The Rat and the Serpent

by Stephen Palmer

  I do not think that people should be ashamed of thinking wrong thoughts, so long as those thoughts were conceived when they were young and knew no better, and so long as those thoughts are actually recognised. To do other would be to delude the self.I am not so foolish. I see now that the citidenizenry is wholly apart from the nogoths in a way inconceivable to one living as a nogoth. I could not have imagined the harsh strictures that would be imposed on me. Perversely, I imagined freedom. I see now that I have left that behind. Yet I wonder if I have gained sufficient benefit to make a certain loss of freedom bearable.

  This balancing act is difficult. For a while—no more than new moon to new moon—I wondered if such an act was impossible, but then I noticed, examined and studied the lives of the citidenizens all around me, and I realised that at least some suffered in the same way as do I. So I am not alone! I am thankful for that, having deserted so many of my acquaintances, and even, I am horrified to say, my family. And yet, having studied deeply of my new kin, I find nobody like me.

  So I think alone, and say nothing about my heresy (if so strong a word can be used) to anybody. I find myself both alone and not-alone. I laughingly imagine myself torn asunder by these two opposing forces. It is not a laughing matter.

  There is one feature of delight, however. Citidenizens, thankfully, do not rule themselves. There is a further layer of bureaucracy invisible to the nogoth, that of the counsellords, who dispense justice with what for the moment I have to assume is a fair and pleasant eye. I had assumed that brutal people such as the masters in the Tower of the Thawers (how pleased I am to be free of that place) were the rulers, but they are subservient to the counsellords. These counsellords wear jewellry, which sets them apart—a glittering fiction, but one necessary in so dark a world. These counsellords are high, noble and even mighty people, a score of them ruling Bazaar, I suppose a hundred and forty in the Mavrosopolis as a whole. I amuse myself that I might one day attain so high a station, promulgating justice with all the power and goodwill befitting the position. I think I would be a just and true counsellord, if such a thing is possible. Interestingly, the citidenizens themselves vote for pre-counsellords they deem fit to rise from their own ranks. This seems a poor system to me, since it is obvious that it is susceptible to foul play, or even to sorcerous influence. A man should rise or fall on his own merits. If he is a fool, so be it. If he is a genius, that too should be recognised. But if he is a swindler or a rogue or a criminal he could still become a counsellord, which seems wrong, and is certainly ungainly. There should be nothing unseemly in a system of election. I am against unseemly things.

  If I am honest with myself—and this is the whole point of keeping these grey pages, that an outsider would deem the annotation of my life—the worst part of leaving nogoth life and embracing citidenizen life is the process of extrication from family. I respect my mother and I know that she is alive, albeit lying in a gutter with only a broken parasol to protect her from the swirling soot. It is painful to accept that never again can we meet. I secretly send her notes through the agency of a sorcerous trinket that I picked up. The Mavrosopolis would deem this wrong behaviour. I deem it right, and so I will continue with it. Also, I will not be caught. The Mavrosopolis, I have decided, is so full of secrets and secretive behaviour that one day it will burst, with a mighty, dirty thunderclap. It only has itself to blame. I trust I am alive and sensible when it happens...

  Chapter 10

  The concept of entertainment was incomprehensible to me, but Garakoy took the time to explain it as we strolled along Tulku Sok Street towards the Hippodrome. “We have to enjoy ourselves in order to balance the work that we do for the Mavrosopolis,” he told me, as we walked through the midnight crowds. “If we only worked, we’d become jaded, even violent. Citidenizens have to play.”

  I could only think of nogoths dying on the street. Separating groups of people was grotesque, and I wanted nothing to do with the practice. Garakoy chattered on. His hands were never still, accentuating what he said with elegant gestures. “I suppose you’ve never been inside the Hippodrome,” he remarked, pointing at it.

  “No.”

  “It’s a treasure! The main auditorium is for great works of theatre and music, but there are many smaller chambers set around the perimeter. I’m taking you to see a new tragedy that’s currently the talk of Stamboul. I hear it’s rather salacious—even vulgar. You’ll like that!”

