by Mary Gentle
"I could do more . . . if I were stronger."
The White Crow met his gray brilliant eyes. "I could learn from your Church, I think. Honor to you, my lord Bishop."
"Master-Physician. You’d better see this."
Heurodis’s voice came from the cell door. The White Crow stood, staggered in the hollowed floor, bare feet kicking the discarded rapier and pack, and lurched over to lean up against the door-jamb.
All the twenty or so strips of paper curled up from the step and jamb and lintel and snapped, bleached into blankness.
"We’d better move, if we can." The White Crow, straightening up, took a step across the threshold of the cell. It opened now into the body of a vast high-vaulted hall.
She looked back. Framed in the cell door, Heurodis held the arm of the Bishop of the Trees, supporting him as he rose to his feet; Theodoret leaning part of his weight on the gaunt blond man’s shoulder.
A voice, quieter than anything ever heard before but perfectly clear, spoke at her left hand.
"Child of flesh, he was bait–for a healer."
Breath feathered her dark-red hair, pearled damp on her neck; a reek of carrion made her eyes sting and run over with tears. Her hand throbbed. Her legs weighed lead-heavy: she caught her breath, could not turn to where the voice came from.
Quiet as the rustling of electrons in the Dance, the voice spoke again.
"You could not have healed him if I had desired him truly to die."
* * *
The woman has almost reached the sea again.
Andaluz hurries protectively after her, the coach abandoned. Her footprints, small and deep, wind across the sand of the airfield. His shadow pools in light around his feet. No matter how fast he walks, she is before him: her arms held up, the bamboo staff clasped in one hand, her bright-feathered silver braid penduluming across her back with her swift strides.
"Lady! Luka!"
Birds wheel above her head. Black-headed gulls, shrikes, cormorants: they swoop and skim the small woman’s head or hands and rise, strong wings beating, in the wake of the flock that flies up to the Night Sun. Still they come, still they fly, still they pursue.
"Wait! Dear lady . . ."
Sweating, popping buttons as he pulls the neck of his doublet open, Andaluz comes to the marble balustrade and steps overlooking the lagoon. He leans against the balustrade, panting.
"Luka."
A sea-wind blows, sharp with the cold of ocean depths.
Black light shines down upon the marble terraces, the promenade, and the tossing waters of the lagoon. Onyx gleams flash from the waves. No one but Andaluz and the Lady of the Birds hears the rushing of that sea.
The docks stretch out, empty.
She stands on the marble steps that go down to the dock, staring to where the Boat moored. Nothing is there. The Boat is gone.
Andaluz, sharp pains in his chest, sees her raise her head and open her mouth: her cry is forlorn as a gull’s, desolate.
Timber sleepers, jammed between the surrounding railings and wired down, blocked the entrance to the underground station.
"Break it open." Plessiez smiled sardonically. "The strike is over, I think."
He stepped back as Fleury beckoned and a squad of Rats with dirty velvet robes tucked up into their belts began levering away wood and cutting wire.
The scrolled railings and steps leading down to the railway stood on the comer of the square and First Avenue, outside porticoed town-houses. A few yards from where he stood, a dozen Rats furiously piled up paving-stones and planks, barricading the doors.
"Soon have it done." Fleury nervously tugged the scarlet jacket down over her plump haunches. "Plessiez, what are you thinking?"
The pavement thrummed under his clawed feet. Plessiez glanced across the square. A hundred yards away the siege-engine glittered darkly under the Night Sun. Blue-liveried King’s Guard swarmed over the platform, rolling out barrels of Greek fire for the ballista.
Of the Lord-Architect Casaubon, there was no sign.
"These houses aren’t defensible. I’m opening a means of retreat. If the siege-engines fail us, we can take refuge in the underground tunnels and defend the entrances." Seeing Fleury’s eyes widen, he added: "Go round. Pass the word on."
Wood screamed, splintering. A sleeper tipped up, crashed down. Two Rats gripped another slab of wood and lifted it aside. Plaster and cracked tile fell down into the stairwell. Plessiez’s nose twitched, scenting for anything strange, detecting only coal and stale smoke.
A voice spoke behind him.
"Messire, you’re coming with me now. To the Night Council."
