The Shining City (v5)

by Fiona Patton

  “So any spirits growing in the main cistern can’t reach the temples?” Spar asked.

  “Spirits don’t usually grow in the main cistern, Spar-Delin. They’re nullified in the reservoir.”

  “But if they weren’t?”

  Ihsan rubbed thoughtfully at a streak of dried ink on his forearm. “Ordinarily, the temple cisterns are separate, fed through rainwater spouts and underground springs, but they are connected to the main cistern through a series of closed-off pipes and tunnels. In times of drought they can be opened to accept water from the main cistern or used to empty water into Gol-Beyaz during times of flooding.” He bent over the map. “The main cistern does, however, feed hundreds of smaller cisterns across the city, especially in the Tannery and Western Dockside Precincts where the need for water by various trades and business is that much greater. It’s even said that some homes and shops in the western market can draw fish through wells connected to the main cistern in their cellars. But you’d know all about that,” he added with an expectant look.

  Brax just shook his head. “We always lived on the upper floors, Sayin,” he explained. “We never had access to the private wells, only the public fountains. And I never saw a fish in a public fountain. If there had been, every cat in the city would have been camped out around the rims,” he added.

  Ihsan sighed. “A pity.”

  “So water from the main cistern travels under most of the city most of the time,” Spar pressed, drawing their attention back to the map.

  “Yes,” his old teacher replied.

  “So if there were spirits growing in the main cistern, they could get to almost any place in Anavatan.”

  “Yes, if there were spirits growing in the main cistern. And I know what you’re thinking, Sparin-Delin, if there were, then presumably, they could pose as great a danger as the spirits which breached the God-Wall six years ago.”

  “Yes.”

  Ihsan shook his head. “Most spirits are creatures of the air, formed by storms, and only dangerous in vast numbers. They haven’t the natural strength to swarm in water.”

  “But if they managed the strength somehow?”

  “Then there wouldn’t be enough of them.”

  Spar scowled at the map, his expression clearly unconvinced. “Hisar thinks there are,” he said. “It’s had a vision of entering the cistern and being . . . pressed by spirits.

  “Forgive me, Delin, I know this isn’t my area of expertise, but shouldn’t you be consulting with a senior seer before acting on such a limited prophecy?”

  Spar shook his head. “This prophecy’s already too crowded with seers, Sayin. I need to get in physically and see what’s happening down there for myself.”

  Ihsan sat back with a pensive expression. “Well, the system does need servicing on a regular basis,” he allowed. “Bricks and mortar can crumble and pipes can crack and split, so there are a number of entrances throughout the city. The most easily accessible one is in the Tannery Precinct.” He pressed a finger to the map. “It leads directly to the reservoir and the main cistern. Elsewhere, there are entrances in each Precinct here, here, and here,” he added, indicating each one. “Including one quite close to the site of Hisar’s new temple. However, I should warn you that this system is very old and very complex. Most of it was laid out when Anavatan was first constructed. It’s too easy to lose one’s bearing and get lost, or even drowned in the case of a sudden influx of water. If you’re going in, you’ll need to go cautiously and with a guide.”

  “I’ll have a guide, Sayin. I’ll have Hisar.”

  “We’ll have Hisar,” Brax corrected firmly.

  Spar nodded. “We’ll have Hisar.”

  “I was thinking more in the line of a maintenance worker,” Ihsan admonished gently.

  “Hisar will do fine.”

  The young God met them as they exited the building. It swirled about them for a moment in Its dragonfly-seeming, raising the hairs along Jaq’s spine with one ethereal wingtip, then, as they headed out across Ystazia-Sarayi’s open air market, He changed to His golden-seeming with a snap of displaced air.

  “Yashar and I went to the garrison guards,” He stated proudly. “I went in and everything.”

  “Yeah?” Spar asked distractedly.

  “Yeah. And I told them that was My temple site and Zeno wasn’t trespassing and they better let him go.”

  He paused to stare at the riot of colored threads displayed before a carpet seller and, after a moment, Brax coughed loudly. “And?”

