The Rat and the Serpent

by Stephen Palmer

  Do I admit the possibility of others like me, keeping quiet, saying nothing out of fear of rejection, scared of a return to the gutter? I do not know. It is an intractable problem with which I have wrestled for years. It seems absurd that no other man has dared to countenance the possibility of change. Why am I the leader in this field? Am I so good and true a thinker?

  Too many questions, like flies buzzing around my head, distracting me. Be quiet!

  And this question of erasure. I really think that it is at the heart of my dilemma. Why is the Mavrosopolis so frightened of erasure? I do not know enough about sorcery to check my theory that it is related to the anti-erasure stance, yet I cannot question those few sorcerers that I do know because they will not tell me the secrets of their art. This is most unfair, and not a little frustrating. I am not a man to take frustration calmly, as that poor ney flute discovered to its cost.

  There is only one answer. I must climb higher. Only height will enable me to see. I must make every effort to become a counsellord. I must bend my will to this task, I must take advantage of every opportunity, so that, be it next year or on my fiftieth birthday, I am raised up into the ranks of the ruling class. Then, and I suspect only then, will I discover what I need to know.

  Failure, then, is an option, one from which I must learn, but it is not my final goal. That goal is success.

  I must first learn the arts of orator. If I am honest with myself, and there is no point in being otherwise, I was not the best speaker of the thirteen candidates. I was perhaps half up and half down. Approximately. I did not realise that a crowd can be won over by passionate speech, that fine words tumbling out of the mouth of the speaker, as these words tumble now from my mind, can sway the emotions and the minds of the listeners, so that they follow the path set out by that speaker. This art I will learn. One of my many tasks will be to create phrases that the listener will not forget.

  Chapter 13

  Hats would be essential, but I had a number of them. I cut off the brims to leave myself with a selection of black bowls that I could easily pull down over the place where my ears used to be. In the mirror it did not look odd, and with my white make-up it looked good. For the moment, the claim on my flesh made by the Phosphorus would not damage my chances of becoming a counsellord. But what if there were problems of etiquette later on? I cursed from dusk to dawn, and most of my anger was aimed at Raknia.

  I threw myself into my campaign. With eight days remaining it was time to increase my appearances from one a day to two. Later, I would make three speeches a day, and on the final day I planned to speak continuously, hammering home my simple message so that it would not be mistaken or confused with that of somebody else. Watching the other candidates, I was relieved to see that none of them were copying me.

  On the following night the first new set of predictions appeared on the blackboards of the mathematician-prophets. They spelled disaster. Garakoy was leading still, but I was close behind, with Atavalens and one other equal third. Three candidates had pulled out, leaving the other three nowhere. I slammed the nearest wall with both fists when I saw the odds. I had peaked too early. I felt faint, my limbs weak, my heart thumping. Failure was not an option in this race. Moreover, I could see what would happen next: the trailing few would give up in a few days, leaving Garakoy, Atavalens and myself to take their respective shares. And Atavalens, seeing the new predictions, would try anything to overtake me.

  I was sweating and my teeth were on edge. This was far worse than taking the citidenizen test because there were so many more people involved. One mistake and I would fall back into the gutter. One accident, one cruel deed from Atavalens...

  I turned, leaning back against a wall. I felt myself calming as the stone absorbed the heat of my body. Perhaps the citidenizens were responding to the novelty of my position. Perhaps my odds would worsen, then improve again as I intensified my speeches. I had to believe that was true. To think otherwise would be to lose confidence, like water leaking from a sieve.

  I went home to find a note attached to my door. What I first took to be a steel tack was in fact the leg of a spider, hardened to make it work like a pin. I shuddered. I could not touch the slip of paper, but by reading the indentations backwards I could see the word bath and part of the word time. I swept the note off with my sleeve then hurried inside, locking the door with trembling hands. I raised my hat; I listened. Nothing. Paranoia was consuming me.

