The Rat and the Serpent (4 page)

“I think I understand,” said Atavalens, sitting beside Musseler. “We have contributed to the wellbeing of the Mavrosopolis, as do all citidenizens. Though we are only apprentices we deserve a reward, and this reward is to be the sustenance we need to survive. Doubtless there will also be milk.”

“There is milk,” Musseler confirmed. He shared out the food, and we settled down to eat. It was all I could do to stop myself wolfing the food, so desperate was I, so hungry; but I noticed the delicate way Musseler ate, and I tried to copy that style.

“As you remarked,” Atavalens said, spitting crumbs at Musseler, “you have to give to receive.”

“I understand that principle also,” said Raknia. “It is a relationship of equals.” And she emphasised the word
equals.
I studied her, wondering if she too felt outrage at Atavalens’ move to the head of the group. She had a remarkable, if delicate beauty: glossy black hair that fell in curls around her white face, pale eyes that shone with moon light, and though she wore rags she had arranged them so her figure was in part revealed; a hint of breasts, a flash of thigh. Way beyond me...

Musseler took a flask from his hip, opening the top and sniffing. A bitter odour filled the air, yet it was not unpleasant. “This we call coffee,” he said, pouring a tot each into our empty goblets. “It will keep you alert through the night. We drink it without milk.”

The rest of the night we spent refining our skills. As dawn approached we parted, returning to our various alleys, Musseler entering the Tower of the Dessicators with the equipment and slamming the door shut.

Two nights followed, both spent with Musseler, before we were deemed fit to go out alone. I had predicted the arrival of this moment and I was not looking forward to it. Atavalens would seize the opportunity to consolidate his leadership. Raknia and I exchanged glances as from the top of the steps Musseler wished us good luck.

We set out along Vezirhani Street, north past the Forum of Constantine, until we reached our designated area. Though Atavalens dictated what each of us should do, he showed no vitriol, as if he was too intent on learning what had to be learned; and he ignored me as if I did not exist. For my part, I watched them all. The henchmen never let Atavalens out of their sight. The two women had formed a friendship of sorts. Raknia was silent, observing everything with the deep and intricate manner that she showed in times of difficulty.

That night I returned to Blackguards’ Passage to find a collection of pale objects in the doorway where I slept.

Rat skulls.

I knew their form in an instant. I stood shocked. The skulls were new, each laid an exact distance from the edge of the door as if to indicate the deliberation with which they had been placed.

It must be the work of Atavalens.

Weeping, I took the skulls and walked down the passage, passing through a crevice hardly wider than my own body that led to a miniature courtyard between two great towers. Here, rubbish was left by the occupants. Rats were not uncommon. With the tears leaving pale streaks down my begrimed face, I dropped the skulls into a drain, listening to the knocks and clacks as they fell into the dry tunnel below. Then I departed.

I felt no anger, only disgust. Something inside me too deep for understanding negated the possibility of revenge. Bringing rat skulls was the act of a child, nothing more—a child in man’s clothing.

I said nothing next night, biding my time in silence as I had for most of my life; waiting, watching, learning both the principles of dessication and the ways of my colleagues, until the collection of knowledge in my memory was itself a comfort against the ignominy I suffered.

When I returned to my doorstep next dawn the two henchmen were waiting for me. They lurked in shadows, and I did not notice them until it was too late. I jumped back a pace when they appeared.

“Wait,” said Yabghu, “we’re not here to harm you. In fact, the reverse.”

“Indeed,” Uchagru added, picking something up from the doorstep. “We did wrong yesterday. We’re here to apologise. Everybody’s going through a difficult time at the moment, worrying about the apprenticeship, the test and all, and... well, we don’t need to say it out loud.”

Yabghu shrugged, then took me by the shoulders and briefly hugged me. “Sorry,” he said.

I was suspicious. “What’s that?” I asked Uchagru, pointing to the pot that the henchman carried.

“Oh, a present. We noticed you didn’t get much of the food today. Here. Something to say sorry.”

I took the pot and pulled off the lid, whereupon my nose was assailed by the rich scent of a meat soup, heavily spiced. I began to salivate.

“Have that on us,” said Yabghu, waving at the pot. “We’ve all had some. It’s delicious.”