  “And? Oh, right. They let him go of course. Yashar didn’t think we should just let him head back to lifting or whatever, so we took him for breakfast.”

  “Another breakfast?” Spar noted with a raised eyebrow.

  Hisar frowned at him. “Well, I didn’t eat and neither did Yashar. Zeno ate, stupid,” He said, rolling his eyes. “He ate a lot, and stuffed a lot into his pockets.

  And Yashar talked a lot,” he added.

  “What about?”

  The young God just shrugged. “Good choices, bad choices, the future, what Zeno needed to get in with a proper trade, who was there to help him, who’ll take advantage. You know, the same sort of things he’s been talking to you about for so long.”

  “Ah,” Brax noted with a grin. “That talk. That’s a fun talk.”

  “A fun talk to take the piss on, you mean,” Spar corrected.

  “Sometimes.”

  “He talked a lot about it with Me, too,” Hisar added, tipping His head to one side as He remembered the walk back to Estavia-Sarayi.

  They had made their way in silence for a while, Yashar splashing through the puddles like a delos and Hisar floating along beside him, flush with victory. After a moment, Yashar had glanced at Him.

  “Did you understand what I was saying to Zeno, Hisarin-Delin?” he asked with a serious expression.

  The young God gave him a complacent look in return. “Sure,” He answered carelessly.

  “Sure?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And how it might relate to You?”

  “Me? I’m not a lifter.”

  “No, but You are a youth poised on the brink of adulthood. You’re going to have to make some difficult choices in the future. You’re a God, so some of Your decisions are going to have wide-sweeping consequences.”

  He paused, wiping a spray of raindrops from his beard with one hand. “Not everyone who’s going to ask You for help will be a half-starved little street thief,” he pointed out. “There’ll be people who’ll try to take advantage of Your inexperience and Your desire for followers to ask You to do things that might not be the right thing to do.”

  Hisar lounged against a tent pole with an interested expression. “Like what?”

  “Any number of things,” Yashar hedged. “The point is that You remember that You can always come to Kemal and me for advice as well as to Spar and Brax. Or even,” he added, “to the elder Gods. They’re used to negotiating with Their followers. They don’t grant everything we ask for, you know. And They shouldn’t besides. People need to sort out our own problems or we grow weak.”

  “And that makes the Gods weak,” Hisar answered promptly.

  “Yes.”

  “So how’m I to know when to help and when not to,” Hisar demanded. “I thought We were supposed to help, and now you say We’re not to.”

  “No, You are, just not all the time and not always in the way people ask for. You have to assess each request. And ask for advice,” he repeated.

  “From the elder Gods?” Hisar said with a deeply skeptical expression.

  “Yes.”

  “They don’t like me,” Hisar countered. “I told Kemal that before.”

  “I’m sure They like you just fine,” Yashar answered, watching an elderly man arguing gently with a boy of five beside a sweetmeat stall. “They’re just old. And the old get impatient with the young sometimes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they’ve forgotten how lo
ng it took for them to get old. And how hard it was sometimes.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “That’s because You’re young.”

  “So, what are you, then?”

  “Me?” Yashar chuckled as he watched the old man and the young boy amble away with equally large simit rings clutched in their fists. “It depends. I started out old today, but I think I want to be young for a while.” He headed for the sweetmeat seller with a determined expression, and after a moment, Hisar followed him.

  “That was quite the lecture,” Brax noted, glancing about for a sweetmeat seller with little hope of finding one on this particular street.

  “Yeah. I mostly listened. It made him happy,” Hisar answered. “But we got Zeno sorted out, and now he and the rest of the crew can go back to their shed and have a safe place to be until Yashar’s friends go and talk to that factor who’s trying to get more money out of them. They headed out right after we talked to them.”

  “I’ll bet they did.” Brax replied in a dry voice.

  “Yup, so everything’s sorted out, just like I promised.” Hovering backward before them about two inches off the ground, Hisar cast them a shrewd look. “So, what were you two doing? You were talking about me. I could feel it.”

  Spar shrugged. “About the cistern mostly. Sorting out how to deal with Your spirits.”

  “And?”

  “And we can get in.”

