The Rat and the Serpent (29 page)

“Ow!”

The kitten had sunk its claws into my right thigh. With my right hand still gloved, I used my left hand to disentangle it and return it to its string. It miaowed again, glanced at its milk, then looked at me.

Again it sunk its claws into my leg.

“No,” I chided. “No claws.”

The kitten ignored me.

“No claws,” I insisted, removing the kitten then putting it into my gloved hand. The kitten stretched, then sank its claws into my thigh and my forearm. I hissed at it, but I was in no great pain; they were just needle pricks. I tried to disengage the kitten, but it was determined. It looked longer than before, as if the game was stretching it.

Black fur bristled in a line down its back. Frowning, I bent down to examine it, to see that it had elongated a surprising amount.

Glittering eyes: I jerked back. Without thinking I pulled my right arm away, but instead of a sickening yowl and the click-clack of claws in fabric, the kitten extended and visibly grew. I sat still. The thing was staring at me. I swallowed, tried to stand up. I felt weak.

This was no tiny ball of fluff that I had mistaken for a spider, this was a cat... and a big one.

“Claws out!” I shouted. “Get them
out.
”

There came the strange sensation of warmth leaking from my shamanic limbs, and I realised, with a horror enough to make me fall back into my seat, that the claws were glowing as they channelled power away from me. This beast was
draining
me in order to grow.

“Atavalens!” I cried. Now I stood, and with some violence pulled my right arm away from my right leg, but it was hopeless, for the beast stretched like elastic. My real body also felt weak, and I realised that it existed split into two, a shamanic part and a normal part, forever divided, with the former part the reservoir from which I was losing power. And I had felt like this before, it seemed long, long ago, when I had received a rat leg for a withered one.

But these thoughts brought an understanding of what was happening to me. I screamed, forced my awareness into my new limbs, sensed the flow of energy, stopped it, then in a single motion plucked the wailing beast from me and staggered to the window. I shattered the glass with a single blow of my elbow. Already the thing had become a kitten once again, mewing for pity, but I threw it as hard as I could and in the pale light of dawn I saw it arc, spinning and screeching, until it fell with a crash upon a roof, and there lay still.

I bent over, hands on knees, breathing hard. I had only just survived.

I closed the shutters outside the window, made sure everything else was shut and locked, then returned to my seat.

I tried to recall the sensation of division within my body. I had not enjoyed that.

But then I leaped from my seat. “I’ve got it!”

I had realised what my strategy would be for the initiation rite.

Without hesitation I left the house, walking fast until I reached House Sable, where I stopped and with a bold grin surveyed the building. I strode up to the front door and knocked three times upon it.

I knew Herpetzag would answer the door. “What do you want?” he asked.

“I am here to begin the initiation rite,” I answered. “I am to become the new elitistor of Zolthanahmet.”

“You are a shaman,” Herpetzag pointed out. “Shamen are unable to accept the role because their natural sorcery makes them automatic heretics. You would fail as soon as you started.”

“I am not a shaman in the way you understand,” I replied, hoping this concoction of truth and lie would be enough to intrigue him. Just to be on the safe side I added, “Wouldn’t you like to see me fall?”

“Very much. But there are five other elitistors to consider.”

“Aren’t you above all that?”

Herpetzag hesitated, and I wondered if my bludgeoning flattery had gone too far. But he let the ignorance born of pride stifle his powers of reason. He said, “Any counsellord can take the rite, it is true. So you are serious?”

“Yes.”

“The sorcery of the Mavrosopolis will enter you, then be repelled, and you will be returned to the street.”

“Siyah Street?”

“Whichever gutter you were born in. A failure becomes a soot blot, nothing more. To fail is to fail utterly. Be sure you understand that.”

I nodded. “A blot of soot, yes, like a tiny pool of sorcery. I understand, Herpetzag.”

This half guess made Herpetzag stand back. “Zveratu taught you well,” he muttered.

I shook my head. “I found out the truth all by myself. And that is why you are afraid of me.”

Herpetzag hissed like a snake. “You think so.”

I was not given an opportunity to reply, for there came a shout from inside House Sable. “Who is it?”

Herpetzag grimaced then answered, “Just a rat at the door.”

“The test?” I whispered.

