The Rat and the Serpent (28 page)

Yuruk laughed and walked a few paces forward.

I knew this must be a sorcerous effect. I had but seconds in which to act. And then all my anger and fear welled up, all my desires, my wishes, my dreams, and all the pain that I had suffered during my rise from the street. With a cry half of fury and half of determination beyond the human I reached out and dared to grasp the caduceus, though it burned my flesh and made my face writhe, until I felt that my every sense was focussed on my hands and the agony they contained.

“No!” I whispered. “There is room for humanity, there
is
room!”

The world around me was for a few moments blanked out by the pain in my hands, by my determination, and by my conviction that I had chosen the right weapon; and slowly, instant by instant, moment by moment, and then as I opened my eyes and let my face relax, the heat departed, and the pain with it, until I held in my pale and bony hands a thing of cold, hard steel.

A caduceus under my control.

I realised at once that this triumph was the most important event of my life so far.

Yuruk stared at me, his mouth slack. Katurguter was similarly amazed. I strode forward until I stood opposite Yuruk. I raised the caduceus and there was a sound of ringing metal, as if the air itself had responded to the motion of the weapon.

“There is always a way,” I said. “There is
always
a way, if you can just find it.”

Yuruk snarled. “And if you happen to be right. But you are not. You are just a charlatan.”

He leaped forward and raised his caduceus to strike. I crouched and raised my own to defend myself against the blow.

The two weapons struck.

There came a fountain of soot that spouted out of the air where the two objects smote one another. Yuruk and I jumped back. Then Yuruk leaped forward and struck again. A second plume of soot surged from the air, this time striking the faces and shoulders of us both, so we were darkened and confused, spitting the stuff out of our mouths. We stepped back, then circled one another. Katurguter and his opposite number fled to the edge of the garden, where they watched the sorcery unfolding before them.

The sky, already gloomy, took on an ominous shade as soot clouds began to roll in from the west, concealing a crescent moon and early stars. The sorcerous lamps of the garden shone brighter to compensate.

Yuruk leaped forward, yelling in an attempt to overwhelm me, and I was forced to defend myself, holding my caduceus two-handed, crouching down, knees bent, dodging, then darting from side to side to avoid the onslaught. After a minute of this both of us were as black as coal, and the ground was a trampled mess of soot. Piles of the stuff were beginning to form around the garden. From the clouds a fine fall began, that soon turned heavy.

I began to fight back. The weapons were not sharp and had to be used as clubs, a method I was familiar with. There came an intense bout of shoving and smashing, and then—

We all fell over as the ground shook.

“Earthquake!” Katurguter cried.

I lay still as the ground trembled, jolted alongside Yuruk as soot was sent into the air in great clouds. Nearby, doors and windows vibrated in their frames. There was a final rumble, and then the earthquake stopped. It had lasted only seconds.

From somewhere beyond the confines of Zolthanahmet a deep and resonant roar sounded, a bellow like nothing I had ever heard before, the cry of some waking beast too large to imagine, a mythical beast, inconceivable, and yet real. All four of us fell upon our faces and hid ourselves amidst the soot and stones. The echo of the great roar faded to a thunderous thrum, then departed, to leave absolute silence; no caw of rook or rasp of crow, no coo of doves or warble of geese. Nothing.

It did not take me long to realise that this roar was related to my overpowering of the caduceus. But then I saw something at the border of the garden. Scores of living dracunculi were watching us like a human audience, raised upon their bellies as if ready to strike, yet quiescent.

I said nothing. I saw Yuruk cowering. It was the work of a few seconds to jump over, drag the trembling man to his feet, set the tip of my caduceus to his temple and shout, “I claim victory.”

Katurguter glanced at his opposite. The two men shrugged.

“I win,” I repeated.

Yuruk said nothing.

Katurguter approached us. “You have the option of killing Yuruk,” he told me.

I threw Yuruk to the ground. “I’ve got more important things to do,” I replied.

“Then this duel is over,” Katurguter said. “You are the victor.”

I surveyed the garden around me, then looked up at the sootclouds, which were already clearing. I glanced at my caduceus, then dropped it, whereupon the dracunculi disappeared into the crevices from which they had emerged. “A victor in more ways than you can imagine,” I said.

17.11.604

I cannot believe how much my life has been turned upside-down by what I have learned in the past two days. What happened to my resolve? Do I really sit here, alone in a mansion, thinking that in all probability I will die a counsellord, having created no tenet, no ethical precedent, because that is all done by these elitistors?

Curse them! I had not guessed that they existed. Curse their dark house!