  “When?”

  As a new rumble of thunder sounded in the distance, Spar glared up at the sky. “When it stops raining. I don’t wanna get drowned in an underground tunnel if it starts flooding out.”

  Hisar followed his gaze with a reluctant expression. “It’s gonna rain all day,” He said, matching Spar’s accent and adding a sullen note of His own.

  “Then we wait all day.”

  “I hate waiting.”

  “I know. So do I. Too bad.” Pulling his cloak more tightly about his shoulders, Spar headed in the direction of Estavia-Sarayi without another word.

  Brax and Jaq squelched resignedly after him.

  Hisar watched them go, with an annoyed expression. He hated waiting, but He was starting to think He hated Spar’s habit of stomping away even more. They next time he did it, Hisar decided, He was going to fly right over his head and land directly in front of him. He was tired of people leaving Him, and it was going to stop. But for now, He would go back to His temple site. Maybe the youth He had spoken to would be there and maybe they would talk and maybe she would give her oaths. Maybe.

  Changing to Its dragonfly-seeming, It shot into the air, resisting the urge to knock Spar’s hair into his eyes as It flew past him.

  11

  The Dark Place

  THE STORMS CONTINUED ALL week, growing steadily worse. A heavy fog sweeping down from the Bogazi-Isik Strait settled over Anavatan, bringing the water trades to a standstill and turning the city skyline into an ocean, turrets and minarets thrusting upward like islands in the waves. In the streets, trade stumbled along blindly but doggedly. People still had to eat and most maintained a strained good humor, believing that even if they couldn’t see to walk, at least their enemies couldn’t see to attack. As the rain continued to fall, turning puddles into ponds, flooding wells and fountains, and creeping into homes and businesses, the civic beys finally called for the overflow tunnels under the Temple Precinct to be opened.

  Standing on Estavia-Sarayi’s easternmost battlements, soaked despite a heavy, waterproof cloak, Spar listened to the water spewing from the overflow pipe below, wondering if it came only from the temple cistern or from the main cistern as well.

  He glanced at Hisar standing beside him, annoyingly dry despite the weather.

  “Are there spirits pouring out of that?” he asked.

  The young God just shrugged. “I can’t tell in all this fog. But it doesn’t matter. It’ll only catch up the surface spirits; the lower ones’ll go deep like fish in a storm. I can feel it.” His golden brows drew down in a scowl very similar to Spar’s own. “I hate fog,” He complained. “I hate that I can’t see through it.”

  “Me, too,” Spar agreed distractedly. Leaning his elbows on the dark, wet stone, he peered over the battlements. Although it was only just past midday, it might as well be midnight for all the distance he could see.

  To the north, the signal fires atop Gerek and Dovek-Hisar—transforming the two structures from watchtowers to lighthouses—glowed sullenly as if they could sense that their precious cache of oil had been lit unnecessarily. No vessels dared to navigate the strait in this weather even with their lights to guide them. That should have made Spar feel more secure, but it didn’t. Their enemies were creeping closer on every front and it was only a matter of time; days, maybe hours, before they attacked.

  And he wasn’t ready, he brooded. He was never ready. The continued flooding made entering the cistern to deal with Hisar’s water-spirits an impossibility and as for Graize, Brax sent word from the aqueduct every morning: nothing to report; and Spar returned from vision every evening with nothing to add. Every day the urge to press Hisar into rooting out his rival grew stronger, and every day he managed to resist it. But it was getting harder. If the fog didn’t lift soon, they were going to have to change their tactics and go out physically to find him because Spar wasn’t fooling himself into thinking that Graize had halted his journey. Like the rest, he was creeping closer using the storms to hide his movements.

  Beside him, Hisar mimed throwing His own elbows onto the battlements. “Do you suppose the older Gods can see through this?” He demanded, breaking into the youth’s thoughts.

  Spar just shrugged.

  “I should be able to,” Hisar continued. “It’s only physical and I’m more than just physical.”

  Spar snorted. “You’re other than just physical,” he allowed. “You can’t affect the physical. That’s not more.”

  The young God rose a few feet into the air. “This is more,” He insisted.

