Myths of the Fallen City

by James Derry

  He hissed down to Sygne, “I see light up here. It must be a hatch for throwing out trash.”

  “How am I going to get up there?”

  Jamal repositioned himself so that his arms and head were dangling out from the bottom of the chute. “Throw me the scabbard and sword.”

  Sygne did as he asked, and Jamal looped the straps of the scabbard around his forearms. With his arms extended, the scabbard hung like a trapeze over the pit.

  “Jump, Sygne. And I’ll pull you up.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll have to leave the torch here. And what about that poor poet’s lyre?”

  “Just leave it. And jump! I can’t hold this position forever.”

  “But it’s a nasty drop.”

  “Trust me, Sygne. Come on!”

  Sygne looked very worried, but she backed up and made a good running start toward Jamal’s scabbard. Jamal felt a shock of awe and dread as Sygne launched herself out over the sloping mouth of the pit. It was a graceful leap—fully invested—and Jamal was uncertain, for just a second, that he would be able to bear her weight. But his strength held as she grabbed hold of his makeshift trapeze, and his position on the sides of the chute held as well.

  He hauled her up until she had a handhold. For a few awkward moments he struggled to move himself enough to make room for her, but soon they were both safely wedged in the shaft.

  “See?” he said. “As long as I am here, you don’t have to worry about a nasty drop.”

  Someone pushed a bucket through the opening above them. This person upended the pail, which spilled day-old tabbouleh onto Jamal’s head and shoulders. The lumpy ooze dripped down his face, into his eyes and the corner of his mouth.

  His body had shielded Sygne from most of the falling mess, so her face was spotless as she grinned up at him. She asked, “What were you saying about a nasty drop—”

  “Don’t,” he warned. And to Sygne’s credit, she never laughed at him—at least not loud enough that he could hear it through the lumps of old vegetables in his ears.

  ***

  Climbing through the vertical shaft was far easier than Sygne would have expected. She followed Jamal’s lead, bracing herself with isometric pressure through her back and her legs. There were at least two lighted openings in the chute above them. Jamal reached the first opening after just two minutes of careful climbing. She saw him warily peek through the small portal (this was where the bucket of garbage had come from), but nothing rushed out to greet him this time. He looked down at her and shook his head. Sygne could hear the sounds of conversation, sloshing water, and the clatter of ceramics. She could imagine what Jamal was seeing: a busy kitchen filled with scullery slaves cleaning up from the night’s festivities. They wouldn’t be able to sneak through there.

  Jamal started creeping-climbing toward the next dim light. It looked as if that hatchway was obscured by a curtain; perhaps it would lead to a quieter chamber. Sygne eased herself past the open portal, darting cautious glances at the scullery slaves bent over their washing troughs. She had heard aristocrats speak wistfully of the supposedly ‘simple’ lives of slaves, and, in general, Sygne thought that was about the most patronizing thing a free person could possibly say about another human who had been bound in servitude. But at that moment, Sygne did envy those other women. At least they weren’t wanted fugitives.

  Sygne wondered: Had she ruined her life by trying to rescue Princess Ilona? She certainly wouldn’t be able to teach anyone about science if she had to spend the rest of her life hiding from the Issulthraqi Empire—or even worse, if she had to spend the rest of her life in an Issulthraqi labor camp.

  She continued ruminating on her troubles as Jamal shimmied ahead, moving with powerful thrusts through the vertical space. Occasionally he would curse to himself as his hand slipped through some unseen bit of pulp or cooking grease. But he cooed appreciatively as he reached the covered hatchway.

  “What is it?” Sygne whispered.

  “This is a nice curtain. Silk. If only it was long enough to fashion into a new pair of pants. Because this pair is ruined.”

  Jamal brushed aside the curtain until he could peek into the torchlit room. Sygne held her breath and listened. She heard nothing. Without pausing to explain himself, Jamal twisted his body so that he could fit his broad shoulders through the small frame of the portal. Sygne lurched her way after him. Her legs were beginning to feel trembly and weak. She was immensely relieved to slip out of the vertical shaft and onto a smooth (and stably horizontal) wooden-plank floor. She was less encouraged by the fact that the small chamber was already empty. Where was Jamal? She wobbled past the rudiments of a small, but extravagantly equipped kitchen.

