City of Hope & Despair

by Ian Whates

  "Well," he said, "what do you think of her now?"

  "Beautiful," Tom conceded, "she's simply beautiful."

  Tom and Mildra both agreed that this was definitely the way to experience the Jeeraiy. The Mud Skipper didn't hang around, and they were seeing several day's worth of this sprawling, diverse land all in one go. They passed fishermen in long narrow canoes with stabilisers to either side – something that seemed eminently sensible to Tom as he watched them stand and cast their nets – and villagers who waved and called out greetings. At one point they came close to a party of the same broad-faced animals they'd encountered before stumbling on Gayla's village. The beasts were again submerged, with just their eyes and nostrils visible above the water.

  "Best to stay clear of those," Leon advised, pointing. "They can be bad tempered so-and-sos."

  For a while their course paralleled that of a wooden causeway standing proud above the water on a forest of stilts. The causeway linked a series of islands together and seemed broad enough for two or three people abreast. Tom even saw a couple of the stocky marsh ponies being led across one section. He could only marvel at the ingenuity and sheer determination that must have gone into making such a raised pathway in this environment.

  For the most part on that journey, Tom found himself simply sitting back and relaxing, succumbing to the wonder of this place.

  A great shouting broke his tranquil mood. He looked around to see a bunch of gangly-limbed figures rushing towards them, apparently running across the very top of the water.

  "Skimmers," Leon muttered, "that's all we need."

  They looked humanoid, but at the same time were clearly not human. There was something unsettling about their movements, which were almost insect-like in the way they skated across the surface of the water. Their limbs and indeed their whole frames were improbably slender, while they wore on their feet the most bizarre boots Tom had ever seen. Great saucer-like fans of translucent webbing supported by a splay of skeletal struts spread out from the base of each leg, enabling the skimmers to glide over the water. They looked to be children, all boys, and all a good deal younger than him. Nor did they limit themselves to shouting. As they came close to the Mud Skipper, they began to pelt the craft with fruit, greeting each hit with a chorus of cheers. They reminded Tom of a group of boisterous street-nicks up to mischief, though these looked far too innocent to be up to anything serious, with their over-large brown eyes and guileless expressions. In fact, there was something vaguely familiar about these spindle-limbed, wide-eyed creatures. Tom glanced from the pack of harassing skimmers to Squib, and back again.

  "Yes," Leon said, presumably seeing the direction of his gaze, "Squib is a skimmer, which is why these lowlifes keep giving me such a hard time whenever we're out this way." Squib was at the far side of the boat, jumping up and down, shaking his fists and hurling high-pitched insults back at the chasing posse of youths. If he heard Leon talking about him, he gave no sign. "He was born without the webbing, you see. He couldn't live as a skimmer, couldn't survive. To them he's just a freak. If I hadn't taken him in when I did, he'd have died. So whenever we come this way, we run the risk of this happening – the kids coming out to harass us and taunt him"

  Tom stared at the nearest pair of youths, gliding across the surface on their great webbed discs. "You mean those things are their feet?"

  "Of course. What did you think they were?"

  "I don't know, shoes or something."

  "Huh! You really think anyone, human or skimmer, could have come up with footwear as weird as that?"

  Leon had a point.

  "Squib!" Leon yelled. "Calm down for Thaiss' sake, or you'll end up going overboard."

  The youngster's torrent of abuse and aggressive gesticulating had built to an alarming crescendo, with spittle flying from his mouth and body gyrating as if he were on the verge of a fit. At Leon's words he paused and looked round, favouring them with a broad grin. "Aye, aye, skipper."

  "Not that I can really blame him," Leon said quietly to Tom and Mildra. "Those skimmer kids are a real pain in the ass."

  At that moment, a bright green globe came flying towards them, narrowly missing Tom but splattering on Leon's shoulder. It burst to dribble a trail of viscous piprich pulp down Leon's chest.

  "Right, that does it!" the old man roared, shaking his fist at the skimmer responsible, who had peeled away and was beating a retreat, laughing triumphantly. "You pesky brecking water fleas! Squib!"

  The Mud Skipper's mate was beside him in a flash. "Is it time?"

  "Oh, it's time all right." Leon's words were almost growled. He unlatched a panel in the side of the ship's cabin, revealing a coiled-up hose. Squib started to cackle maniacally, hopping from foot to foot in excitement as he accepted the nozzle from his captain.

  A piece of rotting fish sailed between them to spatter against the cabin, signalling a fresh chorus of cheers from the circling skimmers. "You'll be laughing on the other side of your faces soon, you maggot-riddled water cabbages. Ready, Squib?"

  "Yes yes yes!" The lad had the nozzle over the ship's side, training it at one of his tormentors.

  Leon turned his attention to a small wheel in the same recess that had housed the hose, turning it rapidly. A belch of liquid leapt from the nozzle to dribble into the water, followed by another more sustained spurt, which soon developed into a stream. Even then, the hose's discharge still didn't reach as far as the skimmers, despite Squib's best efforts. They continued to circle, jeering all the louder.

  "Can't wait for this," Leon confided to Tom and Mildra, grinning maliciously.

