“Tell one.”
“From the north, a fierce bear relieved the warrior Bodvar Bjarki when Bjarki was too weary to go on in battle. It was thought to be the warrior’s other. Also, the kelp Thorstein Uxafot had a fylgia, again a bear, which he tripped over constantly, unable to see it himself.”
“I see no connection between a pair of junk knotting spikes and the fylgias from outside the wall,” Margaret said. “Those scents on the spikes could as easily be from the iron. From the wool. We have no beasts in this city.”
“We had one beast. That striped infant bear Errol and Odd Thebes found in their quarters,” said Jamila.
“An anomaly. A dead anomaly.”
“There was another anomaly in Thebes that night. The tunnel knocker Durga. Died that same night,” said Jamila.
“Foundlings die all the time.”
“Feo would agree.”
“Stay away from that thought, foundling.”
There was a pulse of silence in the conversation.
Margaret pulled the stack of books to her. “It would be better if we used our time to figure out what those black-iron spikes were made of, what iron was used. Considering I am the guildmaster of Thebes, I could surely assign some apprentice to forge a pair of junk spikes and give those to the regnat. How would he ever know? Here”—Margaret set her hand on a thick volume—“in this book we read of a narrow chain as fine as a strand of thread, which restrains the insane wolf Fenrir. The slurry contained a cat’s thunderous footfall, a length of bear sinew, the roots of a mountain—”
“—the breath of a fish, the spit of a bird, and the beard of a woman,” said Jamila. (She knew the tale of Gylfi from memory.)
“Nothing impossible in that list,” said Margaret. “I have seen plenty of women with beards in this guild.”
Jamila opened the book she had been reading on the rafter. “Here we read of a crescent sword smelted with the skin of a pale green dragon who tripped into the furnace.” (This was the thick and meandering tale of The Three Kingdoms. I had read it to Jamila when we were ten. The dragon didn’t trip; he was murdered, but this was a constant dispute between Jamila and me. I realized Jamila knew I was in the room.)
“You see?” said Margaret. “All we need is a green wyrm.”
“Just send a runner for it,” said Jamila.
“I’m serious,” said Margaret. “But if the spikes are in any way uncommon, I need to know their power. Is there nothing written of the black-iron needles, in all these scrolls and books?”
Jamila paused.
“You’re required to speak the truth, foundling,” said Margaret Thebes.
“There is no mention of the black-iron needles in the text of any tale,” said Jamila.
I shifted behind Hesiod, my knees aching from being folded up here for so long.
“Then what do I hand to the regnat tomorrow?”
“Hand him the truth. Tell him I dropped his needles when Errol Thebes dropped. He can have me. I can be the first and last guild tax—”
“I’ll pit my guild against his whole city, before such a day,” said Margaret. Then, shifting: “I can’t have guilders scrubbing our bog pots.”
Jamila re-stacked the books in front of Margaret. “It would be an interesting war,” she said. “Thebes against Fremantle. And when Errol returns, we have the spikes as a weapon.”
“Do you truly believe, Jamila Founding, that those simple spikes do anything other than knot?”
“I’m sure of it.”
Margaret shook her head. “What is it in us that makes us hope for uncommon things? Things that make us rise or fall: daggers, spikes, swords—”
“Men,” said Jamila.
“Tell your meaning,” said Margaret.
“You know my meaning, Guildmaster.”
“You trespass,” Margaret whispered.
“Perhaps a trespass of yours has put this guild in danger. Perhaps you know something of men and beasts.”
Margaret stood up fast, as if to come at Jamila, but it was an act of flight, not fight. “In the end, the common things must suffice, foundling,” she said. “Guilders work. Foundlings scrub the bogs. Needles bind. Swords tear. And men leave. There is nothing uncommon in this city. I hope Errol Thebes is dead. We both know he is safer that way.” Again her voice broke. In the dim silence, they faced each other. Margaret said, “I am insulted to think that the two of you would assume I know nothing of the runner behind Hesiod’s writings. I would expect little more from my sister’s son, but from you, Jamila Foundling, I do expect more. I suggest the felon return to the roof before my guards arrive.”
