The Rat and the Serpent (22 page)

I needed to start planning. In only a few days the moon would be new and I would have little or no time for Raknia.

An idea struck me at dusk. I ran to Garakoy’s chamber in the Forum of Tauri, arriving so out of breath I had to rest for a minute before I could speak.

“You seem agitated,” Garakoy observed.

“I am in a hurry,” I replied. “I’ve got... an interview. But listen, I found an old parasol in my rooms last night that must belong to the previous occupant. You are in charge of occupation details—who was he?”

Garakoy pulled a selection of scrolls from the shelves behind him, choosing one, then unrolling it. “Ah,” he said, “trouble! I was wise to check.”

This was an unexpected turn. “Trouble?” I said.

“Yes. A citidenizen who returned to the streets.”

“Then I’d better...”

Garakoy nodded. “Keep the parasol for yourself.”

I had hoped for a citidenizen, but I realised that this turn of events would allow me to make further enquiries. As though saddened, I asked, “And what happened to the poor man?”

“He was caught speaking with his brothers.”

“And?”

“Immediate expulsion. Descent to the gutter.”

I nodded, averting my gaze to feign embarrassment. “So your records show his departure?”

Garakoy shook his head. “I deal with occupation in Zolthanahmet. Expulsions are recorded by the status department.”

At last, the knowledge I needed. I shrugged, stood up and said, “So many departments... well, thank you for allowing me to keep the parasol.”

“Thank Stamboul.”

I left. I knew where the chambers of status were because they were linked with those chambers dealing with first-time workers: the Forum of Constantine, a short walk away. I relaxed, imagining a chamber full of names and addresses, all of which would be citidenizens or former citidenizens, unless counsellords were also named. They would be annotated and in order, making my task easier. Relief washed over me. Before my mind’s eye Raknia returned to her human semblance.

I returned home, but when I arrived I felt fear once again; I did not want to face Raknia in her tower. So I tore a scrap of paper from an old scroll and scribbled a note that read, ‘My task is well underway and I have located the chambers of status.’ That would be enough. Then I hurried along Tulku Sok Street towards the tower in Gulhane Gardens, where, as Raknia had done, I delivered the note by pushing it under her door. I did not push it all the way in, knowing that she might see it and detain me.

Nothing unpleasant followed my deed. I survived the night. Soon, I was planning my break-in.

I set it for dawn, a time when everybody working for the civic bodies of Stamboul would have departed for their homes. It was easy enough to slip into the building through an open window, but when I was inside I realised that the department itself, like all the other areas, was locked. Worse, some of the important chambers had sorcerous faces on their handles, indicating they would be impossible to force without opposing sorcery. I whispered street profanities to myself.

Then I heard a thud from the end of the corridor in which I stood. I ducked behind a pillar, then heard footsteps approaching, before they stopped and there came the sound of a door opening. I had not expected company. Cursing again, I decided to try later. Soon I was out on the street.

Raknia would have to be patient. I felt sure that, as long as I gave her progress reports, she would be patient, for as a former citidenizen she must have some idea of the difficulties involved. Nonetheless I walked with reluctance towards Gulhane Gardens. Standing before her door I decided it would be better to face her, but I conceived the idea of remaining in the doorway, so that she had less chance to lure me in.

I smiled when the door opened. She did not. I said, “I have just come back from the Forum of Constantine. I tried to enter the chamber with the status records, but a man came along, and I was trapped. I will keep trying though.” I paused, watching her expressionless face. “Do you want me to keep telling you about my progress?”

She nodded once. “Progress is what I am interested in,” she said. There was no warmth in her voice; no scent of jasmine, or raki.

“I had better go and draw up some more plans,” I concluded.

Again she nodded. Without further word, I departed.

I felt the discussion had gone as well as could be expected. Relief surged through me as I walked home, for I knew that, as long as I had something definite soon, I would be safe. It occurred to me then that I could embelish the truth, or even invent missions in order to placate her; for I was confident that I would find the information she wanted.

The nights passed. I made abortive attempts to enter the records room but always without success.

Then came the night before new moon, when I did not even make the Forum of Constantine.

The panther must have discovered where I entered the Forum. It was waiting for me. In the sooty, silent alley I was alone, far from help, without any means of defence. The beast was glossy black, its white teeth exposed. The smudge of white in the shadows was Atavalens’ hair.

