The Deptford Histories

by Robin Jarvis

  Gritting his teeth, Chattan pushed the blades aside and ducked under the reaching arm, darting behind the crystal plinth which supported the now empty dish.

  After him the reptile sprang and, with the pillar separating them, they fought about the circular pool, the captain valiantly matching every mighty stroke. Then, at last, his blade slipped against the raking gold and went crashing into the column of crystal which chipped and shattered—casting a thousand sparkling diamonds into the pool.

  But Chattan’s sword lodged in the splintered stump and, before he could wrest it free, Dahrem gave a triumphant hiss and the golden knives scored the mongoose’s arm.

  “Captain!” Woodget cried.

  Chattan winced in agony as the venom began its lethal work. Already the blood was frothing from the twin wounds but he steeled himself against the pain and snatched his sword from the fractured crystal.

  “Put down your weapon,” Dahrem warned him. “Such folly will only speed your demise. Feel the poison gnawing at your fibres, Captain—soon it will devour you utterly.”

  But the mongoose’s face was set and grave and the determined expression caused a flicker of doubt to register on Dahrem’s ghastly face.

  “I know I am to die,” Chattan snapped. “But you at least I shall take with me!”

  With a yell, he leaped forward, cleaving the air with the sword. Before him, the adept prepared to strike a second time but the tenacity of death possessed the mongoose and his sweeping blows were wild and savage.

  Dahrem tried to counter, his glinting blades flashing brightly. But against Chattan’s fury there was no withstanding and the captain’s sword came scything down upon his wrist.

  Screeching, the reptile recoiled but the curved blades fell to the floor with the rest of his severed claws and the screams of his anguish shook the chamber.

  Yet the effort had proven too much for the captain. The stinking venom was foaming from his arm and his sword clattered to the floor beside Dahrem’s knives.

  Then, with a groan of despair, he toppled to his knees and collapsed.

  Above him, the adept nursed his bleeding stump and spat upon his withering victim.

  “Now we see who is mightier. Your usurping Green has proven to be weak. Go now to his garden in paradise—you will find it rank with thorn and weed.”

  At his scaly feet, the captain flinched and the torment of his wounds consumed him.

  Then, breathing feverishly, Dahrem turned and his gaze fell upon Woodget.

  Still huddled upon the ground, the fieldmouse stared forlornly up at the horror which approached him. The eighth fragment was still clutched in the reptile’s claws and its gleaming eyes were fixed upon the bag which contained the ninth.

  Woodget’s glance shifted to the captain’s writhing form and his ears rang with his agonies. Where was Thomas? Why was he not here?

  “Give it to me,” Dahrem’s hissing voice demanded. “Your custodianship is ended.”

  Woodget gazed at him, then scrunched up his little face as he clung to the leather bag.

  “Never!” he wailed.

  Dahrem growled, the pain of his truncated wrist had killed any joy this moment might have held. All he wanted was to take both fragments back to the Black Temple, he was not in the mood for any further sport.

  “Can you not see the torture that your noble captain is suffering?” he rapped. “Do you desire the same miserable fate? Shall I retrieve my talons and spike your yokel skin?”

  Shivering, Woodget made no answer but waited for the deathblow.

  Dahrem sneered. No, he would slay this contemptible maggot without resort to poison. Baring his fangs, he drew a deep breath and lunged for the fieldmouse’s neck.

  A strangled scream echoed from the mountain and the domed chamber quaked at the dreadful sound.

  Quivering, Woodget stared upwards, his terror bursting into relief.

  Above him Dahrem’s snake-like face bristled with woeful astonishment as he gazed down at the silver blade which now thrust out from a wound in his breast.

  Behind him, his courage mastered at last, stood Thomas.

  Woodget sobbed for joy and bolted past the incredulous, gasping reptile to be with him.

  But Dahrem was neither finished nor beaten, with the mouse’s sword still lodged between his ribs, he turned slowly.

  “Save us!” Woodget cried. “He ain’t dead.”

  “You think you have won?” the choking voice demanded. “Only Sarpedon conquers all.”

