The Rat and the Serpent

by Stephen Palmer

  In a cold voice Raknia said, “I am going to be a citidenizen again. We’ll stay in touch, and I’ll ensure that there’s no risk for you. Now leave me, Ügliy—I have things to prepare.”

  Annoyed, yet also guilty, I turned and walked out, leaving her to shut the door.

  Back at home I sat down to consider my woes, a plate of olives and grey bread on my lap, a goblet of ayran in one hand, the door locked and bolted for safety, as was every window.

  I had food and I knew comfort. Yet I was trapped. Nogoth, citidenizen or counsellord? I could be any of these three. I had the choice. Yet here I was in my eyrie, surrounded by enemies, with even my friends manipulating me. But one thing I did know: though I could become a nogoth, I wanted never again to return to the streets.

  The night passed. An hour before dawn I returned to the Forum of Constantine, where I picked up the scrolls and equipment necessary for my work as amanuensis of Zolthanahmet. Once again locked inside my home, I studied what I had been given. The scrolls were technical and uninteresting. My heart sank. But the cloth roll that contained my tools were intriguing: a series of picks and jemmies, scribers and inkers, and a collection of sorcerous items that appeared related to the equipment I had used as a dessicator. Idly studying them, I wondered where the sorcery came from. It was only one of a hundred questions that I had no answer to.

  I slept uneasily, waking at any creak or distant slamming door, dozing, dreaming of sudden fists in the face, of screams, of claws touching my skin.

  I awoke at dusk. Soot fell heavy from low cloud, obscuring all but the nearest streets, which in the gloom looked like sparkling worms of light. The distant city was a mass of silhouettes, black against steel-grey. But I was high; and far off, just visible, I saw the single lamp of the lighthouse, perched on the edge of Stamboul like an enormous puffball fungus atop a black column.

  I walked into Tulku Sok Street: my first day of work for the Mavrosopolis. I smiled. And there was a knife in my belt, for I expected trouble.

  The scrolls spoke alot about attention to detail, particularly the writing down of architectural forms, and although I had been taught to read and write by my mother I did not feel confident enough to begin proper work. I recalled then the shops in the alleys off Avemdar Steet close to Raknia’s tower; they sold tomes. So I walked there, glancing over my shoulder every now and again, until I stood before a window in which stood hundreds of books. I walked inside. I questioned the owner, and he recommended three tomes, whereupon I produced the scores of coins that, not knowing costs, I had been forced to bring.

  It was then that another of Stamboul’s eccentricities came to light. “This is Zolthanahmet currency,” I was told.

  I frowned. “That is where I live.”

  “That may be true, but here you are in Seraglio.”

  “You mean you have your own money?”

  “Each of the seven districts does.”

  I looked at the piles of coins that I had laid out on the counter. “Then how can I buy your books?”

  “Take some of your coins and change them down the lane.”

  “Change them? What into?”

  “Our coins.”

  I departed the shop, unsure of what I had been asked to do. But I found the money-changer, who took a handful of my coins, counted them, performed a calculation on his abacus, then handed over a similar number of different coins, with the warning, “Don’t mix ’em.”

  I returned to the shop. I felt silly. But the man there took my new coins and handed me the three tomes. I walked home.

  Later that night I returned to the street with my tool kit, but I did not get a chance to use it. In a narrow, crooked passage I was grabbed, then pulled through a doorway, far too quick for me to respond; into darkness, a thud echoing as the door to the passage was shut. I pulled out my knife and called out, “Beware, Atavalens. Nothing has changed.”

  I heard the sound of bolts slamming. Disorientated, I swung around, my rat senses kicking in. But then a lantern flared into silver sparks and I saw a pointed chin, dark eyes, and black hair.

  “It’s only me,” Raknia said.

  “What are you doing? I almost lashed out.” I displayed my knife. “With this!”

  She walked past me, smiling—that coy expression again—before saying, “Follow me.”

  I did as I was told. “Where are we going?”

  “Somewhere nobody knows.”

