The Rat and the Serpent (11 page)

Mazrebiler smirked in reply. “So you’ve passed the first part of the test,” he said. “Only two more parts to go.”

“Three,” I corrected.

“Two,” Mazrebiler replied, before he turned to stride away.

11.5.583

Five days have passed since I described the delight I felt upon completing my apprenticeship. Today I feel no delight. Today I realise the difficulty of what lies before me, and I wonder if I have set myself an impossible task.

How would I know that it is impossible? I cannot say. Somehow, I would know. There are forces and powers that people may not know of. Shamanism is one such. I have always wondered if shamanism is contact with the unknowable. Yet I am not a shaman, nor will I ever be, and there were no shamans in my immediate family, unless they disguised their ability; and I am inclined to believe that such camouflage—because of the vitality, nay the glitter of the shamanic mind—is impossible.

But it seems to me that passing the citidenizen test is impossible. I have passed the first quarter, and it was easy, so easy, but I know now that I will fall at some subsequent hurdle. I know this because something of life in the citidenizenry has been revealed to me, something that I did not know before, and it makes me think I could not bear to live something so vile.

Perhaps vile is too strong a word. A bureaucracy is not vile. It is too massive to be vile. Yet I feel repelled.

The first part of the test was to recognise erasure in a discipline alien to our own. I was assigned to a dessicator group, who wander the Mavrosopolis looking for the flowing water that can cause erosion. I was fascinated to discover that the sewers of the conurbation in which we all live are blocked so that water may not flow. This is extreme! We thawers are not so eccentric, that is sure, though I suppose our arrays of heaters, hotwires, fans and elements would look absurd to a dessicator or to a baffler. I recognised that a collection of cisterns in a high region of the Mavrosopolis would burst under the influence of building work, and this fact I reported to the master of the group. He then told me that I had passed, and he proffered me a silver arc: one quarter of a ring.

I am pleased that this shiny fragment lies in my breast pocket. I keep it above my heart in the hope that my sincerity will somehow alter the circumstances of my test. It is a forlorn hope.

But I learned something awful today. The citidenizenry is a bureaucracy; of what type I do not know, but I sense, as if with the intimate and vibrating nerves of my body, that it is one. I am appalled. There can be no place for the artist in a bureaucracy, no place for the sculptor, for the musician, for the actor—even for the playwright!—and certainly no place for the poet. What can I do? I must ascend from the gutter, yet if I do I place myself in an unfeeling, mechanistic, hopeless, meaningless system that already,
already
, though I know it not, I hate.

Such a dilemma was unexpected and it makes me wonder if I should continue. This I discussed with my mother. She said I should go on. Probably I will. But I must bury too many bright and carefree thoughts in my mind, and that is not a good thing. Life surely is not about the bleak sheet of vellum upon which is written a list, it is about spontenaity, about creation, about love.

Nogoths say little of love since it is a luxury on the street. But I will have none of that. Love is good, it seems to me, indeed who is to say that it is not a vital part of a peaceful life? So I suspect. Yet the bureaucracy does not admit of love, just as it does not admit of poetry. Am I then to become a dried up old man, dead like a white rose that was perfumed and cool in a vase of water, only to shrivel and die for want of a little concern?

It seems absurd to me that the Mavrosopolis does not have room for concern, and yet this heartlessness would explain the fact that nogoths lie in their thousands upon the sooty streets. The Mavrosopolis, perhaps, is a heartless thing.

Chapter 6

The sensation of success was strange to me, akin to the throat burn of raki or the sweet fizz of sherbet. Though I knew I deserved it—that I really
had
it—I felt unworthy of it, as though I had acquired success through luck, not skill. This unease was made worse when the wraith haunted me a second time.

As before, I was passing time in Blackguards’ Passage, enjoying a few moments to wonder what I might be like when I reached the citidenizenry. Karanlik was at my side. The wraith appeared at midnight, confronting us as we sought scraps of food. Karanlik screamed and clung to me. I wobbled, then grabbed a window sill to stop myself falling over.