In a louder voice Herpetzag added, “Who wishes to take the initiation rite. We will all meet forthwith in the garden.” Then Herpetzag turned to me and said, “You think you are so clever, having Zveratu as your mentor, rising from the street like a firework, telling all and sundry that they must bend to your will, winning a game here, a game there. Not so, young rat. What you do not know is that the occupants of House Sable are more than just people. We are cultists of the Mavrosopolis, and the Mavrosopolis does not like your sort. Remember that when next you eat grit and drink sea water.”

I felt anger within me. A reply floated into my mind. “Suddenly you see me only as a representative of the rat,” I said. “But I am more. Remember that when I am sitting at the same table as you.”

Herpetzag hissed again, and with fury in his face he pointed to the gate at the side of House Sable. “Through there,” he said.

I walked along the side of the building and into the garden at the rear, where the other five elitistors were waiting. They sat as before at their table, all of them staring at me.

Herpetzag said, “This is Ügliy, novice counsellord of Zolthanahmet. He wishes to put himself forward for the initiation rite.”

Like a silent and spectral cabal the five black-cloaked elitistors walked towards a tiny hut at the bottom of the garden, me following, Herpetzag bringing up the rear. One of the elitistors, an old man with a white beard and moustache, said, “I am Silvögyur, elitistor of Bazaar. Are you certain that you wish to begin this rite?”

“I am.”

“Herpetzag has explained the consequences of your failure.”

“He has.”

Silvögyur glanced at his colleagues, then said, “The rite is in two parts. One tests the suitability of the heart, one the suitability of the mind. If the Mavrosopolis decides you are not fit to be inducted into our cult, you will be stripped of everything you have gained and made into a nogoth.”

“I understand.”

Silvögyur gestured at the hut. “Through there lies the first part of the rite.” He looked me up and down. “Good luck. You seem like a strong man.” Then he pointed at the door. “In you go.”

I examined the hut, noting that if I stretched out my arms I would be able to touch both its side walls. “Is this to test my heart or my mind?” I asked.

“You must decide,” Silvögyur replied. “Open the door and walk in.”

I did as I was bid, and the door slammed shut behind me. I stood in total darkness.

For a few seconds I waited, expecting my eyes to become accustomed to the dark, as I pushed every particle of shamanic sensation into my right arm and leg, and left myself open and vulnerable—human alone, human once again—to whatever awaited me. But my eyes revealed no shadows in the black, not even after a minute of silent waiting. This was both good and bad: good because I must not be tempted by rat vision, bad because without sight what could I do? Then there came a thud from up ahead and the sound of heavy breathing. My imagination ran riot. It sounded like a beast, like one of the great black bulls of the inner fields; not a human noise. With both hands I gripped my steel club.

“Hello? Is anybody there?”

As I spoke the breathing stopped, then after a pause began again, but this time it was a gentler noise, as if the breather wanted to use stealth. I understood that whatever else stood inside this place it was, like me, confused. Perhaps it had never been here before. Perhaps it was in competition for the elitistor place. I realised also that the space inside the hut was far larger than that suggested by its outside dimensions. There was deep sorcery here.

“I don’t know who you are,” I said. “Who are you?”

No reply. A thought drifted through my mind: perhaps this other occupant could not speak, perhaps it really was a beast of the fields.

“Please answer me. I don’t want to fight. Do you?”

The slow, yet stertorous breathing continued. Even with ordinary human hearing I could sense that the breather was moving, approaching me, perhaps from the left side...

Then realisation struck me. This was the first part of the initiation rite. Single combat in total darkness.

I crouched low, adopting a defensive stance with the club raised before me, still gripped two-handed. I let my hearing tell me where my opponent was. I swallowed—too noisy. Silence was necessary now, and I had given away my position by speaking. I tip-toed to my left. No wall or projection stopped me. I waited. I could hear no sound of breathing.

Silence was all.

Then I became aware of an odour, something musky yet with a hint of manure, and with more than a hint of soot. Something from outside, yet not human. I could not keep my imagination under control. It provided an image of a bull-headed man.

