The Rat and the Serpent (7 page)

Chapter 4

It was evening, and Musseler’s apprentices were sitting before his dais in the Tower of the Dessicators. I knew a speech was coming because of the serious look on Musseler’s face.

“Apprentices,” he began, “we have arrived at the penultimate stage, the task prior to the citidenizen test. Those of you who undertake this task in the manner I expect will be recommended for the test.” He paused, glanced down a moment, then continued, “Though I should not say this, I confidently expect all of you to be put forward. But because the task you face—not to mention the test itself—is difficult, even dangerous, we have decided to allocate cimmerians to you. One each.”

Musseler paused, glancing towards the door behind the dais, then snapping his fingers as a murmur of conversation arose from the apprentices. Cimmerians, I thought; what are they?

In walked a column of dark-skinned people, the men naked from the waist up, the women dressed in tunics, every one athletic of build, though nervous in manner. I counted six, three men and three women.

“What’s a cimmerian?” Yabghu asked.

“A nogoth from one of the settlements at the periphery of the Mavrosopolis, very rarely seen. I will allocate one to each of you. Rely on your assistant, for you will need every particle of help in the forthcoming days. They are here to aid you.”

I frowned, a nervous tremor beginning in my stomach; six cimmerians but seven apprentices, and it did not take much thought to understand the reason for that. I ground my teeth, took a deep breath, then stood up.

“Musseler,” I said, “I apologise for interrupting, but I’ve got to point out that there are only six cimmerians.”

“Yes?”

“Who won’t get one?”

Musseler stared at me. “You want one too?”

“I am doing the task, aren’t I?”

“Well... I suppose so. Of course, you won’t be taking the test.”

I could not help but shout, “I
will
take the test!”

Musseler’s eyes narrowed, making me wonder if I had gone too far, but then he said, “Very well, Ügliy, you’ll get a cimmerian too.”

I sat down. “Thank you,” I said.

Under his breath, though not so quiet I would not hear, Musseler added, “Though what good it will do you I don’t know.”

The others stared at me. Atavalens had returned from his sick-bed and his gaze was the most aggrieved. I looked away.

“So to the task,” said Musseler, returning to his brisk manner. “The sootstorm destroyed a sorcerer’s tower, the upper half of which has collapsed, leaving the lower half standing. A great well of water has gathered inside, and you have to decide how to deal with it.” He began pacing the circumference of the dais, hands behind his back. “Obviously you can’t let it flow away because of the erosion that would cause. No, rather you have to transport it, or perhaps encourage it to seep.”

I returned my gaze to Atavalens, recalling our disagreement during the soot storm over the merits of freeing channels or blocking them. Musseler’s remarks proved me right. Then I realised I was grinning. Shocked at myself, I returned my face to nonchalance, but Atavalens grimaced and raised his right hand, fingers curled like a feline paw, moving it slowly through the air. Feeling a touch on my arm, I looked down to see four white lines appear on my skin, like scratches. I jumped, forcing my chair back and making it squeak against the floor.

Musseler stopped pacing. “Ügliy! Be quiet.”

“Sorry.”

There was silence before Musseler resumed speaking. “As I was explaining, you cannot allow any water to leak out of the tower since the pressure inside could be enough to magnify any flaw in the stonework to the point of collapse, and that would be a disaster for the local area. There must be no erosion. Could you transport the water? There are thousands of gallons trapped inside, it would take a month. So here is your dilemma. You will have to think, work as a team, and the result must be a success, for your test depends upon it.” He looked us over, then added, “Of course I won’t be with you. Nor do I require you to tell me your plan. Just succeed.”

He stopped speaking, nodding to us, then gesturing for Yabghu to approach.

“This is your cimmerian,” he said, taking the wrist of one of the women and putting it in Yabghu’s hand. In turn he allocated cimmerians to apprentices, until I was left standing alone, whereupon he grimaced, then made for the door, where he whistled. A fourth woman entered the room, and he thrust her in my direction.

“Think hard on your plan,” he told us. “I will return at midnight.” He departed without further instructions.

But before one word of a discussion could begin, Atavalens walked over to where I stood and slapped my face with one of his gloves. “Rat boy,” he said, “you embarrassed us.”