  There was no possibility of me returning to the bath chamber, where I felt certain only death lay. Even if I did, the message I would take, that Raknia had no chance of returning to the citidenizenry, would send her into such a rage that her shamanistic powers would consume her, and maybe me too. I felt certain now that we would never again touch one another, would probably never speak.

  Tap tap tap.

  Somebody at my door.

  I was so nervous I found it difficult to walk, and almost impossible to speak. My voice came out as a hoarse whisper. “Who is it?”

  The tapping was repeated, and then a man said, “Hello? Ügliy?”

  It sounded like Garakoy, but I was alert for spells. “Who is it?” I repeated, this time in a voice that could be heard.

  “It’s me, your rival. Ha ha! Now do open up.”

  I hesitated. “Prove it.”

  “What?”

  “Prove it.”

  Muttering was the only reply, then, “Ügliy? Are you all right in there?”

  I put my mouth to the door to ask a question. “What did I say when we first came here, Garakoy?”

  “Are you alone in there, Ügliy?”

  “What did I say?”

  “Mercy! You said four rooms would be too many for you.”

  Only Garakoy could know that. I unlocked the door to see him there. “Come in quick,” I said.

  Garakoy was suspicious. “What’s going on here?”

  I shut and locked the door, then led him to the couch and sat beside him. “I need help,” I said. “You’d help me, wouldn’t you?”

  “Whatever is the matter?”

  It all came out in a rush. “I’m in great danger from Raknia—you know, the nogoth in the tower at the edge of Gulhane Gardens.”

  “The one in the tragic play?”

  “That’s her.”

  “The play is what I came to speak to you about,” Garakoy remarked.

  But I was not listening. I blurted out, “She’s going to kill me if I don’t follow her orders, and I can’t follow them because she has no chance of success in what she wants to do. She’s blaming me for that. I need to get her out of the way, at least until the full moon when this counsellord race is over. I need space.” I hesitated, then said, “You’re in charge of accomodation. Couldn’t you have her evicted from her room? Being out on the streets would take her attention away from me while she found somewhere to live.”

  Garakoy did not answer immediately. Then he said, “I suppose it could be done.” He glanced at me. “It is irregular, however, and not my style—”

  “You’ve got to try! I need room to breathe and she’s suffocating me.”

  Garakoy studied me. “You really think you have a chance of becoming counsellord over me?”

  “I hope so,” I replied. “Anyway, I need you in the race. Atavalens would never dare kill so popular a frontrunner as you, in which case I’m safe too.”

  “Atavalens?”

  “He’s vile. We’ve got a wager. I can’t tell you the details.”

  Garakoy nodded, a smile on his face. “What you’re saying is that you need me to come second.”

  “Of course. With you in the race, your support stays firm and, more importantly, Atavalens stays well in third place. Then it’s up to me to beat you on the final day.”

  “Some planning,” Garakoy said in admiration. “This is interesting indeed, but it is speculation only. The events you describe are too precise to be likely. You will lose, and Atavalens will finish third.”

  “The positio
n of counsellord isn’t all I’ll lose,” I said bitterly.

  “The wager...?”

  I shook my head. “I really can’t say.”

  Garakoy shrugged. “My intention is to become counsellord,” he stated. “That means you will finish second, not me.”

  “We’ll see. Don’t steal my tactics.”

  “Those are sheer novelty! I intend winning on the strength of my character. If you want to dress up in a white face and talk about coins, you do that. I tell you that Zolthanahmet’s citidenizens will be bored of you the day after tomorrow. Your speeches will be forgotten, your promises—which incidentally are not devoid of logic—consigned to the waters of the harbour.”

  I sighed. “So you came here to mock me.”

  “On the contrary, I wanted to speak to you about the tragedy we saw at the Hippodrome.”

  I looked away, saying nothing.

  “Did you know they have changed the ending? Now I understand why it is considered a tragedy.”

  Still I said nothing.

  “Well, they have changed it. I returned last night to see the entire thing—”

  “I know I spoiled your night by denouncing those two counsellords.”