  "But the hose isn't reaching them," a puzzled Tom felt obliged to point out.

  "That's the beauty of it – the hose doesn't need to. Watch."

  Even as he spoke, the first of the young skimmers went down, splashing into water that would no longer support him. Two more followed instantly, then another. The jeers had stopped, to be replaced by panicked screams and splutters of dismay. At least, the jeers from the water had ceased. Beside Tom, Squib now launched into a new apoplexy of jumping and fist-clenched air punching, firing off fresh volleys of ridicule and insult interspersed with cackles of unfettered hilarity. Even Leon was laughing and pointing, as the entire pack of youths floundered.

  "Oh this was worth waiting for," he said, wiping the corners of his eyes with pudgy fingers, "it really was."

  "What did you do?"

  "The hose was loaded with a chemical – something I cooked up myself. It lowers the viscosity of water, weakens its skin if you like, so that the skimmers just fall right through. The effect won't last for long, of course – the Jeeraiy will soon disperse the chemical and everything will go back to normal, but for once in their lives those heartless, brainless bullies have been given a taste of what it's like to be Squib; a skimmer who can't walk on water."

  The incident put both Leon and Squib in fine spirits for the remainder of the journey, which passed without any great incident. Tom was surprised at how quickly the mountains, which had seemed so distant, loomed above them; wondering how many days it would have taken to get this far without the Mud Skipper. His respect for the peculiar craft rose accordingly.

  "This is Pellinum," Leon said cheerily.

  The town enjoyed a spectacular setting, no question about that. Some distance behind it, a great curtain of waterfalls plunged down a mountainside, the rumble of their thunder a constant background noise, causing Leon to raise his voice.

  "Decent enough folk, but don't let them sell you any of their so-called religious souvenirs; tat, the lot of it. This early in the season you should be able to find yourselves a room cheaply enough, if you've a mind to enjoy a comfortable night before you go on, and I'd advise you to. There won't be much comfort in those mountains you're so determined to explore."

  Tom barely heard him. At that moment all his attention was focussed on the waterfalls, which had to be one of the most awe-inspiring sights he'd ever seen.

  They moored b
eside a long wooden jetty, which already had a number of other boats clinging to it like leaves to the branch of a tree, though none were as large as the Mud Skipper. Squib leapt off and secured them to a mooring. Before he'd even finished tying off, a group of children came charging along the wharf, yelling for Leon to sound the boat's whistle. Laughing heartily, the skipper obliged, tugging on a chain to vent three high-pitched toots of steam.

  "As you can see," he said, turning back to his passengers, "we're hardly strangers here." The man smiled broadly, clearly loving the attention. "This is as far as we go. Hope you've enjoyed your time aboard the Mud Skipper, and thank you, young lady for sorting out my leg. Never thought I'd hear myself say such a thing, but, Mildra and Tom, may the goddess be with you."

  It was Mildra's turn to smile. "And with you, Leon and Squib – not forgetting, of course, the magnificent vessel known as the Mud Skipper."

  The marsh man pushed down on the pole with exaggerated care, moving his shallow boat slowly along the edge of a great mat of reeds and grasses. Around his feet lay a number of tubers and two fat fish – his original reason for being out in the boat, before he was lured away from fishing and foraging by the promise of greater reward. He planted the pole again with great deliberation, making sure it was firmly set before pulling on it to haul himself forward. The last thing he needed was to have the thing snag on treacherous roots which would inevitably be lurking just beneath the surface this close in.

  A plume of smoke hung above the site of old Gayla's village like some sombre exclamation mark. He didn't need to go any closer to know that the roofs and walls would be smashed and the buildings alight. There were bodies enough bobbing in the water to confirm this as a raid. The water surrounding the nearest one writhed with motion, as a shoal of tiny snippers fed. He could even see the occasional silvered flashes of individual fish as they darted in to tear off a mouthful of flesh with their razor sharp teeth before flitting away again, leaving room for the next, only to return a moment later for a further bite.

  He avoided the corpses that were obviously locals – they wouldn't have anything on them worth salvaging – and would normally have been going through belts and pockets of the raiders' dead by now, but he'd spotted one that was potentially even more valuable.

  A body lay snagged in this bed of reeds, half in, half out the water. By his clothing it was obvious that this was neither a local nor a raider. A traveller, then; probably a pilgrim on his way to visit the goddess, which meant he would be carrying provisions and the means for buying more, not to mention whatever he might have brought to offer the goddess as tribute. Now there was a prize worth running the risk of a few grass roots.

  The goddess was smiling on him today, because no other small boats were here yet – he seemed to be first on the scene, but that wouldn't last. The smoke would be visible for many leagues across the flat openness of the Jeeraiy, and every marsh man with a boat was bound to be hurrying here as fast as they could row or pole. For now though, he had the pick, and he intended to make the most of such rare good fortune, starting with this pilgrim.

  The body was lying on its side. By edging the boat right up against it, he was able to half drag, half roll the fellow into the boat, deftly adjusting his own balance and footing to ensure the craft didn't tip over. This wasn't a big man, nor richly dressed, but who knew what might be concealed within his clothing? As the marsh man knelt to investigate, the corpse's eyes sprang open. Startled, he let out an exclamation and jerked back.