  Glowering at them, he took a heavy step forward, flourishing the eighth fragment above his head and the livid light which beat from the depths of the ancient jade made him appear filled with a power greater than any who breathed mortal airs, and Woodget shrank close to Thomas.

  “Into this world His splendour shall come again!” the nightmare exulted. “His black grandeur shall rise renewed and not a corner of the globe shall be free of His excellent dominion. Nations shall fall and under the Dark Despoiler’s guidance I shall govern. Slaughter and death will prevail and He will be supreme. At last the night is falling—an endless darkness to kill the light and this time none shall dare assail him!”

  Hooting with vile laughter, Dahrem threw back his head—yet in that moment, as the fragment blazed with evil glory, his labours proved too much.

  The golden treasure became a weight that was too heavy to bear and it pulled him off balance, dragging him backwards. His tail lashing about him, he went crashing against the oval stone which he slammed into with the full force of his stumbling fall.

  A tremendous, deafening note sang out as the fragment smote the glassy stone. There erupted a shower of fiery sparks and with an ominous shudder, the great jewel moved. Within its bronze setting the stone shifted, and a cloud of dust and stones poured into the chamber as it began to rock precariously upon the crumbling lip of granite beyond.

  Outside the mountain, in the middle of the great likeness’s forehead, the glimmering gem trembled and shook.

  Inside the domed chamber, Dahrem staggered to his feet. The hilt of Thomas’s sword had been driven deep into his back but with fearful eyes he stared up at the tremulous mass of shaped translucent stone that reared above him and lurched as it juddered and tilted dangerously inward.

  Suddenly, Thomas rushed forward and, spending all his strength, gave the reptile an almighty shove.

  Back Dahrem floundered, his scaly body crashing against the stone a second time and with that his fate was sealed.

  Out from the rock the great oval jewel fell and, flailing wildly upon the edge a moment longer, with the eighth fragment still in his grasp, Dahrem toppled after.

  Down the mountainside the enormous stone tumbled, smashing onto the immense, sculpted face of the Green Mouse and a tremendous crack split the night as an entire side of the gargantuan features shattered. With a thunderous clamour of crumbling rock, half of the enormous face dropped down onto the steps far below—hurling tons of rubble into the air.

  Thomas and Woodget hastened to the gaping portal, through which the rain was now blustering, and peered down.

  Dahrem’s hideous, reptilian form plunged through the night—the glare of the fragment gleaming like an emerald flame in his claw.

  His terrified screech carried on the gale, he plummeted down, spinning helplessly, until the squalling rain gusted across the mice’s vision and they could see no more.

  Far the adept of Suruth Scarophion fell, the rushing air screaming in his ears and his forked tail whisked wildly about him. Above him the shattered stone face of the Green Mouse dwindled in the sky but always he kept tight hold of the unhallowed fragment and, bathed in its baleful light, his body struck the bottom of the thousand steps.

  At the foot of the mountain, all the forces of the Scale were now assembled. Many were already ascending the stone stairs when the great jewel came thundering down and the sculpture’s face split asunder—falling in ruin about them.

  In terror they scattered as the steps were broken an
d buried in an avalanche of rock, then before they had recovered, to their astonishment, they saw a bright green star come falling after and with a bone-crunching crash, Dahrem’s shattered body pounded onto the rocks.

  Yammering in fright, the cult members gathered around his broken form, recognizing it to be one of the great adepts. Even they feared to look on him or venture too close, but down the battered, buried steps the High Priest came and he pushed his way through the clamouring press of the mob to gaze upon Dahrem’s corpse.

  Into the shadows of his dark hood, the glare of the pulsing jade gleamed and the High Priest let out a covetous hiss.

  “The fragment!” he cried.

  Stooping over the battered, reptilian body, the High Priest tore the jade shell from Dahrem’s claws but even as he held it aloft, to the foul cheers of his followers, Dahrem stirred.

  Though the veils of death were gathering about him and his frame was smashed beyond repair, the one who had portrayed Dimlon so cunningly and inveigled his way into the trust of many, let out a gargling sigh and the High Priest raised his claw for silence.

  At once a hush fell.