I crashed out of the bookshelf and stood in front of Jamila. The last time I saw her, I threw her as bait to the guards of Fremantle. Now she took a deep breath, taking in the smell of me. We were kelps again. And then I ran.
Spoke
WE USED TO PLAY A GAME in the halls of Thebes, whenever we found ourselves banded together to run some guild errand on an unfamiliar strata. Spoke, we called it. Two mobs of us would stand face-to-face, our backs to the walls. With mere words—a spoke—we had to frighten our opponents into running. One side would start by calling out Death! pitching the word as iosal as anyone could do at eight years or nine. But the ridiculously high kelp’s voice would only set everyone laughing. And then we were off. I eat kelps! Or I come out only in the night! Bloody knives! Darkness! Teeth! Infinity! Back and forth we hurled frights of minor proportions. The opposing team would shake and clutch at one another in the interest of drama, but hold its ground. I could frighten some of our opponents with the word foundling, and I knew all its translations from the other guilds—zwerver, paria, utlendinger, bezdomen, inimirceach, flygtning, ionnsaigh, satan. Stray, outcast, stranger, homeless, immigrant, fugitive, intruder, enemy. One side might find itself accidentally in the clutch of real fear by the opponent’s humming the tune for “Good Luck to the Ballymow.” Of course we always dragged up the tales we read in the library and flung those words about—demons, doubles, wyrms, felons, witches, Cerberus. Still we did not run, for in truth we expected the inhabitants of the library to remain there—more so, on the other side of the wall. The obvious exception was the library word that frightened us soundly for, despite our parents’ disclaimers, we were aware that a bogle had somehow gotten out of its page. One night we were in some forgotten hallway, more or less in murk. A stranger must have heard us playing the game and thought he would give us a scare.
Rare! we heard him whisper. We went fright quiet, huddled at our two walls. And then: I see you.
Utlag
A MAN STOOD BENT OVER, with his arms plunged to the elbows in a trough. The trough was long enough for bathing. Barrels had been placed under it to shore it up at table height. He was swarthy, built like a furnace, and the room was too narrow and too low for him. His curly hair, his white overshirt, his white pants were sopped with black water, such that he gave the appearance of a guilder doing a reckless job of his laundry. Errol had been dragged down a tunnel and brought here, by Null. He was trying to forget the mob in that pub who had rubbed Dete’s blood onto their faces.
Null said, “Utlag. This is that runner from Thebes who fell from the sky.” Errol saw only the man at the trough.
Something shifted overhead. The ceiling was so close Errol could press his hands on it. A muffled voice in it said, “What is that?” The voice, the first sound of it, gave him the sensation that the foul contents of a pisspot had been drizzled down his neck. He studied the ceiling till he saw the whites of two eyes studying him through a pair of holes.
“Stay high, Utlag,” Errol said.
“What is it?” the voice said again.
Null leaned over to Errol and said, “Give a name.”
“Outlaw,” said Errol. He could hear his own pulse in his ears.
“Murderer,” said Utlag.
&nb
sp; “Yes,” said Errol, unblinking.
“A murderer from Thebes. Regret! Nothing is ever simple from Thebes. We bring you here; you murder us.” The voice was two pitches at once, as though the larynx had suffered some trauma.
“No one in Thebes would order two runners to fight to the death.”
“You have the fool’s enthusiasm for guild life,” Utlag said. “Speaking of fools, Stewart, let’s have a look at ours.”
Stewart pulled two thick handfuls of hair from the trough, hair that, Errol realized as water flooded over the sides and barrels, was attached to the scalp of a man. The head and chest of the man came partway out of the water, the color of indigo dye. The man disgorged water and gasped. He lifted his eyes to stare at the holes in the mud ceiling. Tired eyes. He was young. “Are we done now?” he said.
“Not quite,” said Utlag and then blurted, “Impatience!” Stewart pushed the head back underwater. Utlag said, “I lost money on the fight.”
“With him?” said Errol, pointing at the water. His hand was shaking.
“No. When you murdered Jago’s man.”