"What?" Plessiez turned, the cold wind blowing dust in his eyes.
Under the blazing blue sky and Night Sun, a burly brown Rat strode towards him between piles of debris. Her coat showed charred and scraped patches, but from somewhere she had found a bright blue sash to tie over her shoulder and between her two rows of furry dugs.
"Charnay? Good gods, Charnay!" He kicked rubbish aside, stepping to grip her arms and gaze up at her face. "You made it at last. Late, of course; but not too late, one hopes."
Plessiez’s gaze traveled past the brown Rat. He smiled. A pale black-haired young woman stood a few paces behind Charnay, hugging herself with bare and goosepimpled arms, head bowed. A dappled black-and-white tail hung limp to her ankles.
"Or did you find her for me, Mistress Zari?"
The young Katayan in the black dress shivered, not looking up. In a low voice she said: "You’ll need a Kings’ Memory. I’m here for that, remember?"
A third member of the group straightened up from a crouch by a pile of debris, brushing dust from a small hand-crossbow. A Katayan woman perhaps twenty-five: black tail and cropped black hair. She put her hand on Zar-bettu-zekigal’s arm, the lace at the wrist of her silk coat falling over her hand.
Plessiez frowned. Momentarily putting aside the bustle of preparation, the stranger, Rats running past on errands, and the darkness seeping into the north-austerly horizon, he walked forward and put his hands on Zar-bettu-zekigal’s shoulders.
"Why will I need a Memory now, little one?"
"The Night Council."
"Don’t be ridiculous. This is about to become a battlefield!"
He turned, opening his mouth to summon Fleury. Charnay blocked his way. Irritably he put one ring-fingered hand on her chest, pushing her aside.
Her strong hands gripped his sash and sword-harness, jerking him to a halt. Startled, swearing, Plessiez felt his feet leave the pavement as the brown Rat lifted him bodily, held him for a second six inches above ground, and dropped him. Stone jarred him from head to heels.
"Listen to me, messire!"
"You over-muscled oaf—!" He wrenched himself free. "I have no time for your customary stupidity."
"Listen."
Cold hackles began to walk down Plessiez’s spine. He looked up, meeting Charnay’s eyes, seeing her blink slowly, slowly.
"They showed me how to get back to them. Down there." She pointed at the newly opened station entrance. "That will do. They want you, messire, and I’m bringing you to them. Either you can walk, or I’ll knock you down, or wound you and carry you down there."
Black sunlight beat down on her translucent tattered ears; on the grimy fur of her flanks. In her face shone memories of brick tunnels, of gibbets, of dangers passed and of whatever is unearthly in the city that lies under the city. She drew her long rapier.
"I can’t leave. I’m needed. I can’t abandon these people!"
Zar-bettu-zekigal refused to meet his eyes. The other woman had hunkered down again, sorting crossbow bolts from the debris on the marble flagstones.
The brown Rat said: "Now, messire."
They do not see where a greasy-haired woman crawls on hands and knees through the bodies outside the tents, shedding armor at every move as if some insect abandoned its carapace.
She half-rises, grunts, slides down to lope painfully along in the shadow of t
he wall, supporting herself with one or sometimes both hands.
The Rats watch the darkening horizon, not the edges of the square. Her dark red clothes disguise her somewhat in bloody shadows. Unwatched, she limps towards the entrance of the station; pauses once to lift her head and bark a hysterical laugh at the sky.
She slides into the stairwell and shadow. Following.
Zar-bettu-zekigal clung to the brickwork either side of the arch, squatting in the niche, her knees almost up about her ears. She peered through the narrow slit at the back of the niche where a brick had been missed out.
"Just more tunnels."
Without turning, she kicked back with her feet and let go, arms and tail wheeling, landing four-square on the cinder track. Moisture dripped down from the roof of the tunnel. She turned, looted black ankle-boots crunching on the cinders. Elish-hakku-zekigal walked lightfooted from sleeper to sleeper, the lantern swinging in her hand.
Ahead, in shifting circles of lamplight on brick, the two Rats walked. Zar-bettu-zekigal shrugged, plodding to catch up with the older Katayan.
"The birds will take them to the Boat."
"What?" Zar-bettu-zekigal looked up warily. The hard toes of her unfamiliar boots caught on the railway sleepers.