  “You have done well, my devoted agent,” the cloaked figure said. “Your name will be written in the blood of our enemies above the doors of the temple. Our quest is nearly ended. All that remains is to find the ninth and final piece.”

  At that, a malignant smile formed on Dahrem’s cut and bleeding face.

  “The end is indeed here,” he uttered, his speech riddled with pain. “The last fragment is there—high in the mountain.”

  Spinning around, the High Priest squinted up through the darkness then, leaving Dahrem to perish, he swept up the stairs and a legion of Sarpedon’s disciples raced after him.

  Alone, but surrounded by a circle of his gawping brethren, Dahrem died—his golden eyes staring fixedly up at the damaged vision of the Green Mouse and his dark, seditious soul went shivering into the void.

  High above in the domed chamber, as Dahrem gasped his last, another, more tragic, scene was taking place.

  Thomas and Woodget knelt by Chattan’s side. But there was nothing they could do for the mongoose. Tormented by the agonies of the venom, the captain of the Chandi was slipping mercifully into unconsciousness and, pulling the woollen hat from his head, Woodget wept over him.

  “Oh Tom!” he cried. “He’s nearly gone—he can’t last much longer.”

  Through the great oval hole in the curved wall the wind was howling in, tugging at their hair and Thomas solemnly rose to his feet.

  Splashed by the teeming rain he whispered a remorseful prayer over the captain’s body then told Woodget to stand.

  “We can’t stay here,” he said.

  But the fieldmouse did not want to leave Chattan, not while there was still a spark of life in him.

  “Tom!” he protested. “Us can’t abandon the captain to die on his own. He might speak again afore he goes.”

  Thomas leaned down and grabbed Woodget by the shoulders—shaking him forcefully.

  “Listen!” he declared. “It’s up to us now. We’re the only ones left to keep them horrors out there from getting Mulligan’s fragment. Do you think Chattan would want us to linger and get caught?”

  Woodget flinched under Thomas’s scolding and he shook his head miserably.

  “Look Woodj,” his friend said more gently, “I know this is all my fault. I was the one who made you leave Betony Bank in the first place and sent us both into this mess—but we’re here now and there’s no way out.

  “We can’t just go home and forget what’s happened. There’s a job still to be done and there’s no one else but us left to do it. They’ve all gone—all those who promised to guard us and take this peril off our paws. It’s back to you and me now and we can’t let them down. Everything’s depending on us Woodj—do you understand? Everything!”

  Woodget rose and wiped the tears from his eyes. “Right you are, Tom,” he agreed, wrapping his fingers about the bag’s leather straps and hoisting them over his shoulder.

  “Let’s take that passage through the mountain, but where to then, Tom? Where’ll we go then?”

  Thomas hurried to the doorway, stooping to pick up the mongoose’s sword as he ran. “There’s only one place we can go!” he shouted.

  “Where’s that?” Woodget cried, racing after him.

  At the top of the stairs Thomas paused. “Singapore,” he said flatly and proceeded to descend to the Holy One’s chamber.

  Before he followed, Woodget took one last look at Chattan’s shrivelling form.

  “Goodbye to ’ee, Captain,” he murmured softly, then down the stairs he fled.

  15 - The Lotus Parlour

  Mother Lotus, or Ma Skillet as she was more commonly called by her customers, sat in her creaking chair behind the bar and puffed on the long stemmed clay pipe she held in her podgy claws.

  A hazy fug hung in the claustrophobic, stuffy air, made all the worse by the pungent reek of her smouldering tobacco, and she dabbed a scrap of lace about her fat, sweating neck, then tried to cool herself with a colourful paper fan.

  It was a humid June night and the Lotus Parlour was stifling and sticky. Narrowing her thickly lashed and almond-shaped eyes, her gaze roved about the dim room, making sure everyone had something in their cup then pursed her vermilion lips tartly.