“His name was Dete,” said Errol.
“He should have won.”
“You should have bet on me,” said Errol. He could not take his eyes off the water.
Utlag made a clicking sound. “Null bet on you. Null! Why did you bet on a iosal runner from Thebes? What do you see in him?”
Null shrugged. “All them look the same,” he said. “Sheep and foul dogs. This one was different.”
Errol had no idea what Null was talking about. He glanced at the door and wondered how far he could get if he started to run. He said, “Are you going to let that man up?”
“Why?” said Utlag.
There was a struggle under the water.
“What is your plan for him?”
“What is your plan?” said Utlag.
“To stay out of that trough,” said Errol. Again Utlag clicked, and Errol understood the clicking to be laughter.
“Turn around,” said Utlag, who then blurted, “Necessity! What do you look like!”
Errol made a face. He began to turn, holding his arms out to the sides like a kelp.
“Do you know what a kardunn is?” said Utlag.
“Everyone does,” Errol said.
“Not anymore. No one.”
“It’s a beast from outside the wall. A single-horned forest animal, hoofed, a cousin of horses and goats but rarely seen, possibly related to the qilin. In some texts kardunns are referred to as licorns or unicorns. Noble animals.”
“You’re a kardunn,” said Utlag, his voice greasy with pleasure. Errol was sure he saw Null roll his eyes. “What is it like to be loved? Tell us.”
“Don’t mock me,” Errol said. “What are you, that you hide in the ceiling like a foundling?” Stewart turned to Errol for the first time and shook his head no, almost imperceptibly. Fair warning.
“I’m an uncommon thing,” said Utlag. “I’m a rare form seeking rare forms. A griffin. A bonnacon. A kardunn.”
“I am a monster,” said Errol.
A voice spoke from the hall: “He’s a coward.”
“Don’t lurk in doorways, Jago,” whispered Utlag, then blurted, “Boredom!”
Jago stepped into the room, bowed awkwardly to the ceiling, and said, “I’ll take on this runner. You’ll see what he is. A cowardly rodent.”
“Watch this,” said Utlag. “Are we done, Stewart? Is the fool gone?”
This time, when Stewart lifted him out, the drowning man gasped and reached to put his bound hands on Stewart’s hands. There, on that blue arm, was the flying crow with crossed spikes and the brand of an outlaw. “Who—?” Errol said. He stopped. “What did he do to be in there?”
Utlag said, “A reasonable question, Rip. Tell this murderer what you did.”
“Rip?” Errol whispered.
The man sputtered, “F-f-f-failed.”
“You failed to what?”
Panting. “To guard the spican.”
Ten years, it had been, since Errol had heard his brother’s voice.
“Spican?” Errol realized he was yelling. Lowered his voice: “You mean spikes? What sort of spikes?”
“My spikes,” said Utlag. “Where could they be lost? It is a walled city.”
“I’ll go. I’ll look again. I’m begging,” whispered Rip.
“Don’t beg, Rip,” said Utlag. “This won’t take even a minute. Jago, over there, will watch you drown. And that will inspire him to do your work.”
Errol thought this: There are three men who would surely stop me. I could fight them, then haul Rip out of the water. But Rip couldn’t run. His hands are bound; no doubt so are his feet. Never in any book was it written like this, where the hero was an idiot and no one was playing by the rules. Then he wondered to himself, How would Odd handle this?
“I’ll get them for you,” he said. Everyone in the room turned to him. He turned his back on the hole in the ceiling and spoke to Null, as though Utlag did not exist. “Neither of those two will ever do the work you need. Not Jago, and not that one in the water. If Jago knew how to finish anything, I would be dead. Which I’m obviously not. And if the fool in that tub was worth his pay, then the iron spokes—”
“Spikes,” Utlag said from above.
“Whatever,” Errol said, shrugging. “Whatever they are, they would be here. Tell me what they are and I’ll get them for you by tomorrow. The noctis bell.”
Jago glared at Errol, but Utlag groaned in pleasure and said, “Curious. How? How would you get them?”