“Ügliy!” came the moaning voice of the wraith.

I said nothing, staring at the apparition, as all my work with Raknia in the unnamed street was shattered.

“What warning did I give you?” the wraith asked me. “Did I not say, if you continue with the citidenizen test I will return to haunt you until your heart bursts. Wasn’t that what I said?”

“Yes,” I whispered.

“And now you have a quarter ring to call your own. You will throw that ring away, now, before my eyes, and if you do not I will burst your heart, and that of the whore at your side.”

I felt horror welling up inside me. “She’s no whore!” I cried, pushing Karanlik away. “Run,” I urged her, “run away, this is a thing too great for you.”

“And you,” Karanlik gasped, clinging tighter to me.

I faced the wraith. “I’ll never throw the ring away,” I said.

“Take it out! Show it to me.”

Despite myself, I located and displayed the trinket, as if compelled by a spectral force.

“Now throw it down the nearest drain.”

I found myself walking towards a gutter.

“Stop!” came a new voice.

I looked down the passage to see a tall silhouette against distant lamps. It was Zveratu. Swiftly, the old man walked toward me, raising both his arms as if to ward off the wraith. I turned, to see the wraith move, so that we two were caught between man and ghost.

Zveratu spoke to me in firm tones. “Do not obey the wraith. Stand firm. You will deny the wishes of the wraith, keep the token and continue with the citidenizen test.”

Black mist rose from the wraith as though indicating its fury. “Discard the ring token,” it demanded. “You will not be taking the citidenizen test.”

I stood between them not knowing what to do.

“Discard!”

“Keep!”

“Obey me!”

That made Zveratu laugh. “We made a pact,” he told me, “deep under the streets of the Mavrosopolis. Keep your nerve, Ügliy.”

I remembered that pact. Though it was all I could do to drag the words from my mouth, I clutched Karanlik and told the wraith, “I did make a pact before the semblance of my totem, and it can’t be broken.” I took a deep breath to add, “I don’t believe you can kill me. You can only haunt me.”

This declaration emboldened Zveratu. Again he raised his arms, to tell the wraith, “I know you. Begone. You may not haunt this nogoth again.”

The wraith gave a wail before dematerialising. The passage was emptied of terror. I relaxed.

Zveratu strolled past me, twirling his parasol. “Do not think you cannot be haunted if you leave nogoth status behind,” he said, his voice returning to its usual croaking tone. “Now continue with the test, using all your skill and courage. Farewell.”

I watched the old man walk down the passage, until his form was lost in the shadows at the junction with Divan Yolu Street.

Karanlik sighed. “You have an ally, then.”

“I know nothing about him, other than that he is a citidenizen who helps nogoths achieve their potential. He must be a good man.” I glanced at Karanlik, worried that she would take what I said next amiss. “There’s something that I must do—alone. Go back to the Tower of the Dessicators. I promise I’ll see you there later.”

Karanlik was upset that we would have to part, but she agreed to my request. “Walk with care,” she said, before kissing me.

I walked east towards the Gulhane Gardens, crossing the street divide then following the lane leading towards Raknia’s tower. There, I limped up the steps, to stand before her door, wait, then knock once.

She must have known who her visitor was, for she wore a long dress of translucent muslin, a black belt at her waist, a tiny dove feather falling from each ear-lobe. Her hair was slicked back; her feet unshod. She held a goblet of raki in one hand.

The coy smile was upon her face. “You’re always welcome,” she said, standing aside so that I could hobble in. She shut the door, and as before bolted it.

I turned. I was not unhappy to be here, but things had changed since the test began. I watched as she drifted across to her table of liquor, languid as fog over the Phosphorus, to pour me a full goblet and place it in my hand.

She caressed my cheek with one hand, sipping raki as she did. “Did you want me?” she asked.

“Yes,” I replied. “The wraith... that we thought we’d conquered. It haunted me again, but we got rid of it.”

“We?”

“Me and Karanlik... me and Zveratu. It was Zveratu who made the difference.”