Despite my apprehension, I was not intimidated. “I have the right to do this task,” I said.

“Don’t you see, you fool? The test requires physical perfection. How many citidenizens do you see walking with crutches? None. Part of this test is the ability and desire to use make-up, to become flawless under the aegis of the Mavrosopolis, and I’m telling you that I for one will never allow a cripple to be ranked as a citidenizen alongside me.” He spat at me. “You are nothing but a vile cretin, and
that
is the reason Musseler arranged no cimmerian for you, because he knows malformed nogoths cannot pass the test.” He gestured at my withered leg and concluded, “What kind of make-up is going to hide that?” And he strode away.

I was left standing alone, thirteen pairs of eyes locked upon me. Total silence.

I replied, “I
will
take the test. If I don’t I automatically fail, but if I do take it and then fail at least it will be because of my own actions.”

Atavalens turned to point at me, his whole body shaking. “You will fail,” he said. “You will fail because I will
see
to it that you fail.”

I nodded, forcing my face to remain expressionless. “Then you admit that I will be taking the test,” I said.

Atavalens was about to reply when Raknia raised then dropped her chair to the floor; the crash echoed around the chamber. “We need to discuss our task,” she said.

The atmosphere was broken. Grumbling, Atavalens arranged twelve chairs in a circle, pushing two others aside that I realised were meant for me and my cimmerian. Without comment I sat down, as did the cimmerian woman. She was short and slight, her soot-stained tunic ripped and worn. She wore leather mukluks not unilke my own. Her jet-black hair was fine and long, and she had made some effort to comb it.

I glanced aside, then said to her, “I’m Ügliy—don’t worry, we’ll manage.”

She attempted a smile, but she was afraid. “I’m Karanlik,” she whispered.

Silence descended upon the chamber. I whispered back, “I’m glad you were allocated to me. We must remain true against the wayward methods of this group. Don’t worry. I am a shaman.”

Karanlik nodded. The fact that she comprehended the word ‘shaman’ was a great comfort to me.

For an hour the group discussed options, with me contributing not a word, nor Atavalens, who sat head bowed as if enduring the idle conversations of children. The apprentices discussed the possibility of transport, of natural seepage, even of sorcery, but they could not agree on a solution, not least because the amount of water was so large.

Then Atavalens rubbed the back of his neck, sighed, and looked up. “I cannot credit what I have just heard,” he said. He stood up, jumped upon the dais and began walking around it, hands behind his back. “Have none of you any imagination? Midnight is close and you still haven’t seen the obvious solution.”

“Tell us,” Raknia said.

“That is what your leader is going to do. The answer is simple. Do you think Musseler used the sorcerer’s block merely to fry fungus? No. It was a clue. We have to use the block to boil away the water.”

Raknia laughed. “Haven’t you seen a can on a bonfire? It takes a long time—”

“This is a sorcerer’s block,” Atavalens interrupted, “not a child’s fire. We are dealing with the implements of the citidenizenry here. We face a big problem so we use big tools. Please—have some realism.”

“Carry on, then,” Raknia said.

“The sorcerer’s block will be lowered into the water, and after a short time the water will boil away. There, that is decided.” He jumped down from the dais, adding, “Remain here, all of you. I will return before midnight.”

I watched as Atavalens approached the door through which Musseler had departed. He crept through the doorway, and I knew he was going to steal a sorcerer’s block from the equipment room. I glanced at Raknia, who shrugged, then smiled; a gesture of sadness, not confidence. So I turned my attention to Karanlik, but before I could strike up a conversation Raknia was at my side, grabbing me by the arm and pulling me from my chair.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

“This plan can’t work,” Raknia said.

I nodded, saying, “You could be right.”

“I am right. Have you seen a can boiling? It’s violent. If Atavalens boils a tower full of water it will break the stonework, or explode, scalding us and everybody else in the area. We have to stop him.”

I saw her reasoning. If Atavalens was allowed to pursue a scheme that failed none of the apprentices would be allowed to take the test. Suddenly I felt desperate. Atavalens was not a man who would listen to reason. “We have got to do something,” I said, “before it’s too late.”

“Exactly. Have you thought of a plan?”

“No.”