"Souls. That’s what she’s doing." Elish-hakku-zekigal held the lantern higher. Its barred light swung over the curved brick walls. "The Lady Luka. She calls the birds to eat the psyche, the butterflies, before they’re drawn up into the Night Sun. So that the birds can fly to the Boat and the psyche be reborn."
Zar-bettu-zekigal’s shoulders lifted. She took a deep breath, mouth moving slightly. "Oh, what! I knew that!"
The woman smiled, her gaze on the diminishing parallel rails.
"Of course you did."
Zari skipped down from sleeper to sleeper, hands thrust in her black dress pockets, head coming up as she gazed around at the tunnel, bouncing on her heels. "Elish, why did Father let you come here?"
The older Katayan momentarily shifted her gaze from the rails to her sister. "He doesn’t know I’m here."
"Oh, what! See you, you told Messire Andaluz that you’re an envoy."
"I could hardly tell him that I’m a runaway." Amusement made the Katayan’s tone rich.
Zar-bettu-zekigal slowed to walk beside her, looking up at the pale face nested among lace ruffles, the cropped black hair combed forward. She took one hand from her pocket and slipped it into Elish-hakku-zekigal’s free hand. A black tail curved up to cuff her ear lightly.
"Elish, I love you."
"I know you do, buzzard. And I intend to see we both come out of this crazy place in one piece."
"Back there . . . up there . . . will those things from the Fane attack?"
The hand tightened on hers. Elish-hakku-zekigal began walking at a faster pace. Her face in the shifting lantern- light might have shown a smile or a grimace.
"Why ask me, little buzzard? I don’t know everything."
She jerked the older woman’s arm sharply. "You do!"
Elish-hakku-zekigal’s laughter echoed down the tunnel. The black and the brown Rat paused to look back. She shook her head, sobering. "Well, then. Yes. I think they will. That isn’t our fight."
The big Rat stooped slightly, the pole of her lantern in one hand and her drawn sword in the other. Yellow light shone on her brown fur, on her naked tail and clawed feet. She raised her snout to stare at the roof, incisors glinting.
"Are we right?" Zar-bettu-zekigal called.
"Certainly! I just have to work out—"
"–where we are?" the black Rat completed, sotto voce, after a moment.
"It’s going to be fine, messire," Zar-bettu-zekigal said as she came up with them.
Plessiez sighed. He carried a bull’s-eye lantern in one hand, light glinting from the buckles of his harness, and his rings, and the slender drawn rapier in his other hand. The cardinal’s sash glowed a brilliant green against his black fur.
"You had no right to drag me down here, away from . . ." He stared at Charnay still, adding in a lower tone: "I would be happier with myself if I could regret the leaving more sincerely."
"This way," Charnay announced.
The big Rat padded away, following a curve of the line. Zar-bettu-zekigal squatted down on a sleeper, pulling at the hard metal of the rails where another joined it; looked ahead to realize the line split. She hastily knotted a bootlace and rose to her feet, following.
"Suppose a train came?"
"Suppose nothing of the kind!" Elish-hakku-zekigal reached out and ruffled her hair.
Zar-bettu-zekigal jumped from sleeper to sleeper, twofooted, grinning at the echoes coming back off the damp tunnel walls. "How far down are we?"
"The lower levels," Plessiez replied without turning.
Elish-hakku-zekigal lengthened her stride to catch up with the Cardinal-General. "Two things you should perhaps be aware of, your Eminence. One is that we’re being followed— No, Zar’, be quiet!"
Zar-bettu-zekigal took her hands from her pockets and loped to walk between the black Rat and the Katayan woman.
"And the other is that your friend will have to take us off the track soon. You can’t get there from here."
The black Rat thrust the bull’s-eye lantern at Zar-bettu-zekigal without acknowledgment, and she caught the handle just as he let go of it. Heat from the glass and metal warmed her hands. Holding it at arm’s length, she saw a splinter of light: Plessiez now carried in his onyx-ringed left hand a triangular-bladed dagger.
Speaking across her head to Elish, the black Rat said: "Who follows?"
"I can’t tell who or what it is."
"And the rest–you know about this ‘Night Council,’ I comprehend? And the ways to reach it? Oh, come– you’ve been in the heart of the world how long?"