He was alone this time, just him and the panther. I knew that I had never faced such peril.

“So we meet for the final time,” Atavalens said.

I felt numb: no terror, not even fear. Just shock that held my body motionless. I managed to say, “What do you want this time?”

“The sweet certainty of your demise,” came the reply.

“Why? You know what will happen, you even know the pain.”

Atavalens laughed. “You mean the spider bite? Ah, but that I am protected against.”

He emerged from the shadows, patting the panther as he walked around it, then putting his hand underneath his cloak to withdraw a glowing circle with a symbol inside: a fang, or what looked like one.

“What is that?” I said, though I thought I could guess the answer.

“This cost me dear,” Atavalens replied. “This cost me energy, this exhausted my muscles, this made my bones ache. But with the strength of my body I made this shamanic talisman to protect me against poison.”

I said nothing.

“It irritates me,” Atavalens continued, “that because of your own minor ability you know what this talisman is. But that is why you have to go. See this fine beast? Sleek, powerful, silent as thought. This animal is fit for the Mavrosopolis. Rats are not.”

“Everywhere needs rats. They eat rubbish discarded by people.”

“In my world there will be no rubbish,” Atavalens countered. “My world will be as lustrous as the coat of my friend here, who will in a moment tear your body apart. My world will be ordered. When I’m a counsellord, that is how Zolthanahmet will be remade.”

Despite my terror I said, “You are trying for the counsellord place?”

Atavalens smiled. “It won’t be announced until new moon tomorrow, but yes, I am.”

“Me too.”

This made Atavalens hesitate. Then he laughed, but it was a manic laugh, one to banish strangeness, not one of good humour. “You imagine yourself, rat boy, as a counsellord? You might as well reach into the sky and pull down the moon.” Now his voice was becoming harsh. “The depth of your ignorance is absurd! How dare you even utter the word counsellord? It is a position utterly beyond you.”

The panther took a step forward.

I retreated. “Wait—”

“Quiet. I haven’t finished. You disgust me, rat boy, with your simple ways. You pollute the Mavrosopolis merely by imagining you could be a counsellord. You are gutter-dregs and nothing else, do you hear?”

But I had a thought. “Is that how you imagine me—a nogoth?”

“Of course.”

I nodded.

“Why do you ask, rat boy?”

“My death would hardly be enough for a man like you.” As if dejected, I sat on the ground, not five paces from the panther.

“What do you mean?”

“When it is over, it is over. How are you going to feel then?”

Atavalens said nothing.

I looked up. “I will make a wager with you. I am going to try for the counsellord place too. If I win, you must stop threatening me—”

“Never—”

“But if
you
win, then I will publically consort with a nogoth so that I am forever returned to the gutter. Because I know that is what you really want. Me back in the gutter. And you know as well as I do that a citidenizen returned to the streets can never rise again.”

“True,” Atavalens admitted.

“Well?”

“You’re just trying to save your life, rat boy.”

“But think! A death is over in a minute. With you a counsellord and me in the gutter your triumph lasts until one of us dies. And you could haunt me! Isn’t that a good wager—for both of us?”

Atavalens grinned. “I like the idea. Yes. Perpetual victory. That suits me very well.”

“Then we are agreed?”

Atavalens chuckled. “I read your thoughts. You’re hoping to extend your miserable life for a few more days. You know you can’t beat me, and you know what I will do when I’m a counsellord.”

I glanced at the ground. “I do.”

Atavalens smirked. “Well, rat boy, we have an agreed wager. I would shake your hand or clap you on the shoulder, but rat teeth are sharp and they’re filthy with plague. I’m no fool.”

“You are not,” I agreed.

22.8.595

Who would have thought that six years would pass before a space appeared in the ranks of the Bazaar counsellords? Not me. Still, it shows that we live life in a state of random chance. That is an important lesson, one that other people should learn.

It is hot and I am sweating. The new house, where I write now, is poorly ventilated, and I awake at dusk covered in sooty sweat. This grey paper is crinkling under the heat of my hand.

So in half a moon there will be an election, and I will be one of the candidates. I am thirty two; too young, many say. I looked in the mirror this evening to see a distinct pate appearing through my grey-streaked hair. I do not look old, but nor do I look young. This will be to my advantage, for youth will imply vitality, despite the fact that I am reknowned as a tall and weedy man, while a hint of age will imply wisdom, which many people regard as a useful attribute in a counsellord. They call me ‘the cane.’ I am pleased. To have a nickname is to be accounted popular, and popularity is essential if a man is to win his place in the ranks of the counsellords.