The smile vanished. “You and Karanlik,” she said.

I shrugged. “She’s my assistant for the duration of the test.”

Raknia seemed to have powers beyond my understanding. “Have you covered Karanlik?” she asked me.

The implication of animals mating made me shudder. Suddenly bold, I replied, “I may have done—”

“But you were going to come back to
me.
”

I pointed at her, then at myself. “We didn’t leave it quite like that...”

“Oh, but we did.”

She stepped forward, taking my glass in her hand and tipping it so that I had to drink if I was not to spit it all over myself or over her. Then she made me take hers, and she repeated the trick. I felt heat in my stomach. Already my limbs felt loose, my head light.

“Lie on the couch,” she said. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

I did as I was bid. I was unsure of how to proceed. I had only wanted to tell her about the wraith, more for her sake than for any other reason. Now I felt trapped. I let my head fall back upon a velvet cushion. I looked up to see the cobwebs on the ceiling.

Raknia returned in different garments: a black leather bodice secured by straps and steel buckles, black silk bangles set with pearls, knee-boots that shone like oiled stone. She creaked as she approached.

I felt both intrigue and apprehension. I rolled off the couch, stood up with the aid of my crutch and said, “What are you going to do?”

“What are
we
going to do,” she replied.

“I don’t know,” I muttered.

But I wanted her, and she knew.

Again I asked her, “What are you going to do?”

She knelt before me and pulled aside my rags, exposing me. “I’m going to eat you,” she replied.

I looked down at her. I was shivering, but not cold.

She looked up at me, an expression of innocence on her face. I could only look at her breasts as they quivered beneath the bodice. “Do you want to be eaten?” she asked.

I nodded. I took a deep breath. “If this is what it means to be a citidenizen, I’ll have it.” I wanted to laugh, but I suppressed the urge.

She leered at me, as if I had finally succumbed to her, and I noticed how sharp her teeth were, and how bright. “But you’ll never be a citidenizen if you go with me,” she said. “Let me show you where you’re going.”

I laughed; the raki had overpowered my mind. “Ah, but I am going to be a citidenizen,” I told her. “I’ve passed the first quarter.”

Her face was before mine, one moment to the next, like teleportation. “You’ve passed?” she said.

I wobbled on my crutch. “Yes.”

She stared at me. “Prove it,” she demanded.

I fumbled for the ring quarter, which she grabbed when she saw it. “See?” I said.

She said nothing. She seemed crushed.

“How did you know about that?” I asked.

Next thing I knew I was lying beside her on the couch. “If you can pass the test,” she said, “you can do anything.”

“It was Mazrebiler who passed me,” I replied.

She thought for a few minutes, then said, “You a citidenizen... I suppose it could happen.”

“It will happen,” I corrected.

“Perhaps there have been changes,” she murmured to herself.

I shook myself from reverie, like a dog emerging from deep water, and said, “I came here to tell you about the haunting.” I got up, taking my crutch and resting against it, whilst glancing at the bolted door.

“You’re leaving me?” she asked.

“Just for tonight.”

“Not forever.”

I had to grin. She would know it meant ‘yes’ and I would not have to say the word. “I want you to know that Zveratu banished the wraith until I become a citidenizen,” I told her. “We’re safe for the moment.”

“Safe,” she repeated. She made the concept sound like heaven.

I realised then that I had been elevated from curiosity to friend in her estimation, or at least to something approaching a friend. Yes, she was weird, flighty, even perilous, and trust was not a feeling I knew in her presence; just a kind of bleak fascination. She was no ordinary nogoth.

With that I left her, returning to Divan Yolu Street then making for my place in Blackguards’ Passage.

On the following night I was invited to a tavern near the Forum of Arcadius, where other pre-citidenizens were drinking. Excited, I realised that the social niceties of citidenizen life were already showing through, that in truth I had moved to a status between nogoth and citidenizen. For nogoths knew no concept of invitation: all was territory and clashing. With Karanlik at my side and a glum-faced Raknia just behind me, I followed Gedik Pasa Street and the broad Urkeli Street to the Forum, locating the tavern just behind it. It was called the North Star.