It is at times like this that I look into my hand mirror. I am doing it now. I see a head there, albeit half in shadow: tufts of grey hair going white, a lined face well made-up, dark eyes kohl-ringed. A pale and shiny pate with soot stains. I raise one hand to see inelegant, heavy silver rings on several fingers. This jewellery that I have to wear reduces my grace, my poise. Thankfully I have no problems of wellbeing—I am hale. I will live to be very old.

There is a philosophical point to this mirror-gazing. It reminds me that I am a real person with cares and worries, but, more importantly, it reminds me that the outer person is almost nothing compared with the inner person. I am very much a man of the inner life—just as well, given the thoughts that over the years I have set to paper, and those just a fraction of the entirety of my pondering. Wrongly, then, the Mavrosopolis elevates the importance of outer appearance to the detriment of inner appearance.

So now I sit in gloom, having realised that I must wait until the elitistor of Bazaar dies (for there is no other way out of House Sable) before I get the chance to rise for a third time. And what then? The existence of the elitistors suggests a whole chain of ruled and rulers, all the way to a single lone man, who I suppose must be the Lord of the Mavrosopolis. What an absurd idea. If it is true, I shall indeed give up life and throw myself into the harbour.

Chapter 15

It was midnight. Zveratu sat with me in the front yard of my house. The air was warm, the street atmosphere stuffy, with only a few lamps showing through a dense fall of soot. A large parasol provided us with both protection and illumination.

Zveratu said, “You see now why I thought you would be the right man to become elitistor of Zolthanahmet.”

I nodded. “I think I see.”

“Will you tell me what you think?”

“Is there a struggle afoot in the house of the elitistors?” I asked.

“Of sorts.”

“Those following the serpent have the upper hand. The mambasnake, perhaps...”

“That is for you to find out later,” said Zveratu. “For the moment all you need to know is that the rat can oppose the serpent—the duel illustrated that. How lucky that it occurred. I had no part in its inception. But that fight was but a prelude to the real battle that you must undertake. I think you have the heart and mind for it, which is why I follow your progress with interest.”

“But I cannot take the initiation rite.”

“You must find a way. Let the rat be your guide, as ever it has been.”

“And you?”

Zveratu grimaced. “It is not important for you to know who I am.”

“But I
want
to know.”

“We all want to know who we are, Ügliy. Alas that only some find out.”

I turned to glance at the shadow that was House Sable. “They will eat me for supper,” I said. “I have risen too fast.”

“You have ascended fast, but not so fast that you cannot look around you. I have no cause for concern.”

“I do.”

“It is good that you are nervous. Your reactions will be the sharper.”

Then I said, “What was that roaring noise we heard?”

“That was the sound of your final opponent whimpering in a dream-laden slumber.” Zveratu stood up. “For now, Ügliy, goodbye.”

When he was gone I departed the yard and crept through the shadows of Siyah Street, using all my rat guile, until I was standing in an alley beside the plot of land containing House Sable. There was a black stone wall, behind which lay a garden... and I could hear voices. With my powerful rat leg it was simple enough to climb the wall and peer over.

I saw a strange party. Six people—the elitistors—were sitting around a table in the middle of a soot-stained yard, around them posts on which silver globes shone, trees nearby with grey bark and dark leaves, further off the opposite wall, a barrier so black it was like a strip of velvet. Pale moths fluttered from lamp to lamp, leaving glittering trails. Upon the paving slabs I saw beetles, and, as if on guard, a few dracunculi.

I studied the elitistors. Five of them were normal, but one was not: Herpetzag. He differed both in appearance and in manner. Though all the elitistors were cloaked, bejewelled and tattooed, his macabre appearance—the mask covering the jutting jaw, the eyepatch, the strange way he held himself—marked him out as a man apart from the others. Watching him, I realised that if I made it through the initiation rite he would be waiting for me, scheming, ready to deal the killer blow.

I sighed and slid back down the wall to plant my feet on firm ground. Herpetzag had spoken wisely: knowledge will kill you in the end, Ügliy... you cannot survive if you rise, because the Mavrosopolis will get you one way or another.

And then, as I heard these words in my mind’s ear, I understood. Herpetzag was different because he somehow symbolised the Mavrosopolis, whereas the other elitistors were ordinary mortals. That was why Zveratu wanted a shaman in House Sable. Only a shaman would be strong and yet unorthodox enough to strike at the heart of this dark city, a blow from the inside and from the outside at one and the same moment – a plan of genius, but of immense peril.

I quailed. The task was too great for me. Then I thought back to the nogoths on the street, and I realised that I was undertaking the task for them. They were my reason for taking this path of madness. I felt emotion welling up inside me. I choked, running back to my house to lock myself in.