Errol looked up at the eye. “It’s simple. I am a runner from the high tower roofs of this city. I run errands. I am, unlike your staff, reliable.”
Utlag clicked. And then screamed, “Do you think I’m the fool? The regnat sent you! Suspicion!”
“He dropped me, if that’s what you mean. He wanted me to die.”
“Rip? Tell me who this is, this murderer from Thebes. He’s obviously here to save you.”
Rip searched Errol’s face.
Errol could not give Rip the time to think. “You have no idea who I am, do you? Of course you know me. Of course he knew me. And I knew him. He was the guildmaster’s son. I served him breakfast every day. No. See? He can’t remember. None of Margaret Thebes’s sons ever cared for anyone but themselves. Drown him. I don’t care. Just give me anyone who knows the streets and I’ll have the spikes for you by tomorrow. And for this? I want the money that was in the pot today when I won my fight. It was two hundred thirty-seven uurs.”
The room was silent. Utlag finally said, “I think, perhaps, scorpion. Well, the abbot will be glad of it. Stewart, be done with Rip. And, Null, take Jago to gaol.”
“You mean, take the runner to gaol?” said Null.
“No.”
Jago cried out and tried to run but Null was unnaturally fast, and in a moment Jago was gone.
Utlag said, “It’s all very well to choose a time, but we don’t observe the roof’s timekeeping here. The unrelenting bells. It is more accurate on these streets to keep time in increments of pain. Let’s start with Jago’s pain. He will be kept in gaol until you come to the scriptorium with the iron spican.”
“What is the scriptorium?” said Errol.
“It was the house of tales once. Now it’s where deals are dealt.”
“And what’s gaol?”
Utlag paused. “It’s a place to meet yourself. All right. You find the spikes. Suffice to say, if you don’t reappear, I’ll send whatever is left of Jago to come for you. I’m sure he’ll run that errand reliably.”
“Why would you wager Jago’s life? He has twice tried to finish me off. I would never come back for him.”
Utlag clicked. “Oh, you would come back for Jago.” Click. “You’d come back for
Null. For Stewart, there. For Rip. As soon as I’m gone, you’ll make some effort to save Rip. You are a runner from the high tower roofs of this city, trained to go back for every bloody, dying prisoner. Under the right circumstances you would even come back for me. I’ll give you the money. Just find what is mine.” There was a shuffling in the ceiling and the eyes were gone.
Errol ran for the trough and threw Stewart out of the way, grabbed Rip’s shoulders, hauled him out of the water. “Stay high,” whispered Errol in his ear, then threw his full weight on Rip’s chest.
The Sewers
“WHAT DID YOU EXPECT?” said Rip.
“A table,” said Errol. “Maybe even a chair.”
A little band of kelps had followed them to Rip’s tower, their hands caked with filth, their eyes red with fever. The journey here had not gone well. For one thing, Rip was nothing like Errol expected. He had spent the whole journey digging in the rubble for rot that he threw at the kelps and they put in their pockets. Like some game, Errol murmured. Then he disappeared down stairways and into grimy hovels and kept Errol waiting with the kelps outside. Errol’s wounds hurt, and he could make no sense of the streets. How could people could live in such squalor? Why didn’t parents wash their kelps or cover such rashes or feed them? All the women Rip greeted in the hovels were iosal, like foundlings, and after the third stop, Errol wondered aloud how Rip knew them or even if any of the kelps were his. Rip stopped long enough to remove a flask from his shirt, uncork it, and take a long swig.
“It’s possible, runner. You never know.”
They had come to a tower, the door of which had to be pried open with a pipe they had to dig out of the mud. Rip had forgotten this was the guild tower Thrace. Errol pointed to the golden lyre over the entry. The inner wall of the entry hall had been hacked open to expose the frayed ropes of a transport pulley. Errol climbed into the box, bending his legs up under so that his chin was between his knees. He expected to rise, but the tower had long been locked. The box bumped and jerked as it dropped within the wall. When it slammed to a halt, Errol opened the panel and let himself fall out. The floor materialized beneath his feet. He was eleven strata below the street, in a sewage main.
City of the Uncommon Thief Page 19