I took the spoon from the pot and tasted the soup. It was good. “Thank you,” I said. “For my part, I don’t want any trouble. I’m in apprenticeship to become a citidenizen, not to fight anybody.”

“Well said,” Yabghu replied, nodding.

They watched me eat for a minute, before Uchagru said, “By the way, what do you think that soup is? Does it taste familiar?”

I shook my head. The spices disguised the flavour. “I don’t know.”

The men were unable to restrain their smirks, and when I saw this I stopped eating.

“What?” I said.

Now they were laughing. “You don’t recognise rat when you taste it?” Uchagru barked. “What kind of shaman are you?”

“An incompetent one,” Yabghu responded. “A
fool.
”

They turned towards Divan Yolu Street. “Keep away from us,” Uchagru said. “And never again call yourself a shaman in our presence.”

The pair departed. Unable to move, to swallow, almost unable to breathe for the sensation of retching building in my stomach, I watched as a third figure stepped out of the shadows. Atavalens gave me a wave, then led his men away. I bent down to vomit upon the street, until my belly ached and I could bring up nothing more.

Next day I said nothing. I was aware of tension growing in the group, as if by continuing to appear—by daring to appear—I was distracting the others. But fortune was on my side, for Musseler spent the entire night assessing our progress, and there was no opportunity for friction.

Yet I felt anger building within me.

The sootstorm began without warning on the following night.

It was Yabghu who first noticed the approaching maelstrom. “Look,” he cried, pointing west over the towers and stacks of the central district. I raised my head to see a vast black cloud with edges defined so well they were like geometric diagrams against the sooty mist; heavy on top, slight below, like a funnel. There were a few cries of “Sootstorm!” from passers-by in the street, then hurrying shapes and gyrating parasols as everybody ran indoors.

We seven dessicators stood alone on Sehzadebazi Street. I watched Atavalens, who was staring at the approaching sootstorm with horror on his face. I approached Yabghu and said, “We’ve only got a minute or two before it hits.”

Yabghu struck out, slapping me across the mouth with the back of his hand. “Quiet, rat boy. Let the leader think.”

I took a few paces back, concealing myself in the shadows of a doorway. Atavalens seemed paralysed.

Then the sootstorm struck.

I had lived all my life on the streets and knew what to expect, but as I watched Atavalens and the henchmen I realised they did not. Somehow they had managed to avoid street poverty for an unknown alternative—some insular family attached to a citidenizen haunt, perhaps some secret group leaching off other nogoths. Now
they
were the naive ones! Raknia and the women, I noticed, had followed my example by sheltering.

A sudden wind blew down the street, bringing the stench of hot soot and ozone. “Hide!” I cried. “Hide before the rain comes!”

Lightning struck somewhere to the west. Thunder roared, sudden as a dog roused barking from sleep. Veils of soot began to buffet the street, blotting out illuminated windows for a few seconds then revealing them, so that a phantasmagorical display of light and velvet dark shimmered up and down the street. Miniature whirlwinds of soot and debris smashed into buildings. Atavalens and his henchmen, leaning into the wind, made for the nearest shelter, but they were too late. There was a double lightning strike, a clap of thunder, and then the rain came.

It was like ink. In minutes Sehzadebazi Street was flooded to knee level as a torrent of black water poured down the slope towards the Forum of Tauri. Already there was evidence of destruction: floating parasols, rags and wood, and, inevitably, a body, already drowned.

With the centre of the sootstorm upon us, the noise became deafening. Lightning struck every few seconds. Atop some sorcerer’s tower there was a flash, then a flower of white flame as stone, wood and a lifetime’s collection of sorcerous items exploded into fragments, sending a halo of debris and silver sparks to the spiralling wind. Another strike and an array of windows on a nearby tower was annihilated. Debris began to whip down the street, so fast I could hardly see it through the gloom.

I hung on. This was a bad one. Already the ink flood had reached my thighs. Opposite me, the women were clutching a tracery of wrought iron framing the doorway in which they sheltered.

There was a cry, then somebody splashing towards me. I looked to my right to see the two faces of the henchmen; then Atavalens floated by.