Zar-bettu-zekigal muttered a protest, winced as the older Katayan woman’s tail slapped her leg.
"She’s a shaman," she protested, ignoring Elish. "Messire, you remember, when we came out from below last time, what we saw."
Plessiez’s upper lip wrinkled, showing white incisors. He quickened his pace.
A coil of mist brushed Zar-bettu-zekigal. She put her free hand up to her face, touching dampness. The metal surface of the lantern hissed gently, evaporating moisture.
"Look." She held up the lantern.
The light cast Charnay’s shadow ahead on to a bank of mist. Niter-webbed brick walls vanished as mist thickened into fog. The brown Rat strode on, her lantern bobbing on its pole, becoming a globe of yellow light.
Plessiez’s hand tightened on the hilt of his rapier. "Well, we can’t lose her now, I suppose."
Zar-bettu-zekigal, conscious of her aching arm, held up the bull’s-eye lantern, and took Elish’s hand again. Her nostrils flared. Fog pearled on her dress, on the hairs on her arms; and she glanced up at the Katayan woman, seeing the sapphire at her throat dimmed by clinging moisture.
She stumbled, stared ahead. No tunnel walls. The clatter of her feet vanished into the fog, echoless. Three lanterns glowed, yellow in the mist.
"It smells strange."
The black Rat briefly looked over his shoulder and murmured: "Sewers."
"No."
"We’re too far below ground-level for anything else, I assure you. Charnay, woman, slow down!"
Zar-bettu-zekigal shivered, chilled. She held the lamp and lifted her head to stare upwards, seeing nothing but fog, no tunnel roof. She pursed her lips to whistle for echoes; her mouth too dry. The lantern’s muffled light could not even illuminate the cinders and sleepers underfoot.
"It smells . . . salt."
Elish-hakku-zekigal’s grip tightened.
Faint at first, on the edge of hearing, she felt the pulse and thunder of surf. A wind stirred the fog. She tasted seaweed and salt on her lips, pressing on faster to keep up with Charnay’s lantern; brushing the black Rat’s shoulder as she stumbled beside him.
"The sea!"
Wind roiled the fog, movi
ng but not shifting it. The thunder of waves came from all quarters, the pounding of waves and the hiss of shingle sucked back. Zar-bettu-zekigal raised her head, neck prickling to the cold wind, searching for a lightness that would mark sky or sun. Wet air choked her. She loosed Elish’s hand and stepped away.
"No."
A black tail coiled around her wrist, pulled. She jerked to a halt.
"I want to see the sea!"
"No."
Ahead, the bobbing lantern slowed. She caught a glimpse of Charnay, sword in hand, raising her snout to quest after a scent. Plessiez and the older Katayan woman hastened their steps.
"Oh, wait, will you!" Pebbles dragged at her feet and ankles, slid down her boots. Zar-bettu-zekigal stopped, bent, and put the lantern down on the beach; lifting her foot and reaching for the heel of her boot.
She froze. "Elish! El!"
Brown pebbles crunched underfoot: friable, fragile. The lantern, standing tilted, shed illumination on the round shadow-pocked pebbles. All of a size: no larger than a walnut.
Tiny skulls.
Ragged eye-sockets caught shadow, lamp-light. Cranial sutures gleamed, black-thread thin; the articulate and precise joints of jaws shone. She stared, seeing some with lower jaws, some with only upper teeth; the ragged slits of noses. Thousand upon thousand, million upon million, stretching out under the fog in piled banks and valleys.
Underfoot, as far back as lamp-light shone, tiny crushed skulls marked their path. Zar-bettu-zekigal wavered, balanced on one leg, hand still gripping the back of her left boot.
"Elish!" She wailed. "It doesn’t matter where I put my feet, I’m going to break more of them . . ."
"I see it, little one. Keep walking."
Zar-bettu-zekigal hooked off her boot, balancing onelegged, shook it and replaced it. She seized the lantern and lifted it. Fog swirled about her ankles, mellowing, concealing. The slope dragged at her feet as she ran after Elish-hakku-zekigal and the Rats.
"This place stinks," she said bitterly. "Ei, Charnay, aren’t we there yet? How far now? Which way?"