The Rat and the Serpent (27 page)

“Possibly some, the more intelligent ones. Why?”

“Counsellords?”

“Yes. Me!”

“And one is enough,” said Zveratu. “For there is a world outside the sooty confines of the Mavrosopolis, a wide and wonderful world, albeit one full of peril. One of my many tasks is to seek a counsellord suitable for the role of elitistor. I believe you to be one such. I am here to encourage you.”

“But you always say that.”

“How many elitistors are there?”

I thought back to what Katurguter had told me. “Six, apparently.”

“And districts in the Mavrosopolis?”

“Seven.”

“And which district do you suppose is presently lacking an elitistor?”

“I don’t know, how could I know?” I thought for a moment, then, as the answer fell into my mind, I laughed and said, “Zolthanahmet.”

“Again you are correct.”

“So this is what it is all about? But I don’t understand why you can’t let one of the other counsellords take the initiation rite.”

“Perhaps they just aren’t good enough,” Zveratu replied in a dry voice.

“But why me?”

“Ask, rather, why not you?”

“I don’t have anything the others haven’t got,” I said.

“Indeed. You are ordinary.”

“Except that I am a shaman.” Thinking again of Katurguter, I added, “You do know that I can’t become an elitistor because the sorcery of the Mavrosopolis will not seep into me?”

“Citidenizenship was impossible to Ügliy the cripple, yet look at you now.”

That was true.

“You have no fate, Ügliy,” Zveratu continued, “and no destiny. Those concepts are illusions devised by the selfish. Rather, there is a range of possibilities open to you. Imagine what you might do if you became the elitistor of Zolthanahmet.”

“I would have to live in House Sable,” I muttered.

“If you got through the rite, yes.”

“Is it difficult?”

“Isn’t everything in life?”

I leaned back against the bench and gazed up at the stars. “I was told that my shamanic powers would stop me taking the initiation rite. You need an ordinary, free man, not a shaman.”

“Do I?”

“What is the answer then? How do I perform the impossible?”

“I don’t think that’s for me to say.”

“And what would happen if I did become an elitistor?” I asked. “What is the next level up?”

“The existence of elitistors is all you need to know at present.”

“That is not a good enough answer for me.”

Zveratu got to his feet. “Then devise a better one.”

“Don’t go!” I cried, suddenly frightened of losing him.

“We will meet again.”

“But I need to understand what is going on!”

“Never assume I am your best source of knowledge,” Zveratu said, “or indeed your only one. The Mavrosopolis is a place where nothing is forgotten. Wisdom is all around you.”

I uttered a single, bitter laugh. “So is soot,” I said.

Zveratu leaned over me, and there was a gleam almost fanatical in his eyes. “
Exactly.
”

I shrank back, appalled at the intensity of his gaze.

“I consider myself something of a poet,” he said in a milder voice. “But in three words, Ügliy, you have outdone me... and that is good.”

With that, he departed.

I watched him go. I felt deflated and I felt used.

I returned to my new home, found the smallest, most intimate room in the house, and there set up my bed, where I slept.

When I awoke and strolled into my yard to take the air I discovered an invitation attached to my door, a black-edged card that read, ‘The new counsellord is invited to a celebratory meal at midnight.’

I was unhappy at this request, but nonetheless, ten minutes before midnight, I found myself walking along Siyah Street to the house at its eastern end where the meal was to take place, number six, which turned out to be the home of Katurguter. The man himself was waiting at his open door, but from inside came the sound of conversation, of laughter; the clink of cutlery against porcelain, of goblets against goblets.

“Welcome,” Katurguter said, opening his arms as if for a hug.

“Thank you,” I murmured in reply. I refrained from touching the man.

“We always celebrate the arrival of new counsellords in Zolthanahmet. It has been some time, you know. Do come inside.”

I walked in, and the door was shut behind me. Immediately I noticed the luxurious style in which Katurguter furnished his home—black bearskin rugs on chessboard floors, marble pillars, silver-edged mirrors, and from the white ceilings a host of silver lanterns arranged like doves in mid-flight. The air was warm, scented with lily perfume. The contrast with my own house, freezing and unfurnished, could not have been greater, but then something Katurguter had said passed through my mind:
You are a counsellord now... counsellords take what they want.