Apprehension took hold of me when I stood at the front door and listened to the noise of tankards and loud voices inside. Many nogoths visited taverns when hunting for food—it was the first place to try in some quarters—and all of them were thrown out like so many bags of rubbish. I knew that I still looked like a nogoth, yet I had been invited; and I knew many others like me must have been invited too. So I gathered my courage, and entered.

The tavern was a whirl of faces and talk, but nobody even glanced at me. I understood that here everyone was assumed to have a place, and as if to prove my theory I saw the dark forms of cimmerians lurking in the shadows. This came as a revelation to me, a hint of ease and pleasantries to come. I relaxed.

“Hey, you!”

There was a man standing before me. He was drunk.

I touched my chest and replied, “Me?”

The man, burly and soot-begrimed, lurched towards me, causing me to take a few paces back. I bumped into somebody. I turned to apologise.

“I said, hey, you,” the man repeated. “Look at me!”

Now I noticed the steel bar in his hand. I glanced at the faces surrounding me. Then there was a blur of motion and agony in my face, a foul taste in my mouth, bright lights before my eyes. I fell to the floor, hitting my head on the tiles. The drunkard was kicking me; I rolled over, trying to protect my belly. There were shouts and screams. Some of the locals pulled the drunkard off.

“Get the club!”

“You got ’im?”

“Oy—bit of rope, an’ quick!”

I was too dazed to understand what had happened. I thought I was going to be sick. Then I felt hands under my armpits, voices at my ear, and I was hauled to my feet. There was somebody at my right side, offering me my crutch. I turned to see the face of a young man. “You all right?” His concern sounded genuine.

Karanlik was at my left side. “Ügliy, are you all right? Did he hurt you?”

I looked down at my rags. “I don’t think so,” I managed to say.

The young man said, “But he must have!”

From behind the bar a woman added, “Totally unprovoked!”

What followed amazed me. The response of the tavern drinkers was extraordinary. Led by Karanlik and with Raknia in tow, they clustered around me, helping me to a corner, where I was sat in a chair and plied with goblets of watered-down raki, and even a mug of black coffee. Confused, I stared at them.

“Find him a bandage,” somebody said.

“Nah, it’s only bruised.”

“Look at the man’s face. He’s out of it.”

“Pour some o’ that raki down ’im throat. Heh heh!”

The young man and the bar woman were present too. I looked at the array of drinks before me.

Karanlik remained concerned. “You’re dazed,” she said.

The young man said, “There are herbs...”

I shook my head—slowly. “I’m all right,” I said.

“You sure?” they asked me.

I was beginning to get my memory back. The bar woman was right, it was an unprovoked attack, but there was nothing I could do about it. As a nogoth I was used to violence—it was part of life. And yet the attack seemed wrong in a way I could not quantify; it was wrong that a drunkard in this tavern of hopefuls should be allowed to beat an innocent for no reason. There was even a hint of annoyance in my thoughts, though I knew I could not allow it to dominate my actions. And yet—I was not a nogoth. I was a pre-citidenizen, and it could not be right that a drunkard be allowed to strike me. For the first time in my life annoyance was justified. It could even lead to consequences.

I studied the people surrounding me. Raknia was standing apart, her arms folded, watching me with a look of expectation on her face. I let my head tip forward so that I was staring into my lap.

“More raki,” somebody called.

“More coffee,” another added.

I knew injustice. But more than that, I knew I should have access to justice. A nogoth would shrug off the attack as part of street life, but I was something more, and something more had to be done.

“This isn’t right,” I said. Raknia leaned forward, eager to hear my words over the tavern hubbub.

“Not right?” Karanlik queried.

“It can’t be right that a man can swing out at me because he’s drunk. I’m not just some baggage off the street.”

“I’ll be a witness,” said the young man. He reached out to pat my shoulder, as if in solidarity. “I’m Zularayad,” he added.