  The proprietor of the sleazy establishment, where the riff-raff of the Singapore River came to drink cheap liquor or gamble in one of the discreet alcoves, was a bloated, middle-aged brown rat. Yet the fur which covered her flabby face was powdered white with flour and three beauty spots peppered her left cheek. Fixed in the hair at the back of her head, above the straggly pigtail which dangled past her broad shoulders, was a lustrous blue butterfly, impaled upon a golden pin and through one of her nostrils she wore a silver ring.

  It was nearly forty years since she had first arrived on the island from her native China and by now knew all the sordid histories of each of her regulars. Only when a ship came into the busy port and its unofficial passengers disembarked, did she ever see anyone new come through that grimy door. Yet they were all of the same type; rats and gutter vagrants with meagre coins seeking gut-rotting grog or shady characters who went to whisper in darkened corners.

  Drowning their sorrows or carousing drunkenly within the Lotus Parlour’s grubby confines, the dregs of Singapore could usually be found. It was a seedy den of a place—the only permanent fixture of the scruffy shanty town where desperate, destitute creatures from all over the globe eventually found their way.

  Set into the harbour wall, lost in the deep gloomy shadows of a rickety wooden pier, just above the mud bank and the level of the highest tide. It was a place of ill repute—haunted by cut-throats, pirates and those sorry souls who were past caring what became of them.

  Lengths of old sailing canvas, painted with bright and garish colours festooned the smoke-stained ceiling and, hanging from fine threads was a veritable shoal of tropical fish. But all were dried and withered and their natural iridescent colours faded with the accumulated dirt of many years or hidden beneath haphazard splodges of gaudy pigment.

  Upon the walls was a kaleidoscope of what were once brilliant macaw feathers, arranged in rayed patterns—but they too were dulled and sullied with layers of dust.

  Suspended directly behind the wooden entrance was a pottery bowl that dripped with stalactites of greasy wax. Within its molten interior a bright, tapering flame steadily burned and when any new arrival stepped through the door, their eyes were immediately dazzled so that the patrons could get a good look at them before deciding whether to remain, scurry through the back door or fling a knife at the unwanted interlopers.

  The rest of the bar was dimly lit; only a few paper lanterns glowed upon some of the tables, creating cosy caves of subdued colour—but sinister shadows flitted about the cramped niches which were screened by curtains of glass beads, and where unpleasant deals were being made, contraband exchanged and the sp
oils of river piracy divided.

  That night the Lotus Parlour was relatively quiet; the all too familiar ugly rogues were huddled over their drinks; a muttering group of bamboo rats, a filthy, squint-eyed ermine, three sly-looking weasels with scars on their faces and knives in their belts, a Burmese water vole who’d had rather too much of the shady establishment’s liquor and several black bilge rats who kept to themselves and spoke to no one.

  Ma Skillet viewed them all and yawned. Still, there was always a chance that some fresh, unknown face would come through that door, for a cargo vessel had entered the harbour nearly an hour ago and she knew that eventually its complement of low-life would find its way here.

  Drawing on her pipe, she closed her eyes and two wisps of smoke drifted from her nostrils as she thought of the great ceremony that would take place later that night. In a few hours she would have to close up the premises and she reflected on the celebrations that lay ahead. But her reverie was interrupted as a slurring voice was suddenly raised in song.

  Pouting with displeasure, she glared through the cloying reek and across the room—to where the Burmese water vole was lifting his wooden beaker and crowing some half-remembered ballad.

  Ma Skillet rapped the fan upon the slop-spilt bar, but the vole was too far gone to notice and, removing the pipe from her mouth, she looked around for the young rat she had recently taken into her service.

  “Kiku!” her clipped, impatient voice rapped. “Kiku! Get you here!”

  From behind a ragged curtain which covered the entrance to a rancid smelling kitchen, the face of a handsome rat maiden appeared and Ma Skillet jabbed a fat claw in the direction of the burbling vole.

  “Him!” she cried. “Out you chuck!”

  Kiku grinned, not understanding her meaning and nodded affably.

  Ma Skillet fizzled with exasperation and slid from her chair in annoyance. Pulling her frayed silk dressing gown tightly about her so that it bulged and ballooned even more than usual, she lumbered over to where Kiku’s pretty face was still beaming and spitefully pulled out one of her whiskers.