  Garakoy said, “I recalled your claim that the script was based upon your affair with Raknia. I think you ought to go and see the whole thing.”

  I frowned. “Why?”

  Garakoy stood up and walked towards the door. “I shall leave art to speak for itself,” he said. “I came only to inform you of its presence.”

  “What?” I demanded.

  “I will depart now. Since you say you have been threatened, I promise to begin eviction proceedings against Raknia... who, luckily for me, already has a stain on her character that you know nothing about. And of course she’s only a nogoth.”

  Knowing the event to which he was referring, I kept my face expressionless. “The tragedy,” I said. “How has the ending changed?”

  But Garakoy would reveal nothing more. He wished me good luck, then departed. I locked my door then sat down to consider what I had heard.

  Six nights remained before the full moon. I had to keep my nerve. But a need for activity filled me, as if I was about to fall helpless into the dark depths of my own mind, so I decided that I would make some more speeches then go to the Hippodrome in disguise.

  My appearances went well. Crowds were no longer chuckling at my antics and pointing at me, they were listening, jostling one another at the podium to gain the best position, and sometimes even asking questions. I was both frightened and exhilarated. I answered the questions as best I could, then demanded that everybody support me; in reply a few wags tossed some of their smallest coins at me. The crowds showed no embarrassment at my pleas, and I felt there might yet be hope. I picked up the coins, thinking I would be deemed rude if I ignored them.

  I returned home, took off my make-up and my clothes, dressed in garb that I had worn only once, pulled a hood over my head and departed for the Hippodrome. In half an hour I was sitting at the back of the auditorium waiting for the tragedy to begin.

  I knew half of the play. The later acts were similar to those of the first half, and it was all I could do to stop myself standing and shouting at the mockery of the affair that I saw enacted upon the stage. The language was crude, the scenes filthy, with no sordid detail spared; and nothing was simulated. The crowd bayed every time they saw naked flesh. This encouraged the two actors, spurring them to new heights of idiocy.

  Then came the final scene. The woman playing Raknia took a needle, dabbed venom on it, then stuck it into the back of the man’s neck. The audience was horrified by this scene, which was so out of keeping with the rest of the entertainment. I also sat transfixed. This must be the alteration mentioned by Garakoy. I understood immediately that it was a message from the two counsellords meant for me alone. They wanted me to lose. They were warning me. And Raknia had reverted to her former task of working for the shade who had been a wraith. Their plan was to murder me.

  I slunk out of the auditorium and ran home, but inside the tower I felt the return of paranoia, so with shaking hands I put on my white face, this time with a smiling mouth, wolfed down food, put a flask of raki in my pocket, grabbed a steel bar in case of trouble, then crept to my front door. I listened, hearing nobody. Then I was out on Tulku Sok Street making for the nearest marble podium. There—it shone white through soot smudges, and although it was empty people were waiting for candidates to speak. When they saw me approach, they cheered.

  I stood silent as emotions surged through me. I needed to weep for the appreciation the crowd were showing me, but I could not. It would spoil my poise and ruin my make-up. I took a deep breath, looked up into the night sky, then, with my characteristic hop, I jumped onto the podium. Applause greeted me.

  I spoke for what seemed half an hour. In a clear night sky the moon sailed from the pale roof of the Tower of the Thawers to the luminous ball atop the lighthouse; a long way, for in the real world hours had passed. I acknowledged the applause of the crowd, accepted their coins, then vanished into the night as a group of half a dozen tried to stop me with offers of food and drink.

  I was terrified of meeting Raknia. In the maze of passages around Klodfarer Street I could be caught and bitten. Muttering to myself, I ran, knocking into lamp posts, once even tripping over and kicking a nogoth, until I was back at my tower. I ascended the stairs. Dawn was close. I slammed shut my door, then locked and bolted it.

  But horror did not leave me. I looked down at the floor to see something tiny and black crawling towards me. I screamed and shrank back. A flicker of light from the window of my bedchamber revealed it to be a fragment of parchment blown on the breeze generated by the door slamming. I watched it for a few seconds to be sure, then leaped forward and stamped on it.