The nights passed by without further incident. On Katurguter’s instruction I took fine furnishings for my new home and stocked its larder with food and raki. I also found tomes about the history of Constantinopolis that I read from cover to cover; and inside one I located a clue.

‘And they occupied Ur in Zumeria, did this cult, worshipping the obfuscating one. Forced to flee the Perzians they eventually arrived, so many centuries ago, where the Phosphorus meets the Sea of Marmara—the peninsula known to all and sundry as-’

Alas the page had been ripped out; the passage was incomplete.

Then, one night, news arrived that I had been hoping not to hear. One of the counsellords of Psamathia had died, and Atavalens was a possible replacement, for he had immediately put himself forward as a candidate. As the nights passed I watched with growing horror as the odds on his ascension shortened to make him the favourite.

The vote confirmed my fears. He won.

I knew we would fight soon.

It was not long before Atavalens stood in Siyah Street. I watched him being offered a home by one of his new colleagues. I observed from a safe distance, using shadows and the stippled fur of my rat image to conceal myself. I felt sick with anxiety.

Almost immediately, we fought.

Our arena was the square at the eastern end of the street, a wide space of paving slabs and gutters, one side abutting the street, the other three sides set with buildings five and six storeys high, from which marble bridges arced, like so many finger bones. In the centre of the square was a pool and a fountain. Gargoyles looked down from the walls. The place was cold and eerie; the soot-painted ivy had not been cut, nor had the convolvulus, that tonight gave forth white flowers, pale, almost luminous under a shining crescent moon.

We stood at opposite ends of the square, the open street on one side, the pool to the other. We stood alone. It was the hour before dawn when folk retired to their homes, so silent that soot falling from cold stone made an audible noise.

“So you have reached the level at which I now live,” I said.

He was at once riled by my tone. “I have,” he snarled. “I came for you. I cannot allow one such as you to spoil Constantinopolis.”

“Is that the truth of your motive?”

“It is.”

I knew Atavalens spoke no lie. The panther shaman was riddled with an arrogance born of his exalted totemic beast, the like of which was rarely seen. Blackrat, widowspider, mambasnake, even crow and raven were as nothing compared to the panther.

“Is there nothing we can do to settle this like civilised men?” I asked.

“This is not a matter that can be
settled,
” Atavalens replied. “The exigencies I deal with do not allow for settlement, only for action. The rat is the lowest of the low—this is undisputed fact. So prepare to die, rat boy.”

I grinned, a feeble attempt to show that I was not frightened, though my heart was thumping and there was cold sweat on my skin. I managed a low, “Prepare for a surprise then.”

“All bluster,” Atavalens said. His sensitive feline ears had caught my whisper; he was acquiring shamanic potential.

“Once,” I said, as I began taking the deep breaths necessary for the assumption of my totemic powers, “I called us brothers in black. That is what we are. You are the fool to deny it.”

“Never!”

There was a sound of ripping fabric as Atavalens vanished. I darted back into shadow, knowing that silent stalking would be my enemy’s strength. I would have to rely on rodent cunning, and sharp teeth and claws. I looked up at the array of gargoyles, sills and ledges above me. Of course, I could climb.

With the power of my transmuted leg I leaped to a window ledge, then turned to survey the square. The moon lay behind me. I saw no movement below. I called on inner guides, low and wriggling and cunning, moving at speed, tail flicking, eyes beady, and I became a thing half man half rat, a shaman in stance and actuality, aware of what I had to do, aware of my devious opponent.

There was a purr then a screech as invisible claws were unsheathed nearby: then a breath of air as a paw swept by. Without thought I leaped away, avoiding the strike, jumping, dodging, seeking a safe place. I crouched low upon another ledge, now on the building opposite the pool.

Again a narrow miss, again a leap away, then again and again, like a dance of two madmen around the sooty stones. I realised this could go on forever. We epitomised too well our totemic beasts, Atavalens always hunting, never tiring, me impossible to catch.

But I had modes of attack as well as defence. Suddenly I leaped out into the square and skittered across it to the buttress from which the lowest bridge rose. There I sat, twitching, waiting. There was a movement in the shadows above me, a dark shape slinking along the pale structure; then it pounced. I leaped towards it, teeth exposed, darting aside at the last moment, sensing a limb beside me, twisting, biting, then leaping away.

But I had made a mistake. There was a snarl, the smell of feline breath, and then I was on my back looking up at the tracery of bridges against the night sky, with two warm paws on my stomach.

“You thought you could escape a panther?” Atavalens said.