  Jamal was in the next room, huddled near an imposingly large bed. He silently drew her attention to a runnel of blood winding its way like a miniature river across the planked floor. And there, where the runnel widened into a puddle, lay General Yur, sprawled out on his stomach. His head was turned toward Sygne, so that one of his saggy cheeks was crumpled up and mashed into the gory puddle. His dead eyes stared sightlessly into hers.

  6 – Dead Bodies

  Jamal whispered, “Don’t scream!”

  Sygne assured him, “I won’t scream.”

  “Don’t get too close.”

  “He can’t hurt me. He can’t hurt anyone.” Sygne had a piteous look on her face. Jamal realized that she was feeling sorry for the bloated, tin-eared bastard.

  She stood and walked toward the body. Jamal caught her wrist. “Be careful. If you get blood on you… Or leave any evidence that makes it seem like we did this…” He let go of Sygne, realizing they had more important concerns than merely staying still. “We can’t be in this room with him. We need to get out of here now!”

  He crept into the balcony and realized that it looked out upon the palace’s inner courtyard. Right back where this foolishness had started.

  In a low tone Sygne said, “He’s wearing kohl around his eyes.”

  Jamal hissed, “Sygne! Focus. We have to…”

  “And stain on his lips.”

  “I thought you were enlightened, Sygne. There’s nothing wrong with a man taking steps to look his best. In Gjuir-Khib—”

  “And he’s wearing Ramyya’s dress.”

  “What? Let me see.”

  Jamal stayed low, so that he couldn’t be seen through the open door to the balcony. He’d been so focused on Yur’s ghastly eyes, he hadn’t noticed that the General’s tiny robe was not a robe at all, but a delicate gown that had been cinched to his torso with a series of belts.

  “Who did that to him?” Jamal asked.

  “Did what? Who made him up? Or who killed him?”

  “Both, I suppose.”

  Sygne said, “I assume he dressed himself. Do you remember how interested he was in Ramyya and Princess Ilona?”

  “Yeah, but I assumed that was because…”

  Sygne bent over the corpse and flipped Yur over.

  “Gozir’s gaze! What are you doing?”

  Yur’s belly and chest were thickly coated in wet crimson. The body was a mess, it was difficult to discern anything other than overlapping layers of seeping blood. But Sygne pointed to a slit next to Yur’s sternum.

  “That’s where he was killed,” Sygne said. “That’s a wide, clean wound. It looks like it was made with a very sharp sword.”

  “But not a sharp swordsman.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “See the way the wound runs up-and-down? Across the ribs? Any good fighter would have turned his wrist so that the blade slides in between the ribs.”

  “Ah. But Yur is supposed to be a formidable warrior. How could an unskilled swordsperson have come so close?”

  “Whoever did this, Yur must have trusted him,” Jamal nodded to Sygne, “or her. He let them into his bed chamber… Let them see him dressed up like a woman.”

&n
bsp; “The killer probably surprised him while his guard was down.”

  “Speaking of which…” Jamal went to the hallway door. “Strange.”

  “What is it?”

  “The door’s bolted from the inside.” Jamal’s eyes went to the balcony. “The killer must have escaped that way. We should do the same.”

  They crept to the terrace, where Jamal hoped to find an assassin’s rope leading to a stealthy escape. But there was no sign of anything unusual on the balcony. It opened out onto the courtyard, which was also innocuously quiet. That seemed to verify the idea that no one knew that the General was dead. Yet.

  Jamal crawled on his belly until his head poked out between the wooden columns of the balustrade.

  In some ways the courtyard looked unchanged from how he and Sygne had left it. Tables overturned. Ulthal’s breast plopped down in a crater of broken lumber and sand. But now there were bodies strewn across every available stretch of mosaic flooring. The sleeping partygoers were dressed in flowing fabrics, so for a moment Jamal thought he was seeing a huge tangle of laundry. But here and there among the sumptuous gowns and robes, he could see an arm or leg—or a head lolling in a nest of mussed hair.

