, and their eyes met for the second time that day. “Right you are,” he agreed. “Lucky for me.”

The girl giggled, blushing beneath the flour on her cheeks. “My name is Shangri.”

“Thank you, Shangri. My name’s Promi.”

Raising his gaze to the baker, Promi said, “I promise you this. I’ll never steal from your pastry shop again.”

For a long moment, the baker scrutinized him. Though still scowling, he said, “Fer all your mischief, lad . . . I’m guessin’ you really are a virtuous sort.”

“Me?” sputtered Promi, surprised. “No, no. I’m definitely
not
virtuous.”

“You love pastries, don’t you?” asked the baker, a new twinkle in his eye. “There’s virtue in that.”

“I surely do,” Promi replied, licking his lips. “The sweeter the better.”

Shangri giggled again. “Then maybe you should go to the spirit world up in the clouds. They say it’s full o’ sweet things everywhere, in sugary streams an’ honey trees an’—”

“Quiet, child.” The baker’s severe tone cut her off. “You know that travel between the worlds is strictly forbidden! Even talkin’ about it can get you punished by them angry priests, Araggna an’ Grukarr.”

“But Papa—”

“Hush, I said.”

The baker scowled down at her. Now, young as she was, Shangri might have felt only her father’s reprimand. But Promi could see the fellow’s real concern for her safety. And he was sure the baker’s vehemence sprang from love rather than any religious dogma. Despite how they’d met moments before, Promi decided he genuinely liked this burly, flour-covered fellow.

Shangri nodded to her father. “All right, Papa.”

He tousled her hair, sending up a puff of flour. “Good girl.”

She turned and ran into the pastry shop. Barely five seconds later, she ran back out again, this time holding a steaming hot cinnamon bun. With a smile that revealed several missing teeth, she offered it to Promi.

The smell of cinnamon tickled his nostrils as he took the pastry. “Why, thanks, Shangri.”

“You’re welcome.”

Promi started to take a big bite of the cinnamon bun, but then stopped abruptly. Lowering it, he looked questioningly at the baker. “Is this . . . um, all right with you?”

The baker grinned. “It’s all right, lad. You’ve earned that pastry.”

Promi took his first bite, savoring the sweetness as he chewed. He swallowed, then said, “Still, I want to pay you for this one.”

“Not necessary.” The baker patted his belly. “’Tis payment enough to see how much you’re enjoyin’ it.”

Promi shook his head. “No, I insist. Let me pay you as you deserve.”

The baker shrugged. “All right, lad, seein’ as you’re insistin’.”

Casually, Promi reached into his tunic pocket and pulled out the jeweled belt buckle. He tossed it to the baker, who stared at it in utter astonishment.

“That should cover the cinnamon bun,” said Promi dryly. “As well as those huckleberry tarts.”

The stunned baker peered at him. “But, lad—”

Promi held up his hand. “No haggling for a higher price, now,” he said with a grin. Then, more seriously, he added, “But I’d suggest, if you ever need money, don’t try to sell the whole buckle. Too easily recognized. Just sell those sapphires one at a time.”

The baker pinched his lips. “You stole this?”

“Not from anyone who deserves to own it.” Promi gave him a wink. “Now it’s where it really belongs.”

Taking another bite of the cinnamon bun, Promi spun around and walked down the cobblestone street. Seconds later, he turned a corner and disappeared.

In front of the pastry shop, Shangri peered at the glittering object in her father’s hand. She’d never seen anything like it before. “Papa,” she asked, “does that really pay for the cinnamon bun?”

“Aye,” he whispered. “It does.”