  There was more than a hint in her voice of her devious nature. It struck me then, as I followed her jasmine scent and bobbing lantern, that I had no chance of escaping her, should I need to. Such a feat would be impossible. Frustrated, I remarked, “You don’t give in, do you?”

  Without hesitation she replied, “I don’t need to.”

  My heart sank. She had somehow condensed her personality into a single, spoken reply.

  She led me into a chamber of tiles and bricks, a place the like of which I had never seen before. It was a bath, in its centre a pool of deep water, around it a walkway of marble tiles; grey walls and roof, from which the condensation dripped, with a lamp hanging above the single doorway through which we strolled. All was echoes and glinting reflections. The air was moist, scented with jasmine and lilies; petals floating on the water. I saw plates of food by the edge of the pool: cod in cream, mushrooms and feta cheese, rice and olives, sherbet, lokum, and much more; the mezes dishes beloved of the citidenizens of Stamboul. And plenty of raki.

  Raknia disrobed. Naked, she entered the water, and in the dim light she looked like alabaster in motion. I glanced at the entrance, half expecting company, but we were alone.

  I joined her, at first embarrassed by my hairy right leg, but then, when she seemed not to care—as if she knew—heedless of it. The water was warm. Amidst the steam and petals, we kissed.

  “Aren’t you disturbed by my new leg?” I asked.

  “It’s quite exciting,” she replied, wrapping her own legs around me. “We’re both animals, after all. Does it matter what sort?”

  I had to laugh. This was better than eating out of the gutter. A pang of guilt passed through me, but in the serenity of the moment I found I was able to ignore it.

  And I understood the meaning of this meeting. She was proving to me that we could enjoy ourselves in private, almost in luxury, and without disturbance, despite our different status. Raknia, who had once been as I was now, knew the tricks; and while there must be many citidenizens watching and reprimanding other citidenizens for liaising with nogoths, I realised that far more escaped the eyes of the Mavrosopolis.

  She gasped as I slid inside her. Her legs tightened around me. “There’s something that I want you to do,” she murmured.

  “Just ask.”

  “I want you to locate, and either change or destroy my original ejection records.”

  I struggled out of her embrace. “What?”

  “Didn’t you hear?”

  “Raknia, I am not sure I could do that. Discovery would ruin me.”

  Her reply was stone cold. “Citidenizen or counsellord, it’s what you will do. It’s how I intend getting back into the citidenizenry.” She kissed me again. “You have the intelligence to do it.”

  “I am not so sure—”

  “I hope you’ll make it your main priority.”

  I hesitated. I needed time; she would realise that. “I’ll make it an equal priority to becoming a counsellord,” I promised. “That is fair to both of us, isn’t it? A counsellord will have much better access to documents, so it’s not unreasonable...”

  In turn, she hesitated, her expression quizzical, before she replied, “It’s a deal. Sealed with a kiss.” And she kissed me a third time. When she let me go, I coughed. Her mouth tasted of poison.

  She looked at me, and I felt fear, though I dared not show it. All excitement was gone. “Let’s eat,” was my lame suggestion.

  She made no move out of the pool. “When is the next counsellord retiring?” she asked me.

  “I don’t kn
ow.”

  “Find out at the Forum of Constantine.”

  “Very well,” I said.

  We ate in silence. When we left she locked the door to the bath with a silver key. “You’ve got other secret places, haven’t you?” I said.

  “Maybe.”

  We parted.

  I headed without delay for the Forum of Constantine, where I sought out a clerk and asked, “When will the next counsellord place become available?”

  “Soon,” came the reply.

  Too vague. “How many counsellords are there in Zolthanahmet?” I asked.

  “Twenty. A lot of them are old—I believe one at least is retiring soon.”

  I thanked the clerk, then returned home.

  A new haunting awaited me.

  The first I knew of company was when I heard a noise in my study. Expecting Atavalens or his henchmen—or worse, a panther—I drew my knife, crouched down, and extended my senses outward into the corridor.

  Nothing.

  I moved to the door. There was a flash of light, then a floating figure before me. In terror I dropped my knife.