  I examined the floor. Nothing more. I realised that I would have to sleep in one room only to reduce the danger of being bitten, so I pulled all the furniture out of the bedchamber except the bed, then brought in every lantern I had, lighting them all. Then I tucked my breeches into my boots and pulled on a pair of gloves. Slowly, sheet by sheet, I pulled everything off the bed. Nothing. Then I took a lantern in each hand and toured the room, looking into every corner, then examining the ceiling. There were cracks. And there were gaps between door, window and the walls in which these openings were set.

  I turned to check what was left in the room. The steel bedstead. A few rags. The mattress. Crouching down, I studied the mattress with the aid of the brightest lantern, to find a single rip in one side. I leaped back. I opened the window, hauled the mattress up to it, then pushed it out.

  Done. Panting, trembling, I soaked parchment in water to create a paste, which I used to fill the cracks in my walls. I stuffed cloth torn from my sheets in the window and door gaps. Then I surveyed my work. Everything remaining had been checked. I was sealed in. I could think now about sleep.

  But sleep was not so easy. Nightmares arrived, every one featuring spiders, be they small, large, hiding in shadows or crawling along the floor.

  I lived like this for four further nights: a melange of running, of hiding and crouching, of panicked filling of cracks in the walls; of speeches outside in the streets, fuelled by nervous exhaustion, elation and raki. Of constant vigilance indoors. Of constant vigilance outdoors.

  Then came the penultimate night.

  I heard the news by accident as I strode down Gedik Pasa Street. A short, tubby man was telling bystanders, “You hear about Garakoy? Terrible, terrible thing.”

  I stopped.

  The man recognised my white face. “Ügliy! You’ve heard the news?”

  “What news?” I replied.

  “About Garakoy? He’s dead.”

  Blackness...

  I regained consciousness...

  I was lying in the gutter, concerned faces crowding around me, a throbbing pain at the back of my skull.

  “You fainted,” the short man said. “You all right?”<
br />
  I screamed and leaped from the ground, then crouched down to examine the pavement for spiders. The short man caught hold of me and tried to calm me, taking my hand and patting it.

  “Garakoy’s dead,” he repeated. “Bitten by some dread insect.”

  I groaned. “Dead?”

  “I’ve never heard of such a thing before.”

  People were crowding around me now, as they realised who I was. “What will you do?” they asked. “Will you go on?” “Was it you killed ’im?”

  I said, “When did it happen?”

  “Dusk, there’bouts.”

  I did not know what to do. Yet there was only one thing I could do. Carry on. I tried to wriggle free of the crowd, but they were too many and they refused to let me go. “What will you say now?” “Will you be supported by Garakoy’s men?” “D’you think Garakoy would’ve wanted paper money?” “Do you, do you?”

  “Leave me be!” I cried. Then, realising what I had said, I added, “I’ve got to speak on my podium. Let me through.”

  They did as I requested. I leaped upon the podium at the end of Gedik Pasa Street and stumbled through a speech. Then I jumped off and ran as fast as I could to the Forum of Constantine. There was a mathematician-prophet standing nearby, and I stared at his blackboard. There were only two names written down and both had the same odds, Ügliy and Atavalens, side by side. I pointed a shaking finger at the old man and cried, “You fool! Atavalens will never catch me. D’you hear?”

  The old man said nothing.

  I ran up the steps and entered the Forum. A crowd of a hundred or more were milling around the reception hall as white-cloaked clerks tried to keep order. When I arrived they all ran towards me, and I was bombarded with questions. Then two white arms reached out and I was pulled through the crowd like a plough through earth, then bundled through a door into a quiet, cool chamber.

  “This is a nightmare,” I said, as I looked around the room. Two men and three women stood nearby, officers of the Forum—one important, her cloak trimmed with ermine.

  The woman stepped forward to say, “You choose an interesting place to seek refuge, here, where justice lies.”