The City

by Stella Gemmell

  And at last these people too started to build. And on the ancient layers of buildings, flattened by earthquake, toppled by invaders, crumbled by time and neglect, soaked in the blood of millennia, the present City slowly began to rise.

  It spread as never before, devouring the shabby settlements on its borders, eating up the rivers and hills and layering them first in timber then in stone. There were no towers of gold, no carvings of rich woods, just stone upon stone and an implacable march to north, south and east. Factories and forges spat smoke into the air, and all the birds and animals fled. Except of course for the rats. Great walls were built around the City. Then, barely as the labourers were finished and the shiny bronze gates were closed, new, higher walls were erected farther out. The circles of gates would open from time to time to let out armies of soldiers, sent to pacify and pillage outlying lands.

  Seven great families arose to rule the City, seven houses named Guillaume and Gaeta, Sarkoy…

  “I know this story!” Elija interrupted Rubin again. “It’s the tale of the Immortal and his brothers.”

  “Then,” Rubin replied, folding his arms and sitting back, “I can tell you no more. You know everything I can tell you about the history of the City.”

  There was silence for a moment, and Emly nudged Elija in the ribs, then her brother said sheepishly, “Tell me anyway. It might be a different story.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. Please.”

  “Their names were Guillaume and Gaeta, Sarkoy, Vincerus…”

  “Broglanh, Khan and Kerr,” Elija finished triumphantly.

  “And,” said Rubin, drawing breath, “they came to the City thousands of years ago. No one knows where they came from…”

  “But they are very important.”

  “They were very important, Elija, yet some of the Families dwindled or died out, or perhaps they hid themselves away from their more powerful brothers.”

  “Were they brothers?”

  “Perhaps. But they lived a very long time and had many offspring and it’s said that even the gods can’t remember if they were once brothers or not.”

  “Are they gods, Rubin?”

  Rubin shook his head. “I don’t know. I was told this by my father, who knew them all. And I asked him the same thing. So he asked me what I thought a god was. I said a god was a being apart, one unlimited by the laws of nature. He said in that case, yes, they were gods. And together they were called the Serafim.”

  Elija stared at his friend. His words were incomprehensible, but he nodded.

  “My father said they came to the City to bring peace and justice and knowledge. And in the end they gave us none of those things. They became steeped in greed and vice; they sucked in wealth and breathed out only corruption. And the emperor, who we call the Immortal but whose real name is Araeon, is the worst of them all…”

  Elija put his hands to his ears, frightened at these perilous words.

  Rubin patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, Elija. We are safe here in the Halls. We could die any day, drowned by a flash flood or killed and eaten by reivers, lost in the Whithergo, executed by patrols. But at least the emperor can’t hear our words. We are safe from him down here.”

  We’re lost!”

  Elija’s comfortable reverie about his days with Rubin had given way to present-day reality. “We’re lost,” he repeated to Amita.

  They had been trudging forever. But the river meandered in great loops and they were making slow progress. They could not stick to the main path, along the riverbank, for it was too steep and slippery, but struck out towards an outcrop of white rock they could see in the distance. Once there, Amita said, they could use the rock as a reference point, heading towards the source of daylight. But the light was fading and Elija could barely see Amita’s shape ahead of him. Within moments it would be pitch-dark again and they would be lost.

  “We should have gone back to the tunnels,” he complained, not for the first time. He was on the verge of tears.

  Amita came to a halt, knee-deep in sticky mud.

  “We’re not lost,” she told him with her usual confidence, “but I think we’re going the wrong way.”

  “I can see the rock right there,” Elijah replied, pointing to its gleam to their left.

  The girl shook her head. “I mean, by the time we get there we won’t be able to see.”

  “And we have no food or water.”

  So they sat there, defeated and out of choices, until the mysterious rosy light they had seen before appeared far to their right.

  “That’s where we should go,” Amita told Elija, pointing.

  Elija looked at it and felt only fear. He shook his head.

  “It’s a fire,” he said. “It must mean danger.”

  “If it’s a fire then there will be food,” Amita told him persuasively.

  Reminded of food, Elija felt his stomach cramp painfully. They had found water the previous day, running in a torrent from high above them. It tasted earthy, but they had kept it down and it had given them energy for a while. But it was two days or more since they’d eaten. He shook his head again. “I’m frightened.”

  “The river goes that way, I’m sure. We just have to cut across there.” She pointed straight across the mudbanks.

  Elija had walked shores like these many times before and he could tell by the sheen on the mud that it was perilous. “We’ll be walking on shores,” he told her. “It’s too dangerous. There might be shallow vaults. We could fall in and die.”

  “I don’t know what shores or shallow vaults are. It will be hard going. But there might be paths.”

  But there were no paths. The two children found themselves struggling through mud again, and after a while their legs ached and their chests hurt. There was a new enemy too, swarms of flying insects which buzzed around them, biting their skin and getting into their eyes and mouths. Neither of them had suffered these in the tunnels, and the constant persecution was almost more than they could bear.