I fancy that I will follow the tested methods. I will describe myself to all and sundry, explaining my good points. This may take some time. I will not describe any negative points, as I think that would sound like false modesty. Besides, I do not wish to distract citidenizens from their cogitation.

It is one of my many duties as candidate to check the chalked-up odds created by the mathematician-prophets. I notice that I am rather low in the order. There are thirteen candidates in all, three of whom have short odds—the favourites—the other ten of whom have long odds. I am rated at sixty to one, but those are not the longest odds. Somehow I must make myself more popular, but I am not sure how to do it. I am witty, amusing even, intelligent, wise some have said, yes, unhandsome and gawky, but what is mere appearance when set against the beauty of a fine mind? I am familiar with all the styles of make-up. What more do these citidenizens want of me?

I would write more, but I have too much to do in the conurbation outside.

Chapter 12

Half a lunar cycle was allowed for those in Zolthanahmet who wanted to offer themselves up as counsellords: new moon to full. In that time, the citidenizens would have a chance to hear speeches, discuss their options, then, on the night of the full moon, make their choice at the Hippodrome.

I decided to observe how the other candidates promoted themselves. There were nine of us: Atavalens, Garakoy, and six other men and women, none of whom I knew. The official list was stuck to the door of the Forum of Constantine, attached with nails like some revolutionary document, and next to it some local had scrawled the odds on which wagers would be made. I and two others did not even make this latter list. Garakoy was the favourite. I was relieved to see that Atavalens was not considered a contender, though his name was marked; but then, nothing yet had happened.

Blocks of pure white marble, soon sullied by sootfall, were set on the major street corners. I counted six of them, arranged so that the candidates could stand above the masses and make speeches. Soon, this was happening. I mingled with the crowds. A night passed, then another. By dawn of the following night I had seen every candidate, watched all six of the podiums, and spotted the gap into which I could insert myself.

Without exception every candidate spoke about themselves, explaining why they wanted to be a counsellord, extolling their virtues, describing their backgrounds, the work they did, their lives. Often they disparaged the others. I was amazed. I had assumed that the candidates would want to offer their services to the people of Zolthanahmet. Nor had I expected the support each candidate received, for whether it was from kin, friends or allies, each one was surrounded by assistants—in Garakoy’s case by his extended family, in Atavalens’ case by his two henchmen and by thugs drafted in from the harbour. I frowned. Some of these thugs would be from the district of Psamathia, and that must be cheating.

I of course had no supporters. I stood alone. Realising that my isolation would set me back, I returned home to consider my problems. Meanwhile, the mathematician-prophets of the district amended odds and took wagers.

The trick, I realised, was to offer the citidenizens what they wanted. The eight other candidates were putting themselves forward on the basis of how good they were, how noble, or how conscientious; I, on the other hand, could find out what people wanted and put myself forward according to their wishes. Popularity would follow. If I timed it right—for I was most afraid of being copied by Atavalens—I could jump over my rivals and take the counsellord place at the last moment.

But first I needed to know what riled citidenizens most.

To this end I made for the nearest inn, where I found a variety of local people, from masons and smiths in their tough leather jerkins, to minstrels in white gauze, to cooks and bakers with sweat on their faces and grease under their fingernails. But the noise of the inn was too great for me to discern individual conversations, so I found an empty corner out of the sight of the crowd, where I sat and meditated on the qualities of the rat—of its senses in particular, and of those, hearing.

The spell was not difficult to cast. I shivered, then raised my head as I returned from shamanic space to real space. Now my spell would drop like fine mist over the people at the inn, and their conversations would weave their way into my hearing.

For some minutes I let the rodent spell work its natural sorcery across the crowd. A few people noticed something in the air, but they could not place it because the effect was subtle; I was not suspected. Then fragments of talk began to penetrate my consciousness: “Curse this watered raki,” “Let’s snuck down the steps and check,” “You got a gripe against the bar man?”

I let my hearing point elsewhere. Most conversation was about the food and drink. The hours passed and boredom set in. But then I heard, “I think it’s time you bought something,” “You must be joking, it’s your turn, anyway, there’s a hole in my pocket from these damn small ’uns,” and then, “Aye, there’s a hole in everybody’s damn pockets from damn tiddly coins.”