  “Will we see it in the auditorium?” I asked.

  “Oh, no. That’s only for major works, relevant to the Mavrosopolis. This tragedy has only just begun its run.”

  “What’s it called?”

  Garakoy uttered a braying laugh. “Can you believe they titled it ‘Vulgar Times’? You have to admire the pluck of these playwrights!”

  We stood at the great outer wall of the Hippodrome, a barrier pierced by hundreds of silver lamps that twinkled like stars, as the sable flags that decorated the upper levels fluttered in response to the motion of feet inside. I had heard the roar of the crowds all my life, but even now I could not imagine what might lie within. Tonight I was going to find out.

  It was claustrophobic inside, a maze of passages and booths, of jostling bodies and loud voices, of the smells of sweat and perfume—Garakoy took me by the arm so that we did not become separated. The lighting was poor, lamps in steel and glass cases suspended from the ceiling, creating a random, almost febrile light.

  “I’ll pay for you,” Garakoy called out, his voice almost lost to the din.

  “What?”

  “Raki?”

  “What?”

  “I’ll get you a goblet. We’ll go into the theatre, get out of this crush.”

  Garakoy vanished for a minute, then returned to lead me into a chamber filled with seats. Already the place was half full, reeking of raki and smoke. Garakoy took me to one side, indicating that we should sit.

  I asked, “Now what?”

  “We let ourselves be entertained. Enjoy it!”

  The entertainment began when the stage curtain was pulled back. I tried to concentrate on what was being enacted, but, so recently a citidenizen, I found the subject of the tragedy incomprehensible. There was no compassion, no concern, just a series of linked scenes that described an imaginary world. The two main characters, a man and a woman, were conducting an affair under the eyes of their peers, causing the audience much hilarity.

  And then I noticed something. The man was portrayed as a pathetic vagrant, a wastrel, entangled by the lures of an aristocratic woman, following only his lusts to create a story both comic and appalling. There were similarities with my own life. The vulgarity of the tragedy was epitomised by the direct way the affair was portrayed—the actors both naked. The scenes continued. There were flowers strewn upon the floor, there was raki, and there were endless couplings. I saw myself in every scene. I saw nothing but mockery.

  Suddenly infuriated I leaped from my seat, but Garakoy pulled me down before I could speak a word. “What are you doing?” he hissed into my ear.

  “That’s me on the stage,” I replied. “They’re making a comedy out of me.”

  “Nonsense. Impossible! You’ve only just become a citidenizen.”

  “Who is responsible for this?”

  Garakoy shrugged. “I don’t know. I expect the playwrights are backstage, if they’re anywhere.”

  I leaped from my seat and hurried around the stage. Before anybody could stop me I ran through the side curtains into the bays behind the stage, where, amidst actors in costume, I saw two figures, men in rich clothes, wearing floppy hats and carrying swords. I stopped, amazed. I recognised them. It was only a moment before my memory was drawn back to Raknia’s tower and the haunting of the two shades. These men were those two ghosts, and yet now they were real.

  “You!” I said. “You’re responsible for all this?”

  The men were just as surprised as me, standing slack-jawed as the actors muttered to themselves and Garakoy rushed through the cu
rtain.

  I turned to confront Garakoy. “Do you know these two?” I demanded.

  Garakoy indicated the silver jewellery weighing down their fingers. “These gentlemen are counsellords, Ügliy,” he said, nervously clasping his hands together. “Grant them the benefit of your manners, please.”

  “I will not,” I retorted, turning to face the pair. “So counsellords think it is amusing to make fun of new citidenizens?”

  The men looked at one another, and I could see from their expressions that they had not expected me to appear.

  “It’s me out there, isn’t it?” I shouted. “You haunted me, but now I’ve become a citidenizen you are out to ruin me. Do you think I am stupid?”

  Garakoy was at my side, pawing me. “Ügliy, calm yourself. There are laws against wild behaviour, against slander—”

  I jerked myself free and approached the men. “You work for that wraith, don’t you?”