  Before he could think to do anything further, the suddenly very animated corpse's hands shot out and grabbed his shirt, pulling him downwards once more. At the same time, the man's face lunged up, headbutting him.

  Pain exploded across his temples. Caught by surprise, disorientated and hurt, the marsh man lost his balance and fell, vaguely aware that the boat was rocking dangerously beneath him. Somehow he landed in the boat and it hadn't tipped over, but this respite was short lived. Strong hands gripped his shirt, hauling him up, and the next instant he was flung through the air to crash heavily into the water.

  Instinctively he tried to suck in a lungful of air but took down a great gulp of foul water instead. He felt himself sinking and struggled to turn around, to get his feet beneath him and kick for the surface. Even as he did so, disaster struck. He felt his foot snag and entangle in the very roots he'd been trying to avoid with his pole. Panicking, he tugged and tugged, but the roots held firm. The water wasn't deep here, and he knew the surface had to be close above his head, yet with his foot trapped it might as well have been a hundred miles away. He was a marsh man. Surely he couldn't die like this?

  Knowing it was likely to be his final effort, he pulled for all he was worth, flexing his foot, and felt a surge of relief as his heel came free and the finger-like grip of those clasping roots reluctantly loosened. Suddenly he was shooting upwards, clawing at the water until first his hand and then his head broke the surface.

  Sweet air! He spluttered and splashed and gulped in as much as he could, all the while looking round in panic for his boat.

  Then he saw it, already some distance away and continuing to move further; the figure of the pilgrim standing straight and working the pole.

  "My boat," he gasped, trying to shout. "Come back, you brecking bastard, that's my boat!"

  But if the pilgrim heard him he gave no indication, instead continuing to move steadily in the direction of the distant mountains.

  SIXTEEN

  They came in ones and twos and clusters and groups. The talented. It was less than an hour until globes out. A team of lamp lighters stopped to stare, neglecting their duties as they watched this unprecedented surge of people. Normally most folk were safely indoors by this hour, but today there was a great flurry of activity. And the Tattooed Men were everywhere, knocking on doors, chivvying the reluctant or simply escorting. The lamplighters scratched their heads and conferred in muted murmurs, wondering what the breck was going on, but deciding it was none of their business and probably better they didn't know.

  A pair of dun-uniformed razzers, on their way back to the station after completing their final patrol of the day, stopped in their tracks and looked on, bemused. They wondered whether they ought to intervene, or at least enquire, but decided against the idea. There were Tattooed Men involved, after all, and who in their right minds wanted to interfere with them? So instead, in time-honoured tradition, they chose to scamper back to the guard station and report events to their superior. Let someone else decide what to do, if anything.

  All the little knots of people were converging on one place: Iron Grove Square, where Kat was already waiting. Two braziers had been lit, their hot coals glowing red through the lattice of black iron that held them, while the smell of roasting nuts wafted on the breeze. Kat was kept busy making sure everyone was given a hot drink or a mug of soup as they arrived. It wasn't really that cold, but the glow of the braziers offered comfort and a sense of homeliness which would be welcome once the globes were fully out, while a drink was the very least they could do.

  The apothaker came forward, accepting a mug of warm chocolate and offering Kat a confident smile in return. She had cleaned herself up and taken the trouble to dress smartly for the occasion. "Give her hell!" she said.

  "We will," Kat replied, trying to match the other's tone with a confidence of her own.

  As the apothaker moved away, Kat took the opportunity to look around her. The square was now dotted with people of all ages, shapes and sizes, standing in groups and chatting, or simply sitting and waiting. For once she felt proud of where she was from, of being a part of a community that produced folk like this; people willing to gather here despite the danger, displaying the sort of gutsy defiance that had seen the denizens of the City Below emerge from the blood and the horrors of the war unbowed and unbroken. They'd seen off the Rust Warriors and the Blade, and by Thaiss they'd do the same with this Soul Thief!

  There was no turning back now; this was actually ha
ppening. Kat felt certain that the bait would be taken – how could the Soul Thief resist an opportunity like this? She only hoped the firepower they'd amassed would be enough to stop her. It had to be. For her sake, for her sister's, and for the sake of all these people gathered in Iron Grove Square.

  As more of the Tattooed Men started to arrive, their shepherding duties completed, Kat was able to delegate the serving of soup and hot drinks to others. Predictably, Shayna was among the first to offer, leaving Kat free to burn off some of her anxious energy by touring the perimeter and seeing for herself the preparations being made for their special guest.

  The square was bracketed on all four sides by what must once have been a grand building. Two storeys of interlinked galleries and passageways boxed in the inner courtyard known as Iron Grove Square. On the north side, the building was punctuated by an imposing arched gateway which granted access to the street. Two large wooden gates, held together by bands of heavy black iron, guarded the entrance. When they first discovered this place, the gates had been as dilapidated as the rest of the building, but the Tattooed Men had restored them. This evening, the gates stood open.