  It was the wraith... and yet not the wraith. This being had the same figure and head, with the eye-patch and the mask covering its lower face, but somehow it was diminished.

  “Yes...” the shade moaned. “No knife can harm me.”

  I found that I was backed against a wall. “What do you want?” I gasped. “You were banished by Zveratu.”

  “That was then. I have something to say to you that will not wait. You are a nuisance, Ügliy, nothing more than a nuisance. If you do not follow my command it will be ill for you. Do you understand?”

  With my jaws locked together, I could make no reply.

  “I know you are planning to ascend again. It cannot be done. There is no counsellord space for you. If you try, I will haunt you to the grave, I will reach into your chest and stop your heart. Do you want to die of fright?”

  I said nothing. Despite my fear, all I could focus on was the fact that this shade had been demoted from wraith.

  “Die of fright,” the shade repeated.

  “I see what you are doing,” I heard myself say. “If I became a counsellord, I might meet you. You are afraid of me!”

  The shade approached, its form wavering.

  I forced myself to speak. “I will become a counsellord and I will help govern Stamboul. You can’t stop me. All you can do is scare me.”

  “Your heart is slowing. My hand is near...”

  “No! It’s beating faster.”

  The shade said nothing; there was a clearing of the air and I received a flash of inspiration. It was understanding that these beings could not fight. Haunting was merely a concentrated form of ignorance, applied to lessers through the vehicle of sorcery.

  “Of course!” I cried.

  “You agree to my terms?” the shade said, its voice childishly hopeful.

  “I only have to ask you questions! That’s what you can’t stand.”

  There was no response.

  I found that I could stand up without shaking. “Sorcery,” I said, pointing at the shade with my forefinger. “It’s not like anything we shamans have. Shade, I’m asking you, what is sorcery?”

  There was a silence the like of which I had never before experienced, as if something tangible had been sucked out of the air by my simple question.

  “Sorcery!” I cried. “It’s intrinsic to the Mavrosopolis, isn’t it?”

  Still no reply.

  “I must know.”

  At last the shade replied. “Knowledge will be your downfall, Ügliy. This I predict. Knowledge will kill you in the end. You cannot break what must not be broken. Understand that. As for Zveratu...”

  “Zveratu?”

  “Ügliy, I say this to you. If you become a counsellord I will do my utmost to strike you out of the Mavrosopolis, for I believe that you are hiding what you think, and that cannot be allowed. Do you hear me?”

  “I hear you.”

  “A diamond with a flaw is a flawed diamond. The Mavrosopolis is perfect. You cannot survive if you rise because the Mavrosopolis will get you one way or another. Know your limits, Ügliy.”

  “My limits?”

  “Because the Mavrosopolis is far, far bigger than any one individual.”

  I said nothing. I understood that our respective powers—of ignorance and of understanding—were balanced to perfection. Yet in realising this and in acting upon the knowledge, I had taken a step away from the Mavrosopolis. I would have to be careful.

  The shade faded to nothing.

  I relaxed. I pondered. Could change be made from the inside of an organisation? Were nogoths those who refused to abide by the mores of the Mavrosopolis? I had a vision of counsellords imprisoned in their own lives, able only to follow the directives of the Mavrosopolis, unable to pursue their thoughts and feelings. If that was correct then the shade spoke true about my fate. But if not, if the shade’s own fears were showing through, then my position as a man out of step represented a danger to the Mavrosopolis.

  And I could see something else. Zveratu and this shade were enemies. Zveratu had plucked me off the street and the shade did not like that. I was a pawn in their game.

  I did not like the thought of that. I was an individual.

  There came a knock at my door.

  I called out, “Who is it?”

  “Garakoy.”

  I let him in.

  “I came to ask you about the tragedy we went to see,” he began. “But you seem in a fractious mood tonight.”

  I shook my head. “Tell me about those two counsellords,” I said. “How is it that when I was a nogoth I was haunted by them, yet now they are men like you and me?”

  “Haunted? I don’t know anybody who’s been haunted. You hear tales of course, but...”