I jammed my crutch in the doorway and plunged into the flood. In water my crippled leg was no disability, allowing me to swim without problem to the centre of the flood where the speed of the water was greatest. In this way I was able to catch up with Atavalens, who, unable to swim, was trying to clutch projections at the side of the street.

“Hold there!” I shouted, spitting ink from my mouth.

In seconds I caught the flailing man, grabbing his hand then swimming and reaching out to grasp an iron strut. I tensed my body as the flood tried to wrench Atavalens out of my grip, pulling hard until I saw pale hair; then Atavalens was able to drag himself out of the flood. We clambered upon a broad window ledge, me crouching, Atavalens kneeling.

But Atavalens was furious. “Did you try to rescue me, rat boy?” He hit me on the chin, then stood up and began kicking me. “You tried to rescue me. Did I ask you to rescue me? Did I call out for help?”

“Stop!”

“Did I allow you to grab me, rat boy?” Atavalens kicked hard, then bent over to slap me about the head. “Never do that again!”

The roaring maelstrom ceased. Atavalens looked up to see the trailing edge of the sootstorm at the far end of the street. He kicked me one last time, then jumped into the shallow side of the flood and began forging a way back to his henchmen. I waited until doorsteps began appearing before hopping back to my first shelter, where I reclaimed my crutch.

Through water now ankle deep the trio approached me. I cowered before them.

“I told you to keep out of my way,” Atavalens snarled.

Raknia and the women approached. Raknia grasped Atavalens’ arm and said, “What are we going to do about all this water?”

Atavalens was distracted. He nodded. “We have much to do,” he said. “Every channel must be freed so that water can flow freely into the Propontis.”

I heard myself speaking. “We can’t do that, it would cause massive erosion. We’re supposed to be preserving. We’ve got to block all channels so the water seeps away slowly—”

“Silence!” Yabghu raged, snatching my crutch and beating me with it. “Silence when the leader speaks!”

Atavalens grabbed the crutch and pushed Yabghu away. “Leave this to me,” he said.

He towered over me. I knew I was going to die. I was going to be murdered. I shuddered, one arm raised, as if that would be enough to stop the crutch striking me.

Atavalens raised the crutch, but then he grimaced, dropped it, then screamed and fell to the ground. On his knees, his left hand clutching his right forearm, he swore, gasped, then screamed again, rolling on his side. Yabghu and Uchagru stood horrified, then ran to grab him. Atavalens screamed louder than ever when they touched his arm, but Yabghu managed to roll enough of his tunic away to reveal pale flesh.

I saw nothing; it was too dark. But I heard the henchmen speaking in the silences between Atavalens’ screams. “Can you see anything?” “No.” “What’s that there?” “Just a pinprick.”

Uchagru grabbed Atavalens’ legs and Yabghu his shoulders, and together they lifted the writhing body and began carrying it down the street. Uchagru glanced over his shoulder to shout, “Group dismissed!”

We were left in damp silence.

Raknia knelt at my side. “Are you all right?”

I looked up at her. Yish and Kaganashina were leaving: the street was empty. Inky water trickled through the debris littering the pavements. I said, “I am just bruised, I think, nothing broken.”

“Good. Those vile...” She left the remainder of her thoughts unspoken.

“What happened to Atavalens?”

Raknia stood up, fetching my crutch then handing it over. I stood up. “It seems we have the remains of the night,” she said. “What will you do?”

I shrugged. “Go back to Blackguards’ Passage I suppose, maybe see if Musseler has any special instructions for us.”

“My room is close by,” Raknia said. “Come and see me later.”

“Your
room?
”

Raknia grinned, a gleam in her eyes. “You’ll have to wait and see.”

I said nothing. I did not understand what she meant.

Raknia fumbled at her waist to produce a steel flask, which she handed over. “I want to see you neat and clean,” she said.

“What’s this?”

“Fresh water. Use it.” She glanced down at my clothes, then, taking a pace closer, looked into my eyes. “Tidy, neat and clean,” she said.

I saw something in her expression that I did not recognise: a face both coy and vicious, intriguing yet repulsive in a way I could not grasp. Her black eyes shone, her hair hung in damp ringlets about her face, and she was beautiful. Yet she was something else, something far deeper.

Inspiration came as I caught a glimpse of these depths. She reminded me of myself. “You’re a shaman too,” I said.