  The red light had vanished again when Elija realised he could no longer see the girl ahead of him.

  “Amita!” he cried in panic. “Where are you?”

  “Here!”

  He felt her hand grab his arm and she pulled him towards her.

  “Here. Hold on to this.” He felt a wooden post sunk deep into the mud, and clung to it.

  “It’s a piece of fence,” the girl said in his ear.

  As the last light dwindled and vanished all he could hear was a distant squealing, like the sounds of a hundred crying babies, and his heart froze with fear.

  Elija felt strangely comfortable when he awoke. He was knee-deep in mud, but it was solid enough to support his thighs and back, and he felt almost rested. He could hear the mewing sound again, but louder. He opened his eyes and was surprised to see daylight. It was a thick, soupy sort of daylight, but he could see better than he had in a long time. For all his fears, it was good to see again, and his spirits lifted a little. He raised his head. Amita was beside him. She was fast asleep. She had tied herself to the wooden post so she would not slip into the river in the night. Elija could see now that she was fair, and her thick blonde lashes rested on her cheek as she slept. He relaxed back against the mudbank, wondering how to extricate his legs from the sludge.

  Then he heard muffled voices. He tensed and, raising his head, he looked about him, alarmed. At first he could see nothing but mudbanks rolling back in the half-light. Then the twin sparks of two torches, coming towards him down the river. Stretching over he shoved Amita sharply, then put his mouth to her ear.

  “Stay still. There’s someone coming.”

  He felt her start awake, then her head lifted and she looked at him, eyes wide. He nodded his head upriver and she looked past him.

  “A boat,” she said. “Be quiet. They won’t see us.”

  So that was a boat. Elija had never seen a boat. There were no boats on the rivers of sewage in the Halls. He laid his head back
down as Amita scooped mud over him, and over herself. They were filthy enough already and Elija had no fear they would be noticed, two muddy lumps in a sea of mud.

  He heard a gentle lapping, and the creak of leather, getting louder.

  “We’re wasting our time,” complained a rough voice, echoing weirdly in the great open space.

  Another croaked, “Your time so valuable, Leel? What’ll you do else this fine morning? Join the emperor in his palace for breakfast?”

  A woman cackled, and Leel, whining, replied, “I’m just saying. Every morning we come this way, rowing all morning, just to see the same sight. Blockade’s been there a year or more. I’m just saying.”

  “And I’m saying,” the other man told him, “you do what I tell you, boy, and one day you’ll be thanking me. There’ll be pickings aplenty when our boys take them on. Dead sailors are easy pickings. Live ones too. Gold rings aplenty when we slice their ears off. Wouldn’t want to miss it, would you?”

  Elija lifted his head slowly and saw a wide flat shape floating on the river. Paddles on either side moved gently up and down. The boat was getting smaller as it headed towards the light. The light was so bright now it hurt Elija’s eyes. A new ripple of fear coursed through him.

  Chapter 6

  Bartellus and the child wandered in the Halls for a long time before they saw anyone, anyone alive. At first the way they were following went down and down. The Halls became narrower and smaller, until they were merely tunnels. Bartellus was starting to believe they could go no deeper in the bowels of the City before feeling the flaming heat of the earth’s core, when the Halls started soaring away again, high above the light of his torch. He wondered how deep they were, and how long ago these great chambers were built. He remembered what Archange said about city built above city.

  “Do you know where we are?” he asked the girl, though he guessed the answer. She shook her head.

  The hall was dry and dusty, as if water had not touched the floors for centuries. Yet they were well below the level of the stormwater tunnels. How could a lower level be this dry? Shrugging to himself, Bartellus dismissed the problem from his mind. He was no architect, no engineer. Just a soldier.

  They pressed on, the girl still holding to his hand, and before long one end of a lofty stone bridge loomed ahead of them. It seemed to span a wide dry way, perhaps a river once, Bartellus thought. Surely not a road? Though he raised his torch, he could not see how high it went, nor the length of its span. The huge steps started well above their heads. It seemed a bridge made for giants.

  “Shall we cross?” he asked the girl. He had convinced himself that the child had an instinct for where they were going in relation to where they had been. She seemed confident, although Bartellus guessed that she too had never travelled as deep as this before. He was happy for her to make their decisions for them. It was their only communication.

  She looked around her gravely, then nodded.

  He bent down and picked her up, placing her on the first of the giant steps. Then he motioned her back and, as she retreated, he threw the blazing torch onto the step beside her. She jumped forward and picked it up and held it for him.

  He looked around. There was a pile of broken wood and large chunks of timber in one dusty corner, as if swept there by the giant bridgebuilder’s broom. He dragged two of the bigger blocks to the base of the bridge, then several sturdy chunks of wood on top, making two makeshift steps. If they were forced to come back this way they would be able to get down again.

  The steps of the bridge were too high for the child to climb, so Bartellus lifted her onto each one, then scrambled up himself. It was hard going, and when they had reached the top he felt no sense of progress. They stood together in the echoing darkness. There was no sound, not even of rats. Since the storm Bartellus had had half an ear cocked all the time, listening for the sound of water. He imagined it now, a tidal wave rushing at them out of the gloom, scouring them off the bridge like motes of dust.