  Sygne crawled her way beside him. “They’ve been drugged.”

  “It must be the Dweller’s quills. They rang the bell, performed the transfixion, and doped themselves afterward.”

  “But who was the—” Sygne’s question was cut short with a gasp.

  A banquet table had been moved out onto the stage set before the Dweller’s pool. Another supine body was stretched out on the table, but this woman was obviously dead. She wore the same sort of white tunic that Ilona had worn, but the fabric of her shift was soaked with water and blood. Every exposed bit of flesh on the woman had been turned into a pulp, and hundreds of glimmering bristles extended from the bloody mass.

  “No!” Sygne started to scream, but she bit down on the joint of her thumb to stop herself. Jamal shuffled backward from the edge of the balcony and raised himself to pat her on the back. He was puzzled. The Dweller’s victim was a grisly sight. But the body was far away—and Sygne had just been manhandling and dispassionately examining another corpse no more than a minute ago.

  Then Sygne’s voice quivered around a name, and Jamal understood.

  “It’s Ramyya.”

  “Ramyya? But she—”

  “They killed her! Because Princess Ilona was gone.” Sygne glanced over her shoulder at Yur’s body. “Because he wanted to get high on a pretty woman’s memories.”

  Jamal swallowed. He was glad to hear that she wasn’t blaming herself. After all, if they hadn’t temporarily rescued that spoiled, ungrateful princess, then Ramyya would still be alive.

  He swallowed again. A lump was forming in his throat.

  “She seemed very nice,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

  Sygne had begun to weep. “She was nothing more than a piece of meat to them.”

  Jamal squeezed the hilt of his sword. “If I find a way, I’ll avenge her death. Yur is already dead, but if I see that vizier...”

  She glanced up at him, tears hanging like crystals on her eyelashes. “Sessuk?”

  “Yes. He was in charge of the oblations, wasn’t he?”

  “I hadn’t thought about that.” The scientician’s face settled into a hard grimace. “But you’re right. He’s a wizard. He’s no better than the rest of them.”

  “And he is a vizier.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “A vizier! A king’s assistant in a long black robe! All viziers turn out to be evil. Traitors or sadists. Can you think of any story where that isn’t the case? That’s why viziers were outlawed in Gjuir-Khib. That was one of the wisest—”

  “But this isn’t a story.”

  Jamal said, “It’s all a story.” He didn’t see how Sygne couldn’t take solace in that. Especially in a moment like this.

  “This is real life,” she said. “And Ramyya is really dead. Because of some old, musty myth!”

  Jamal shook his head. The Dweller Under Dreams didn’t seem to be a musty myth. To him, the Dweller’s presence loomed larger—and more factual—than ever before. Those quills in Ramyaa’s body had come from somewhere, and the nobles in the courtyard were genuinely drugged on something. Something very potent.

  “We need to leave, Sygne. Before everyone down there starts waking up.”

  At that moment someone knocked on the door. That noise snapped Sygne back to attention.

  “Oh no!”

  “Don’t panic yet,” Jamal said. “Remember, the door is bolted.”

  With that, they heard the clunk of a heavy axe bite into wood.

  ***

  Sygne and Jamal eased themselves over the side of the balcony. That meant they were exposed to whomever might be looking up from the courtyard, but at the moment that seemed preferable to being caught by the Issulthraqi guard who broke through the door and bounded into Yur’s bedchamber.

  The guard was young. He had a battle-axe in his hands, but he dropped it as he saw the dead man on the floor. “Gods!” he sputtered. “Everywhere and everlasting!”

  Jamal grunted, and Sygne wondered if he was thinking about jumping the balustrade and tackling the young man before he had a chance to raise an alarm. He certainly didn’t look that formidable.

  But then Sessuk marched in behind the soldier, and any hope of that disappeared. Sessuk was grim and perfectly composed. He carried his mystical horned staff with him.

  “He’s dead,” Sessuk announced. He didn’t bend to examine the body.