I sat upright as if I had been slapped on the back. Conversations flew out of my mind like bats from a roost. A few people nearby glanced at me, frowned or laughed, then returned to their discussions.

I had the answer!

I sat still, concentrating on my thoughts, sipping raki, my head tilted forward so that all I could see was the table before me. Coins. Coins were the key. Everybody grumbled about the quantities of coins that had to be carried when buying items, and everybody grumbled about the fact that each district had its own currency. Could I offer reform there? Was this a problem that people cared enough about to support an unknown candidate who had only just become a citidenizen?

My spell remained firm. Shielding my mouth with one hand, I whispered a few suggestions then let them flutter out into the crowd. I listened. Then I heard, “Aye, that’s not a bad idea, but which district would have their coins chosen?” “We’d make a new Stamboulish currency,” “No, because the coins would end up being as big as plates,” “Aye, and as heavy,” and finally, “If only they was light as scrolls.”

Again I sat transfixed as thoughts crowded into my mind. Paper money. Why not? Then the problem of coin transportation would be overcome. In seconds I had devised my platform and my mode of attack: reform of the coinage system, breaking it up into small coins and paper money for larger denominations, plus the institution of a Stamboul-wide currency. Yes, the coin changers would have to give up their work, but they could easily be employed elsewhere in the new system.

It could work!

I hurried out of the inn. Stamboul was just a dark shadow around me, so intent was I on my thoughts. It seemed that only seconds passed before I was climbing the steps of the tower, then inside my rooms with the door locked, sitting before a mirror with a grin on my face.

I looked at myself with critical eyes and the grin vanished. I was a candidate now. Unbidden, Zveratu’s words returned to my mind:
this is one method of fixing yourself in the minds of your kin.

I examined the trays of cosmetics lying untidy on the desk before me. I had not yet come to terms with make-up, not least because I lacked the glamour, the classical poise of so many other people, with my hooded eye, my long nose, my thin lips and patchy stubble; I was not handsome. But if I was to fix myself in the minds of the citidenizens of Zolthanahmet I would have to acquire outer glamour, despite my moral reservations. So I took a pad and a pot of white foundation. Pale skin was the norm across Stamboul. Half serious, half on a whim, I loaded the pad with foundation and dabbed it on my cheeks, with no grace and a sigh born almost of despair. Then I added some more, before, with just a few swipes of my fingersand a little more foundation, I saw a white face in which lay two dark eyes and a mouth. It was the work of another minute to droop the corners of that mouth so that my frustrations were painted on my face.

And then I realised that this
was
my glamour. Nobody would forget a face like this. And later, if my plan worked, I could alter the sad mouth to one that smiled.

My heart was beating fast now. I realised that I had made all the preparations necessary, that it was time to place myself atop a marble podium.

Two hours remained before dawn. The streets were emptying. I decided that this moment would be perfect, because I wanted to test myself before a small crowd first. With a hood concealing my face I walked to the junction of Nuruosmaniye and Vezirhani Streets, near the border with the Bazaar district, where I was pleased to see an empty podium and a few straggling citidenizens. I leaped upon the marble block, pushed back my hood, and strolled forward.

“Citidenizens,” I said.

A few curious faces turned my way. There were pointing fingers, a few laughs. But some groups of people moved forward.

“Citidenizens, I am Ügliy, candidate for counsellord. I’m different to all the others because I’m not going to talk about myself, instead I’m going to tell you what my plans are for Zolthanahmet, and for Stamboul.” I paused. Some people were listening. “Would you like to hear?” I asked them.

There were shrugs, some muttering. One group walked away.

Though disheartened, I continued. “D’you see my sad face? I’m sad because I’m carrying so many coins in my pocket, and a hole has worn right through. I want to change this. I want to reform our coins, every one, keeping the small ones that we use to buy mushrooms, or olives, but changing the bulky ones to paper money. Paper money would fit more easily into our clothes, and of course it’d be much lighter. This is my big plan. Money reform. And then I’d make another change, one that would considerably ease the frustrations of buying out of district. Why not have one currency for all? Why is Seraglio different? Why Bazaar, why Psamathia? If we had one currency, think how easy it would be to buy elsewhere.” I paused, clearing my throat, preparing for my final declamation. “I’d make paper money and I’d make a currency right across Stamboul. Citidenizens, think of me when you go to the Hippodrome come full moon. Think of our futures, think how much easier life would be if my reforms were put into practice.” I jumped off the podium. A few people were staring at me, as if shocked. “That’s all,” I told them, “but I intend taking my message to the other podiums.” Suddenly I was inspired. “Follow me! Tell everyone about my ideas! Let’s make some huge crowds!”