Raknia glanced at the door. “Musseler will return any minute, and I have a feeling Atavalens won’t discuss the details of his boiling plan.”

I sensed my chance of becoming a citidenizen slipping away. I bit my bottom lip, then said, “We’ve got to think of something!”

“I know.”

“You?”

Raknia sighed, then replied, “Nothing yet.”

From deep inside the tower a bell tolled, marking the division of the night. I cursed under my breath, then said, “We’d better sit down.”

Raknia grabbed my sleeve. “Even if somebody does come up with a better plan, nobody can tell Atavalens. We would have to convince him it was his own idea.”

I cursed again. I felt panic approaching—my future departing. “I’ll ask Karanlik,” I said.

Raknia frowned. “Oh, yes,” she drawled, “ask an outsider.”

I ignored this remark, replying, “You ask your cimmerian,” then returning to my chair, where I whispered in Karanlik’s ear. “Have you thought of anything?”

She shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s beyond me.”

Fretting, I sat back. Atavalens sprang into the room and hurried to his chair, sitting down just in time to see the return of Musseler.

From the dais Musseler said, “Well?”

Atavalens stood, his manner unctuous, his expression a haughty smirk. “We have a plan,” he said. “We are ready. May we depart?”

Musseler gestured at the exit. “The sorcerer’s tower awaits.”

So we departed the Tower of the Dessicators, Atavalens and his henchmen first, cimmerian women in tow, followed by Yish, Kaganashina and their men, then me, Raknia and our cimmerians. I found myself stupefied, too frightened of failure to think of a plan, aware that this night might be my last before a return to the streets. I was shaking. Karanlik noticed, slipping her hand into mine as we walked along Sehzadebazi Street towards the ruined tower.

At the tower we milled around while Atavalens took his henchmen to inspect the walls. I surveyed the area. I noticed that the sorcerer had built his tower adjacent to the channel left by the River Lycus, long since diverted into the Propontis to reduce erosion. This channel, though many feet lower than street level, was used as a road south to the harbour—and so I was struck by an idea. In the space of a few seconds, I imagined water rushing down the channel to the sea, rejected this idea because of the erosion it would cause to the channel base and walls, then wished the water could somehow be made solid. I thought of water boiling, then of ice, but I rejected those ideas as unworkable. But then I imagined ice spheres rolling down to the sea, and I remembered the dessicating rods.

With a wave of my rags I gestured Raknia over, pulling her a few steps away, out of earshot. “I have it,” I said, gripping her shoulders.

“What?” she asked.

“The dessicating spheres at the end of our rods. Their sorcery limits them by weight, not by volume—”

“No, it would take months to carry all that water down to the sea—”

“Listen,” I insisted, “we fill all seven spheres with the water—”

“They will weigh a
ton
—”

“Then we just let them roll down the channel left by the River Lycus. It’s their weight that we exploit.”

Raknia glanced at the tower, then at me. “It might work, and it’s all we have,” she said.

I turned to examine the channel. “There’s only one problem,” I said. “It’s been centuries since that river ran and I don’t know if the channel retains a slope down to the Propontis.” I turned, grabbing Raknia again in the intensity of my thought. “You go and persuade Atavalens,” I said. “I’ve got to check the channel.”

“You?”

“As a rat!” I hissed. “Now go, before it’s too late.”

I thrust her in the direction of the tower, then hurried down to the channel. I gazed south through the mist of soot, catching at the extremity of my vision a glimpse of the Forum of Bovis upon Ordu Street, where the channel bent west then made for the sea; white lamps amidst shadows where windows pierced the Forum walls. I crouched down, pushing the Mavrosopolis from my mind and concentrating on the channel, setting my mind along the road to trance with a rhythmic beating of my hands and feet upon the ground: legs back, arms forward, nose twitching.

My senses leaped free, vision enhanced, hearing perfect, my tiny body aware of every nuance of the channel. Fast as water itself I scurried down the channel, detecting the slightest variation in slope below the caked soot and debris, aware through my whiskers of flaws in the stonework, then, before I knew it, standing before the Propontis with triumph ringing through my mind. Success! Yes, there were a few tiny ups and downs, but by the time the rolling spheres reached these obstacles their momentum would carry them through.