  I continued, “I sense a hierarchy to the Mavrosopolis that is at its heart. Nogoth, citidenizen, counsellord. Wraith becomes shade, shades become real men. I know this because I have witnessed it—and now I am being warned about my knowledge.”

  “Who by?”

  “A shade. I am beginning to wonder if they are people like you and me, invested with sorcerous powers because of their position in the Mavrosopolis. Doesn’t that make sense?”

  Garakoy shrugged. “Not to me.”

  “But you have never been haunted. You don’t know.”

  Garakoy made no reply.

  “Today I stopped a shade from haunting me, and I did it because I made one correct guess.”

  Garakoy shrugged again. He looked uncomfortable.

  I said, “Tell me, when will there be spaces among Zolthanahmet’s counsellords?”

  “They come up about once a year—there’s going to be one soon.”

  I let out a yelp of frustration. “How soon?”

  Garakoy’s face fell, as if he had been forced to admit a secret. “All right, I will tell you, but you mustn’t tell anybody else.”

  “I promise.”

  “I only know this because of where I work. The counsellord Vraygrand is retiring when the moon turns new. That will leave one space free out of the twenty. I’m going to put myself forward.”

  “Me too.”

  Garakoy was shocked. “You?”

  “Why not?”

  “You’ve only just become a citidenizen.”

  “I’m inspired,” I countered.

  “It cannot be. The citidenizens of Zolthanahmet will never accept you. A waste of your time!”

  “I am still going to try. How does it work?”

  Garakoy laughed. “I don’t know why I’m telling you! Well... once Vraygrand’s retirement is official, those who wish to stand begin trying to enthuse the citidenizens of Zolthanahmet, for it is they who decide the result.”

  “Ascension on a popular wave,” I remarked.

  “Exactly. You know?”

  “I have heard. How many will put themselves forward?”

  “It varies,” Garakoy s
aid. “If many counsellords retire there can be scores, but usually, if only one place is being contested, then a dozen or so.”

  “A dozen?”

  Garakoy continued, “And when the citidenizens have made their choice, the result is made public and the chosen one ascends. The others are free to try again later.”

  “I will try,” I declared.

  Garakoy shook his head. “I admire your determination, but you will need at least a year’s work in Zolthanahmet before the people here know you well enough to support you. Ügliy, you’re a novice. An unknown. You can’t ascend. All in time, eh?”

  I looked Garakoy straight in the eye. “We will be running for the same space. Whatever the result, let us not be enemies afterwards.”

  Garakoy could see that I meant what I said, and the smile vanished from his face. “Very well,” he replied. “But I will offer you not one word of advice on how to proceed. You must understand my position—I wish to ascend in my own way.”

  I said nothing. I sat back. I had enough time to plan. I could do it.

  When the moon was new I would do it.

  31.10.589

  To be settled in a fine position is good. Something of the peace I desire is at hand, yet there is so much to do. I find myself bewildered by the amount of work awaiting me.

  I have put off finding a woman partner. At first I imagined that such companionship would be one of the main benefits of living as a citidenizen, but I find my thoughts leaning now towards the station of counsellord; and if I was one of a pair, how would my partner manage? Counsellords live apart, in separate accomodation (I do not know where their homes lie), and they cannot keep their spouses in their homes, though they are allowed to visit the homes in which their spouses still live. This kind of life would be as unsettling as the shifting and treacherous relationships of nogoth couples. Well over half of the counsellords are older people who anyway live alone.

  I would not trust anyone to live with me. My secret thoughts might be revealed, and then I would be cast into the gutter, there to live for the rest of my days. This fate I do not want. There is comfort enough in occasional carnal relations. Mine are graceful.

  I think I will try to become a counsellord when the next space appears. This happens approximately once per year, most often through the death of the incumbent, but sometimes through deliberate resignation. When this happens—once per decade—the counsellord is relegated to the status of citidenizen. This is interesting. Voluntary descent is a strange concept for a nogoth raised to the citidenizenry. Of course, the former counsellord is feted and given much respect. Nevertheless...