  The guard’s head swiveled from side to side. “No one is here.”

  “Check the terrace,” Sessuk ordered.

  Jamal and Sygne dropped to the very edge of the balcony. Luckily the Issulthraqi ran through a perfunctory search. After a few stuttering steps in three different directions, he returned to the bedroom and announced. “It’s empty.”

  Sygne pulled herself up so that she could settle her weight on her elbows. Already, she was beginning to feel a strain in her arms.

  The vizier said, “This grisly deed seems to be the work of a genius.”

  The young man nodded eagerly, so that his ill-fitting helmet fell over his eyes. “I think the Ardhian did it. He must have been an agent of Krit. Right after he played that putrid song and ruined our party, I heard him say, ‘Everyone’s a Kritic.’ Do you think that’s some sort of rebel propaganda?”

  Sygne glanced to Jamal. He smirked.

  “You are very astute,” Sessuk said. “With men like you on the case, I’m sure the man who did this will get exactly what he deserves.” Sessuk strode to the threshold of the balcony and stared up to the stars. “What he so richly deserves.”

  Again Sygne and Jamal glanced at each other.

  “Shall I summon more men?” the guard asked.

  “Not just yet.” Sessuk walked back into the bedchamber. “Leave me, for a moment. I want to investigate this scene—in silence.”

  Sygne grabbed higher handholds on the wooden railing, so that she had a better vantage of Sessuk kneeling over Yur’s body.

  Jamal whispered, “What are you doing?”

  “He’s going to say something else odd. Maybe incriminating. I can just tell…”

  “Yes. We’ve already established he’s evil. Like all viziers. The dark robe. The horned staff. Remember? I’m more interested in this rope.”

  Jamal swung along the base of the terrace until he came to a cord of rope tied in an ornate noose to the balustrade. The thick cord extended over the courtyard in a heavy, downward curve, where it connected with the archway that held the Kritans’ Great Bell. Several other cords led down from the facade of the palace, until together they created a decoration like a large, half-formed spiderweb. Crimson pennants and flags and violet campanula dripped from each cord.

  Jamal beckoned for her to follow him. “This is our only way to get off this b
alcony.”

  Sygne gulped, but she knew that Jamal was right. Jamal had already eased himself out onto the cord. He swung from handhold to handhold, as graceful as a gibbon.

  The rope swayed ponderously to Jamal’s motion, and it groaned slightly as Sygne added her weight to it. The cord was as thick as her arm, and Sygne was fairly confident that her grip would give out before the rope did.

  One of the hardest parts of traversing the rope was navigating between the drooping bouquets of campanula flowers. Sygne had to kick her legs and build momentum to swing past them, and every bit of extra motion—every extra second—made her more tired and more desperate to be at the archway. Jamal was already pulling himself effortlessly onto the platform above the bell. Sygne tried experimenting with different ways of holding her arms. Elbows flexed. Elbows locked. Legs kicking. Nothing seemed to help, and soon the rope was swaying more erratically.

  A petal of campanula caught on her nose and stuck there, and Sygne fought an urge to sneeze. Between her potential sneeze and the creaking of the rope, she thought it was only a matter of time before Sessuk or some other enemy noticed her. All the while she was making staggered progress, and she realized that she should welcome any distraction that took her mind off of the pain in her arms.

  Her body trembled. The archway was so close! Jamal watched her with a steady, contagious confidence. Softly he said, “Don’t worry. You’re at the end of your rope.”

  She reached for one last handhold, but her fingers slipped. She fell toward the Pool of Transfixion.

  And Jamal caught her. His hand snapped around her wrist, and then he swung her so that she could catch a toehold in the stacked-stone pylon that supported the bell. With a muffled grunt and one brute motion he hauled her onto the platform with him. They lay there, flat on their backs and panting for breath.

  Jamal said, “That worked out well.”

  “Well? I nearly fell in the pool.”

  “Yeah, but I think I looked amazing when I caught you.”

  “Glad to offer you an opportunity to impress your gods.”

  “Hey. We made it. And I don’t think that pool is lethal any longer.”