Sudden disgust at Katurguter’s profligacy made me squirm. However I kept my expression neutral, guessing that the rules of counsellord life that I was supposed to follow would favour such waste. Yet I could not help but wonder from whom these furnishings and trinkets had been stolen.

I was led into a banqueting chamber in which was set an immense table laden with food and drink. Around this table sat the eighteen other counsellords, most of them old, half of them men and half women; the youngest man I could see was twice my age. I would be a freak in this company. I grimaced. Already anger welled up inside me. With Katurguter at my side I strode around the foot of the table, as eighteen pairs of eyes watched me, and the conversation fell from hubbub to chatter to silence. The sound of my boot heels against the floor tiles was a click-clack that reverberated around the chamber.

I examined what lay on the table. All was finery: squid-ink pasta with feta cheese and mushrooms, puffballs fried in clear oil, parsnips and white onions, cod in cream, black beans in rice, aubergines and shaggy-cap fungi, all set amidst plates of lokum, sherbet, and jug after jug of ayran, coffee and raki.

In one corner sat a group of musicians playing soft music on the ney, saz, tambur and kudum.

I could not restrain the fury inside me. I faced the counsellords and said, “Don’t you see what you’re doing to the Mavrosopolis? You’re stealing from people who deserve better. It’s
theft.
Isn’t there a law against theft? Isn’t it wrong to take things from people who need them? What happened to justice?”

With horrified faces they sat in silence, some staring at me, others looking away, and I knew they were all appalled.

Somebody said, “It’s Constantinopolis, not Mavrosopolis.”

I sagged. My anger, though intense, had been dissipated by this single outburst. I felt tired once again, exploited and burned out.

Katurguter took a few steps away, before murmuring, “Are you sure you mean that?”

I could stand no more. I ran from the chamber into the entrance hall, then, sobbing, though there were no tears in my eyes, I fled the house and returned to my own, where I locked myself in and shuttered all the windows. I knew that I had made a mistake, yet I knew I had done the right thing. Once again the collision between what I felt and what I was told to do had brought me to the edge of disaster.

There was a knock at my front door. With a heavy heart I went to answer it. I expected a counsellord, but it was Herpetzag.

I wanted to berate the vile man for gloating. Instead I said in a meek voice, “What can I do for you?”

Herpetzag said nothing.

And then, though the yard in which we stood lay in shadow, I saw every sculpted snake turned its head to fix its gaze upon me, as if to deny my new position by the force of their collective will. “What are those things?” I whispered.

“They are called dracunculi.”

I felt a nameless disgust rise within me. I shuddered, then looked at the macabre masked face of the man in my yard. Something, some deep emotion that now manifested as repulsion, told me there was a link between snake and man. I uttered a wail then leaped into the yard and began stamping on the sculptures, until, in just moments, every one was destroyed.

Herpetzag said nothing. His single eye was beady. His mask fluttered, as if under the influence of heavy breathing.

I heard footsteps coming down the street. I looked up to see the counsellords approaching, with Katurguter at their head. Herpetzag strode from the yard and went to stand beside the two moustached counsellords who had served him during the hauntings and the humiliation of the play at the Hippodrome. The trio stood aloof, yet malignant, as if ready for an exciting spectacle: the demise of a man.

I glanced at the destruction lying at my feet. This must be the end. I had been pushed too far, too fast.

Katurguter said, “Is there an explanation for all this, Ügliy?” His voice was reasonable, quiet, as if nothing of importance had happened. His face betrayed no emotion. I knew that in contrast I must look like a boy with a grudge.

And yet this simple question might have been spoken to help me. There might be a way out. Despite the shame I felt at being shown up, I shut my eyes, screwed up my face, and muttered, “I think I’m in shock, Katurguter. I feel disorientated.” I choked—on my own principles—then added, “I’m truly sorry for what I did. Please, please forgive me.”

There was muttering, but I did not catch any words. Then I heard footsteps again and a few comments. “Better forgive him I suppose,” “Might be shock after all,” and, “We don’t want another campaign so soon after this one.”