Then I pulled my hood over my head and slipped into an alley.

There was a note waiting for me at home that read, ‘Bathtime.’

Bathtime... and all my old fears returned to churn my guts, the memories of words and venomous looks, the sensual paranoia of living in Raknia’s shadow. For a few seconds I decided to ignore the summons, but then I realised how foolish a mistake that might be. In this matter I had no choice. I washed the make-up off my face and dressed in a long coat. With a curse and a half-hearted kick at the door jamb I departed my home, stepping with reluctance down the steps, until, out on the street, second thoughts arrived, and I found myself dawdling outside the Hippodrome. I could not walk further. As if to mock me, the tragedy based on my affair with Raknia was still playing. I swore again, then forced myself to continue along Tulku Sok Street. Soon I was standing outside the door in the passage way.

As before, it opened without human intervention. I shivered.

Walking, almost creeping down the tunnel to the bath, I sensed that the place had changed; the echoes were different, as if grey mould on the walls was absorbing sound. The smell was different too, nothing of jasmine or lilies; now all was dust and decay, and stagnant water. And the light ahead came not from the ceiling lamp but from some other, lesser source.

“Hello? Raknia, are you there?”

I was almost at the bath chamber. This felt wrong. I took a step forward and craned my neck to peer into the chamber. I saw cracked tiles on the walls, some of which had fallen off to smash on the ground, while the pool itself was weed-filled, with dark wrack stuck to the edges like the sea-soaked hair of some appalling nereid. A glass lantern placed on the floor offered little light. I looked up to see cobwebs hanging from the ceiling, amidst the peeling plaster.

“Hello?” I said once again.

There came a noise from the corner to my right, and Raknia stepped out of the shadows. She wore a black leather coat and black boots with the toes sharpened to points. Her hair lay flat against her skull. Her expression was not friendly.

“Have you managed to find my records?” she asked.

“I have been struggling with Atavalens and his panther,” I replied. My voice had the querulous tones of an old man. “However, I have found out when and how I can get into the records chamber.” I hesitated. “It is just a matter of getting enough luck to do it—the security is very firm. But it shouldn’t be long...”

She said nothing. The aura of the room spoke for her.

“I really am trying, Raknia.”

The silver light of the glass lantern faded and a shadow like soot dropped from the ceiling. I glanced up, to see the cobwebs moving as if under the influence of a breeze. I returned my gaze to the spot where Raknia stood—

She was gone! I gasped and shrank back against the wall. The air was cold, and my flesh tingled as every hair stood on end. I looked left then right, then peered into the shadows of the far wall, but she had vanished, and in moments the bath chamber itself was as dark as a soot-filled night, with the lantern offering only dismal haze, like the moon behind cloud. There came a clicking noise from somewhere in the chamber, a rustling, accompanied by a dull thud like distant thunder, and I knew—how I could not tell—that I was hearing the heartbeat of some appalling creature.

I coughed. The sound died as it left my lips. This was not the place I knew. I turned and fled, but I tripped on a step. On my back I had a clear view of the end of the tunnel—nobody there—but then I noticed movement on the ceiling above me: a shape black against shadow, with thin stick-like fingers coming out of it. I stared. The shape was descending. It was hissing.

I screamed and got to my feet, running up the steps, tripping again, glancing back to see a bag of a body moved by eight legs that was almost upon me; I screamed again, running, then in my blindness slamming into the outside door.

It was shut. I hammered on it, shouting with all my breath, trying to find the handle, which seemed to have gone. I glanced back to see a twinkle of multiple eyes, but at last my fingers found the handle and I pulled the door open and flung myself into the passage. Hoarse and spasming I crawled to the wall opposite, where I sat up to look back.

The door was shut and I was alone. I heard myself breathing as if I had run a mile. Then I looked again at the door, only to see a wall blank apart from old beams and stones, like the architectural remains of some earlier building. The door had vanished.

I stood up. Snot and spittle covered my coat. I was still breathing like a dying man. Groaning, I stumbled down the passage to the alley at its end, where, in a doorway, I sat down to recover.