There was a faint
whup
sound, then a breath of air against my face. I stood as still as I could. Then the sound again, this time louder with a breath of air that felt stronger. Then a third sound, and with it a grunt of exertion. I realised that my opponent was swinging a weapon, getting closer and closer, hoping to strike me and knock me unconscious. I moved to one side, but I heard my clothes rustle. There was a grunt, another
whup
, then a strong blast of air across my face. The beast had just missed.

Time to take a risk. I ran to my right, halted, then tip-toed in silence to a new position, where I waited. There was no sound. Not even animal breathing.

Then I heard a roar from my left, and I caught the smell of foul animal breath. I wanted to retch, but I knew that would be a fatal distraction. Again I ran, again I halted, then moved, hoping thereby to conceal my position. Now I could smell only my own sweat and hear my own breathing.

There was silence for some time. It was impossible to tell how long. For a moment I thought of counting heartbeats, but then I realised that would stop me concentrating, and anyway it was a pointless task in an arena where the only way out was winning the struggle. It occurred to me that I should attack, but I put the thought aside at once, aware that as yet I did not know enough about my opponent.

So I waited.

Nothing happened.

And I waited.

From nowhere there came a loud
whup
as my left arm caught the tip of a weapon—no pain, no blow, as if the strike had been a whisker away; just the sensation of touch and a breath of stinking air. The thing was near. I ran, then ran again, then turned around and ran again. But I was confused. What if my back was turned to the beast? A blow to the back of the head would be my undoing. I had no idea where I was in the blackness, nor did I know which direction I was facing.

I had to think of a plan, and fast. To remain passive was to increase my chances of becoming a victim.

Heart, mind. Heart
and
mind? But I could not use even a hint of any rat skill. Yet one dash of intuition serving a good plan could still save me.

What then to do?

Immediately I crouched as low as I could, suspecting that my opponent was swinging his weapon at chest level; that meant any blows should pass over my head. I then decided that frequent short moves would benefit me; staying still, even if silent, might give my opponent an advantage, for instance if it could use an augmented sense of smell to pinpoint my position. And there was little point in aiming for total silence since the sound of breathing, of my stomach squirming, of clothes rustling would always be audible.

I was gratified to hear the sound of air moving in a whup over my head. I listened; I estimated. Then I sprang forward and scythed my arms together, and my left hand struck a hairy ankle. I pulled it without hesitating. There was a sensation of weight shifting, and I realised that this was a heavy creature. I pulled again, then rolled and reached out, to grasp another ankle. This time I pulled it as hard as I could, but my opponent did not fall. I rolled to evade a beating. There was a thud upon the ground, the sensation of earth being thrown up, the sound of particles falling, and then a grunting, as of the recovery of a beast.

I moved sideways as quietly as I could. I felt good. I felt I had a chance, even if it was only a slender one. Yet I had to guard against a return to rat ways, I had to concentrate my shamanic power like a reservoir into my rat limbs, that the Mavrosopolis not suspect what I was. To avoid temptation, I shifted my club into my left hand.

There came the sound of another swipe over my head, and I grinned as I crawled away. My opponent had no advantage when it came to night sight.

I gave thought to disabling my opponent; I did not think of killing him. I knew I was being monitored, that it would be enough to overpower my opponent, force a submission and then claim victory.

Strangulation was the only answer. But with my imagination fixated on some kind of man-beast I found it impossible to consider options, until I remembered something that I was wearing. My neckscarf. With my right hand still gloved and no flapping clothes to get in the way there arose the possibility of using it as a weighted cord.

Quickly I ran off, repositioning myself in silence. I removed the neckscarf, twisted it into a cord as long as my arm, then tied the club to its end. It was unwieldy, but serviceable. Then I ran, stopped, and ran again. I paused to listen. There came the faintest sound of breathing, as if from some distance. I knew that I would have to remain upright, and that entailed the risk of being struck. So I stood quiet and motionless, hardly breathing, shutting my eyes even though the darkness was impenetrable, that my mind be convinced that hearing was the only important sense. And I smelled again the odour of my opponent, as if it was billowing out on foul clouds of breath. It was nearing. I heard breathing, the faint rustle of cloth on leather, the pad of feet upon the ground. I raised my cord, the club in my left hand. I waited. I imagined. The effort of ignoring my shamanic potential was terrible. Then there came a
whup
and a rush of air. My opponent had struck out and missed.