I made no reply. I was beginning to realise what I had done.

“You had no chance,” Atavalens continued. “I would feel sorry for you, but...”

Now I understood what a fool I had been. I had gambled when gambling was never an option. I would die in seconds. I wriggled. The paws bore down. I was trapped.

Urgency begat desperation. I became a rat like never before, in being and to my core. Behind the panther head, framed by the stars, there appeared an image of my rat totem, as if the milky way had writhed, puckered, then formed itself into the image of my heart’s desire.

“Help me!” I cried.

“There is no help available,” Atavalens said, misunderstanding my plea.

I realised that my enemy’s mind was focussed on prey alone; the feline response. I cried out, “My second time! Aid me now!”

“What?” Atavalens said.

I continued, “Make a bargain with me, anything, and I’ll agree to it.”

“Anything?” said the rat of light.

“I will not bargain with you,” Atavalens declared.

The rat of light was circling the sky, chasing the sparkling image of its own tail. I felt the possibility of power. This had happened before. “Give me strength!” I cried. “Give me the strength I need.”

“In your arm this time?” said the rat of light.

“Yes! Hurry!”

“Enough of this chatter,” said Atavalens. “Die, rat boy, like a rat—in the belly of a hunter.”

“Your arm,” said the rat of light. “This is the bargain to which you agree?”

“Yes.”

Atavalens took a deep breath.

There came a bank of smoke that blew across us, acrid enough to make Atavalens cough and raise himself. I felt heat and power in my right arm. I smashed it into Atavalens’ face, and he yowled and leaped away. The smoke dissipated. The stars and the moon were bright, too bright, as if to aid my vision, and I saw that Atavalens was for a moment confused. I got to my feet. Atavalens retreated. I gave chase, but in seconds Atavalens had tripped and skidded into the low wall that contained the pool. Then I was upon him, with the elongated claws of my right hand around his panther throat. Just beyond us lay the dark water of the pool, close enough for me to smell.

“This is your end,” I told Atavalens.

“It cannot be.”

“It is.”

“You have cheated.”

“No,” I said. “I made a bargain, that you, in your pride, cannot make. I have sacrificed. You are too vain to sacrifice. That is why I have won.”

Atavalens struggled. “You haven’t won yet, rat boy.”

But the strength in my right hand was enough to keep Atavalens pressed against the pool wall. I said, “Now you must prepare to die.”

“The panther cannot die!”

I raised Atavalens by his throat and plunged his head into the water, keeping my own body away from the slashing claws, pressing down, unwavering, until the bubbles and the struggling ceased, and all that remained in my grip was a cold, human body.

I held tight for another few minutes, just in case.

Then I stood up and let go. Atavalens was drowned. I picked up the body and took it to the yard of my house, where I pulled up slabs and buried it.

The conflict was over.

Only then did I look at myself. My right arm was longer, with claws and tough, black hair. Battle fury departed, I stared in fear and then in hatred at myself. I was losing my humanity. I could never disguise this. I ran into the house, then hurried to my cupboards, where I flung open the doors and pulled out the clothes inside, throwing them to the floor until I found a pair of black leather gloves, which I pulled on. I drew a velvet cloak around my body and put on a new hat, so that only my face remained visible. Then I collapsed into a chair. I felt secure inside these thick, black clothes...

I ensured that the steel bar that I used as a club remained attached to my belt. It lay cold and heavy, an added security.

One wish remained of the three that I had been promised. I had lost a leg and now an arm to my rat saviour. What next? My head? I sobbed then without restraint, for I knew that this was how it would be; that if I called for aid a third time I would lose my head—my mind—to become a rodent forever. This was the nature of shamanic bargaining.

Some time passed as I dreamed my future away. Then, feeling hungry, I prepared a meal. I stayed wrapped up in my clothes—I did not dare take them off. Their deadening thickness insulated me from the terrible world I inhabited.

It was much later that I noticed something inky and small on the path outside my front step. Cautiously I opened the door to see what at first I thought a fat spider, but which I soon realised was a kitten. The sad-faced creature miaowed at me, a sound so high and feeble it was on the edge of audibility. I picked it up and was able to hold it in the palm of my hand. Its weight was negligible.

I took the kitten indoors, putting it in my bedroom, preparing a saucer of milk and a bowl of cod, then returning. Somehow, the feeling of caring for the kitten restored a sense of balance to my mind. From great things I had been reduced to something small, and the experience took some of the pressure off my shoulders. I found myself relaxing in a rocking chair, the kitten playing with a piece of string on my lap, as I gazed out of a window and twisted the buttons on my new velvet cloak.