  “No it’s not. I can do that; I just come down sooner.”

  Hisar sniffed at him, then, with a restless gesture, flung Itself into the air in Its dragonfly-seeming and, whipping Its tail about to knock Spar’s sopping wet hair into his eyes, shot off across the temple rooftops.

  Spar pressed his chin down onto his arms. “Show-off,” he muttered.

  He scowled into the fog. Sable Company had finally seen the sailing of the Skirosian and Volinski fleets. Word from Anahtar-Hisar was that a sudden storm had swept across the Deniz-Hadi, causing their southern enemies some delay, but there was no further sign of their northern. Spar figured it was too much to hope that a sudden storm on the Deniz-Siya had sent them all to the bottom of the sea.

  To the west, Sable Company had detected activity on the grasslands. Marshal Brayazi had sent reinforcements to the garrisons at Orzin- and Alev-Hisar and they’d easily repelled a series of minor assaults against Kepek- and Ekmir-Koy by Petchan raiders. Then word had come from Yildiz-Koy that a small force of Yuruk had attacked the village livestock pens, but they, too, had been driven back without casualties or losses by the warrior-backed militia. Although everyone knew these attacks were nothing more than their enemies probing, searching for weakness, finally being called to arms had lifted everyone’s spirits.

  As the small bell atop the seer’s shrine began to toll, calling Sable Company back into vision, Spar grimaced in annoyance. He was tired of sitting in a cold, stone chamber without Jaq to keep him warm, surrounded by people whose seeking kept interfering with his own. He was not a Warrior of Estavia; he was not a Battle-Seer of Sable Company, and their enemies were not his concern right now. Spar was only interested in one enemy and he could make as much use of a concealing fog as anyone. His first prophecies had been made so that his small family of lifters—Cindar and Brax—could ply their trade on the streets of Anavatan in all kinds of weather. Spar knew fog, and he knew how to use it.

  Crossing the battlements, he joined Jaq, crouched in a
nearby sentry box out of the rain, and pressing his back against the back wall, wrapped one arm around the dog’s neck. As Jaq made himself comfortable across his legs, Spar stepped into the dark place where he did his own private seeking. He was tired of letting his rival build up the advantage. It was going to stop. Now.

  The fog followed him in, weaving about his feet like strands of fine silk, refusing to be banished. Rather than fight it, he allowed it to build and, in moments, it had blanketed the black sand beach and blotted out the moon. Crouching by the water’s edge, he emptied his net and laid it to one side. Then waited. There was more than one way to set a trap. The best way was to lie in wait and let the mark approach as if unseen, then spring. It took skill and patience, but Spar had both. Behind him, he felt Hisar’s dark tower-seeming rise up from the sand in response to his actions, but ignored It. The young God would know what he was doing soon enough. The gentle lapping of the ocean waves grew quiet, and when he finally stood in total, silent, and all-encompassing prophetic darkness, he called up a wind to sweep the fog away.

  The tableau cleared at once and Graize stood before him, one arm upraised in threat, a knife clenched in his fist. The aqueduct loomed behind him, strong and physical. As the tower-seeming leaped forward, Spar shot one arm out to block It and, using all his strength, drove his other fist into his adversary’s defenses.

  “Gotcha!”

  To the north, Graize jerked backward with a surprised shout as the image of a black sand beach and a dark, fathomless ocean suddenly smacked into his mind. For a single heartbeat, a blond-haired youth outlined in gold, loomed over him, feet planted in the soil of an alien prophecy, fists raised in menace, and a vast tower rising above them both. Then his head hit the ground with a crack and his own vision swept over him through the breach in his focus.

  The air grew heavy and portentous, smelling of blood and salt. The sun, unseen for days now, leaped at him like a giant fiery insect, its regard dripping with malice and a vicious, angry triumph. The sound of water raging through a cavernous darkness echoed all around him, and he fell into its churning depths with swarms of waterlogged spirits sweeping over him, tearing at his hands and face. As his lungs filled with prophecy, he grabbed for the protective cloak he’d built among the Petchans and threw it across his mind.