  The taller of the men stepped forward, raising one hand to pat his elegantly twirled moustache. “We work for the Mavrosopolis,” he said. “As for you—you had better watch out. We know about you.”

  They stalked off.

  Garakoy was frantic. “What’s going on?” he asked me. “Quickly, we must leave before we’re cornered. Hurry!”

  I allowed myself to be led out of the Hippodrome, but on the street I dug my heels in. I asked Garakoy, “Did you know that your so-called entertainment was about me? Did you know those two men deliberately took me and mocked me?”

  “You are going too far, Ügliy, it is quite impossible—”

  “Did you?”

  “No, no! Of course not. The tragedy has only recently been staged.”

  I felt my anger ebb away. “Maybe they didn’t expect me to hear about their entertainment so early,” I said. “Maybe... maybe they hoped to attract huge crowds before I heard about it. But I know they did this to ruin my chances of remaining a citidenizen.”

  Garakoy became exasperated. “You know nothing,” he said, stamping his foot. “With respect, Ügliy, you know nothing. It is absurd to claim that those counsellords are shades when they are men like you and me.”

  I glanced back at the Hippodrome. “They were shades once,” I murmured, “even if they aren’t now. I am going to find out what is going on.”

  “You will discover nothing by acting the fool,” Garakoy replied, taking me by the arm. “Come along, we’ll have to leave before there is an outcry.”

  But I could think of nothing that might help me uncover the truth of the shades and their plans. I was left to fret in my study, wondering if the effort of passing the test had been worthwhile.

  The time came to discuss work. Ill at ease, I left my room, stepping out again onto Tulku Sok Street and heading for the Forum of Constantine, where I was shown to the chamber of Vasimkantoy, clerk of work. He was an old man with a great white beard. At first it was all smiles, coffee and comfortable seating, but then Vasimkantoy said, “So you have decided to become an architectural amanuensis.”

  “A what?” I replied.

  “Amanuensis—one who records from dictation. This is an important and absorbing task.”

  “But I thought I was working in the sewers?”

  Vasimkantoy uttered a laugh, then examined the scrolls set out before him. “Hardly, Ügliy! It says here that your aptitude for observation makes you ideal for the post I mentioned.” He glanced up at me. “Are you saying you were interviewed for sewer work?”

  I sat back. My records had been altered again, and I detected the hand of Zveratu. Slowly, I said, “What would I be doing as an amanuensis?”

  Vasimkantoy seemed reassured. “Erosion is our enemy,” he said. “Your task will be to allow the buildings of Zolthanahmet to dictate to you, so that you can record their form, their structure, and the details behind them. It is detail that must be recorded, else there be a loss of knowledge—a forgetting. You see, forgetting is a form of erosion, and it cannot be tolerated.”

  I nodded. Though I was better suited to sewer work, this work seemed of a higher quality, and although I had no training and did not know why my direction had been changed I decided that walking the streets of Zolthanahmet would be better than walking its sewers.

  “There must have been a clerical mistake,” I said. “I am very well suited to this work. I accept.”

  “Good.”

  “Who will guide me as I learn?”

  Vasimkantoy grinned. “Stamboul, of course, there being no better tutor.” He glanced at his scrolls before adding, “I don’t think you will have any difficulty familiarising yourself, if these reports of you are anything to go by.”

  “What do they say?”

  “Such knowledge is private.”

  I sat back. Vasimkantoy’s statement prompted me to ask a question. “Are there people in Stamboul running my life?”

  The old man chuckled. “You mean counsellords? They look down on us as we would look down on a beetle. We are but citidenizens, you see. I would not say that they run our lives, rather that they build the paths along which we poor folk stumble.”

  I wanted to disagree with him, but I could see no room for argument. He told me when next to return, then dismissed me. Shrugging, I bade him farewell and departed.

  The attack came without warning.

  I was passing an alley when I felt something constrict my neck. I was pulled into the alley, so hard that I lost my balance and fell to the ground; then there was a loop of cord around my neck and three dark figures at my side. One of them crouched down, and I saw dark eyebrows, a pale face, a shock of white hair.