  But there was no water, no sound. Gathering his energy to go on, Bart took a last look around and glimpsed a white blur below them. His old eyes strained to see what it was, and he realised it was the shape of a woman, clad in pale robes, standing at the base of the bridge they had recently left. He opened his mouth to call out, but his heart suddenly withered in his breast. The figure carried no torch. No one could survive deep in the Halls without light. Into his mind came the tales, told by Dwellers with fear and sometimes relish, of creatures in the depths they called wraiths. He shook his head at such nonsense.

  “Wait,” he told the girl.

  But when he looked again the pale figure was gone. He looked about, peering into the silent gloom. The child watched him curiously. “Nothing,” he said.

  They sat for a while, drinking the water Archange had given them, then they went on, climbing down the other end of the bridge. After that the way quickly started to rise, and it was their downward journey in reverse; first they travelled through high halls, then the tunnels became mean and cramped, and damp. Soon they were walking along the side of a stream again, just as they had done before the storm came. The tunnel was unfamiliar to Bartellus, but the girl seemed to know where they were. He was amazed she still had the strength to walk when he felt his legs would give out at any moment. He watched obsessively the torch he had taken from the Hall of Watchers. When it failed they would probably die.

  He was considering calling a short halt when they heard voices and stopped. Coming towards them out of the mirk were four people with one torch. They stopped abruptly when they saw Bartellus and the girl.

  The leader, a small elderly man with a grey beard, had fear and suspicion etched across his face as he approached them. He moved crab-wise, as if ready to run at the least threat.

  “Where you going?” he asked roughly, peering up at Bartellus short-sightedly.

  Bartellus wondered that an old man without weapons and a small girl could concern them so. Then he realised all four were elderly, that some carried injuries, and all looked battered by the storm. They no doubt feared reivers, or anyone who was stronger than them. An unfamiliar bubble of amusement welled up inside him. He felt as weak as a sick mouse. Yet these poor people were afraid of him.

  He held out empty hands and told them, “We are survivors of the storm. We are seeking our way back to the Hall of Blue Light.”

  “We are all survivors of the storm,” grunted the man sourly. “We would not be here if we were not.” He spat on the ground, making his point.

  Bartellus asked, “Can you tell us if we are near our destination?”

  “I do not know your Hall of Blue Light. Is it beyond the Eating Gate?”

  Bartellus glanced at the girl, who nodded with confidence.

  “Then you are farsiders. We do not go beyond the Gate. It is too perilous. The patrols come from there. And the storms.”

  “Where are you going?” Bartellus asked him.

  The man peered at him suspiciously. “Why would you want to know?”

  Bartellus shrugged. “Perhaps you are travelling to a place of safety. Perhaps we could come with you.”

  “Perhaps it would not be a place of safety if we prattled about it to any stranger who asked,” the man said, glaring at them sideways.

  The other three started to shuffle along nervously, eyes down. The old man shook his head. “We want nothing of you farsiders. You bring only trouble. Leave us alone!”

  He scuttled off and the four returned to the gloom. Bart looked down at the girl and shrugged. She pointed the way they had been going, and they moved along.

  Once they detected the sound of the Eating Gate they knew they had reached known territory. Relieved, sure now that their torch would last the journey, Bartellus gave them another short rest. Sitting with his back against a dry wall, his eyes closed, he wondered again about the long and meandering path they had travelled. He could never find his way back to the Hall of Watchers. Although he thought the child might be able to.
He was certain now, had been sure for some time, that they had not been swept helplessly into that stone chamber where he had met the warrior Indaro. They had been rescued from the stormwater and carried to safety. But for what purpose? His conversation with Archange had revealed nothing, at least to him. But he was sure she knew who he was. He was too tired to concentrate on the problem. Instead his mind idled back over the events of the last day.

  Remembering suddenly, he delved in the pouch at his side and from the bottom brought out the piece of cloth he had snatched from the neck of the corpse. It was half dried, damp and wadded into a solid lump. Carefully he teased and stretched it out, as the little girl watched, her dark eyes serious.

  He had thought it a kerchief or a scarf, but it was neither. It was a circle made from fine gauze, delicately embroidered at the edges with thread which had once been coloured. There were two tiny pieces of metal attached to its edges. He took one in his stubby tortured fingers and peered at it, moving closer to the torchlight, squinting. But his ageing eyes could make nothing of it. He looked enquiringly at the girl, who held out her hand. He gave it to her and she looked at it. Then she took the other piece of metal and held them together.

  She looked up at Bartellus, realisation in her gaze. She put the two close to the ground and trotted them along. He took them from her and peered again. Yes, they were animals, a dog and a horse, perhaps. Or a donkey. Each cunningly crafted in gold.

  “Is this a donkey?” he asked.

  Her lips curved a little and he recognised the hint of a smile.