So, their pride was offering me a last chance. I raised my head then, and opened my eyes. Herpetzag glared at me, his eye bright like a star, his foppish assistants at his side, but the other counsellords were shuffling away, each to their own homes, their faces dark at the thought of an evening’s entertainment ruined. But I did not know if I had yet saved myself, for Herpetzag was still staring at me.

Then one of the two counsellords set his floppy hat at a jaunty angle and strode forward, until he stood a few paces from me. In a clear voice he said, “I am Yuruk. I say to you that there is no place in this street for men like yourself. You have insulted us, while tonight,” and here he indicated the debris in the yard, “without any provocation you have destroyed the accoutrements of Siyah Street. I challenge you to a duel. Name your weapon.”

I studied the face of this man. Neither he nor I glanced away, and neither of us blinked. Then I felt desperation rising up inside me, and my thoughts flicked back to battles I had fought as a nogoth, armed only with my crutch. I laughed. I was tempted to name that implement. But then inspiration came to me. I groaned and raised my hands to my face, hiding myself; I needed extra moments in which to think. Could my idea work? I did not know. But intuition was demanding that I speak.

I took a deep breath and faced Yuruk. “I choose the caduceus,” I said.

Yuruk gasped and took a step back, his face expressing his astonishment. I glanced at the street to see Herpetzag striding towards House Sable.

Yuruk was furious. “You fool!” he cried. “You cannot use the caduceus because you are a shaman.”

“I choose the caduceus,” I repeated.

Yuruk ran away, the other counsellord at his side, to catch up with Herpetzag. Was that fear on their faces or was it shock? I was left to ponder what I had said. If I was honest with myself, I did not know, for the choice had risen from my unconscious like a bubble in a well. However, I knew that the caduceus symbolised sorcery in some way that as yet I did not understand. I needed to master sorcery, to comprehend it. But I sank once again into a despair of isolation as a question struck me: where was I going to find a caduceus?

I raised my gaze to the ceiling and said, “What have I done?”

The duel took place at dusk next day. Katurguter was my second, a noble act, for he could easily have ignored the novice counsellord that he had been lumbered with. There was a brief, embarrassing scene when I thanked him for his support and Katurguter, surprised, did not know where to look.

Come cold, desolate dusk we stood at the bottom of a garden away from Siyah Street, with Ragip Gumuspala Street just a hop away and the Phosphorus soughing beyond. Tall buildings surrounded us, illumination provided by globes hanging on steel poles, around which black moths fluttered. I wanted to weep, but I could not; I hoped for friends but I saw only enemies. Another intuition from deep inside my mind told me that if I survived this madness I would not last long in the rarified atmosphere of rules and violence. I realised then that the extremity of my situation was forcing me to consider radical options, and to come up with radical ideas.

I must
reform
what I saw! I knew it then. Was that why Zveratu hovered like a bat around me? Was he a secret revolutionary?

“Excuse me?”

Katurguter broke into my reverie.

“Are you all right, Ügliy?”

“Yes... yes, I am.”

“I spoke, but you seemed not to hear.”

I nodded once at him. “Let us get this over with.”

Yuruk stood at the opposite end of the garden, his foppish partner at his side. Katurguter presented me with a closed box, the lid of which opened by sorcery to reveal a bed of black velvet, and upon that an object of black metal. The caduceus.

“This is a duel to the bitter end,” Katurguter intoned. “Whoever loses is returned to his true status. Soot to soot, ashes to ashes, all to all. So be it. Gentlemen, are you ready?”

“Ready,” Yuruk said in a sly voice.

“Yes, ready,” I said.

Yuruk took his caduceus and hefted it as if it was a sword. I reached out to grasp and lift mine.

“Aaaaaaaagh!”

It was so hot I screeched; reflex making my arm pull away.

Yuruk laughed. “I told you the caduceus was not for you,” he said. “Didn’t you listen? You’re a shaman—you’re not one of us. Now prepare for your demise.”

I stared at my caduceus. It was as if the steel had been heated beyond the temperature of boiling water, and yet it was quiescent, black, with neither a smell of burning nor smoke from the velvet. I reached out again until my hand was a rat’s whisker away from the thing. Nothing. Yet when I moved my hand down it again repelled me as if it was white hot, and again I cried out in pain.