  “So,” Atavalens said, “rat boy remains a citidenizen.”

  I tried to take the cord off, but Yabghu reached down to stop me.

  Atavalens took my chin and turned my head so that we faced one another. “These are your last minutes,” he said. “Do you have a final request?”

  “Last min—”

  “You are going to die, rat boy. I’m going to kill you.”

  I shrank back, recognising the impossibility of defence. “I could shout out—”

  Atavalens pulled tight the cord. “I’d stop you,” he said.

  I choked, and Atavalens loosened the noose.

  I was trembling. “What have I done to antagonise you?” I asked.

  Atavalens moved closer. “You chose rat,” he hissed. “You chose rat instead of panther, or raven, or mambasnake. I will not have the honour of Stamboul besmirched by dung like you.”

  “You would be caught if you killed me,” I said. “They would put you in a court.”

  “But nobody will know who did it,” Atavalens replied. “You’ll just be another body on the street, rotting under a sheet of soot. They won’t find you.” He grinned. “They probably won’t even miss you.”

  I shook my head, feeling the approach of panic. “No, don’t do it. You’ll be found out! You mustn’t!”

  Atavalens stood, then gestured at Uchagru. “He’s getting embarrassing. Kill him.”

  Uchagru produced a steel bar from underneath his cloak. I tried to crawl backwards out of the alley and into the street, but, constrained, it was impossible.

  Then: flashbacks to what happened after the sootstorm. “Atavalens!” I gasped. “Don’t do it. I’m warning you. I’m warning you all! Kill me, and Raknia will kill you. She loves me. She won’t let you get away with this.” I stared at Atavalens, then in my terror I pointed at him and cried, “She’ll kill you stone dead!”

  There was silence. None of the three men moved.

  I was gasping for breath.

  Still no movement.

  Maybe I had said too much. Horror silenced me. All I could see was three pale faces nestling in shadows.

  Atavalens clicked his fingers: Yabghu and Uchagru vanished. Then he knelt down to say, “Don’t think I’ll forget this, rat boy. You haven’t won—and I don’t believe your threats. We’ll be back. A rat cannot beat a panther.” He breathed out, and I smelled the hot, fetid
breath of a big cat. “Maybe a panther should do what my man doesn’t want to.”

  With that, he was gone.

  I was left slumped against a wall, trembling, cold, unable to move in my terror.

  Some time passed. I heard voices in the nearby street, and caught the more distant sounds of harbour ships. It returned me to normality.

  I had to see Raknia. It was a risk, but I had to speak with her.

  Thoughts tumbled through my mind as I strode along Divan Yolu Street towards the Gulhane Gardens. While it was true that Raknia felt something for me, I did not now feel the same, though I knew I was trapped in her sensual world. I would have to stop seeing her. It was too risky for me to consort with a nogoth. Atavalens would be on the lookout for any infringement of Stamboul law; one mistake and I would be back on the street, and not even Raknia’s pleasures were worth that.

  I had decided. I would become a worker, applying myself to the task of amanuensis. All my memories of nogoth life would have to be ignored.

  I shook my head, aware that I was close to sobbing. That a man should be pushed so far by the Mavrosopolis was appalling. Something had to change.

  If I were a counsellord, I could make that change...

  I rejected the thought at once, as I had before. It was too freakish; I was a novice citidenizen. Yet the idea fascinated me, and Zveratu’s words returned to my mind: one of my many tasks is to seek citidenizens suitable for the office of counsellord. I believe you to be one such.

  Madness, yet necessary.

  As I approached Raknia’s tower I slowed, wondering how I could say what had to be said, until I stood at her door and it was too late to think of excuses. To my surprise, she welcomed me inside.

  I spoke in a nervous rush of words. “We’ve got to stop seeing each other, it’s too risky. Atavalens tried to kill me. If he finds out we’re seeing each other I’ll be caught, and then it’s all over for me.” I put one hand to my forehead, as if to cool myself. There were tears in my eyes. “I am sorry that it has to be this way.”

  Raknia said nothing. Her face said nothing.

  “I really am sorry,” I said. “Believe me.”