The City (47 page)

But the river did not go away. Millions of tons of water poured each day from the south and, in the rainy season, from the high plains to the east. It flowed under the City, through the lowest levels, crushed and flattened by history. It seeped through cracks in old stone and forced the stone to crumble. It penetrated prehistoric oak pilings. Then it exited the City through a multitude of tunnels and caves, sieves and conduits, drains and ditches, eventually running to the sea.

But antique mechanisms, built long ago by wiser men, no longer worked, and some of the water had no place to go. As the deepest layers of the City’s buildings slowly collapsed, so the flood levels rose.

In the crucial years when the gates and weirs beneath the City started to fail, the palace engineers had not the will nor the courage to do anything about it, leaving it to later generations, for whom it was then too late. Mechanisms which could have been repaired now
lay drowned. As the lowest levels of the Red Palace collapsed, great cracks appeared in its stone walls, and in the nights people could hear a wretched groaning as the fabric of the palace was tortured by the rising water. Walls and ceilings were shored up by huge timbers, but this often made the problem worse, for the pressures built without balance and the palace twisted and writhed like a great animal struggling in a trap.

The engineers, in a bid to relieve the problem, built three dams outside the walls to the south, to store rain and snow-melt from the mountains and leach it into the City under man’s control. For a decade or so the scheme worked and water levels stabilized. But two of the dams were on land lost to the Petrassi. Until now they had been left intact by their new lords, but more than one engineer’s dreams were haunted by fear of what would happen if the enemy decided to destroy them and unleash their waters on the sinking City.

The Hall of Watchers, where Bartellus had first met Indaro, and near where the historian Marshall Creed had glimpsed an angel in the darkness, had been part of an early palace built centuries before. Then a new building was erected on its carcass, and somehow it had disappeared from the plans of today’s engineers and the entrance to it was known to only a few. The stone carvings of birds perched in black water now, their blind eyes watching the sluggish lapping and sucking as the water oozed in and out through what was once a portal into the sewers.

Two levels above the drowned hall was the Library of Silence. This too had been abandoned, thousands of its books moved up to drier levels, others left to rot.

Amita had been told to seek out the library for two reasons. Firstly to confirm that the library entrance to the sewers was, as feared, now unusable. There were few known portals from the sewers to the palace, and the changing geography of the tunnels made even those perilous or impossible. If the Hall of Watchers was impassable, another route must be found, and quickly. So Amita was also tasked to search the library for plans of the City which showed other portals, perhaps in the flooded dungeons.

Five days after she first arrived at the palace she made her way, cloaked and hooded, at dead of night to seek out the sewers again. Petalina had entertained her patron Marcellus until not long before, and now the man had left and Petalina slept. Amita guessed she had
several hours to herself. Thin light filtered through the high windows of the corridors as she padded barefoot on stone. She hurried, for she knew she had far to go and much to do. Even at night the palace was busy, and she stopped several times, sliding out of sight in doorways and round corners, and once behind a statue, to avoid troops of soldiers, and others on mysterious missions in the midnight palace. She could afford to be seen once, for she could claim she was new to the palace, and both lost and stupid. But a second time would call attention to her, and that would never do. So she moved from shadow to shadow and prayed to not meet anyone, least of all the man with the moustache and gimlet eyes.

It took her more time than she had hoped to find again the gilded stairway, which she now knew was called the Pomegranate Stair. For a while she was uncertain she was in the right place, for the stairway was lit by torches and blazed with reflected light, whereas when she had seen it before it was in the thin grey shafts of late afternoon.

She hesitated, then ran lightly down to the next storey, looked around, then went down two more levels. Here the balusters were shabby and chipped, some were crooked and several missing. The blaze of lights ended here and another, grey stone stairwell curved further downwards into darkness. With nervous fingers she unhooked a torch from the wall and set off down.

The smell of dank decay in her nostrils reminded her of the stench of the sewers. At the bottom of the stairwell a corridor stretched both ways. Amita chose left. This lower part of the palace appeared abandoned and she moved quickly. Once she heard the smart slap of boots on stone in the distance, but otherwise she was surrounded by stillness, broken only by the soft spluttering of the torch.

After a while she stopped, admitting to herself that she had come the wrong way. She turned and hurried back, running to make up lost time. But when she could just make out the glow of the Pomegranate Staircase in the distance she paused. She could hear many bootsteps coming down the stairway. Her heart beat faster and she quietly bracketed the torch and slid into a shadow on the wall.

Two figures met in torchlight at the bottom of the stair. One was a dark-haired man, his beard neat and close-cut, dressed all in black. The second was only a boy, younger than herself, with fair hair and a thin gawky frame. He was clothed in green silk which glistened
slickly in the flickering light. Amita shrank back, fearing they would somehow sense her presence.

The dark man was asking, ‘Why are we meeting in this dreary place, lord?’

‘I like it down here,’ the boy told him. ‘It reminds me of the old times. I had forgotten for a moment that you don’t like to get your feet wet, Rafe. Or your hands dirty,’ he added slyly.

He glanced up and Amita saw there were two armed soldiers in the darkness above them on the stair.

The boy sighed, as if bored with the conversation already. ‘I am seeking army records,’ he told the man called Rafe.

‘Down here? I thought they were transferred to Dashoul in the south wing?’

‘Not all of them. Anything older than twenty years still languishes in the Library of Silence.’

‘They will rot away if they are not rescued,’ said Rafe. ‘I will see to it. What are you seeking?’

‘Nothing important,’ the boy told him evasively. Then he said, ‘I am told you are responsible for the repossession of the Gulon Veil.’

‘Yes, lord.’

‘You have the emperor’s eternal gratitude. We thought it long gone from the City. Where was it?’

‘A girl in Lindo. She gave it to a merchant’s son, perhaps as a love token. He recognized it and reported it to the palace.’

‘How did this merchant’s son know of the veil?’ asked the boy. He sounded sulky, Amita thought, and she wondered who he was. ‘How many people knew it was lost, and of value?’

‘Very few, lord,’ said Rafe mildly. ‘But we could scarcely hunt it down if no one knew it was lost. The merchant’s son was tipped off by one of the girl’s associates, who boasted that it was of great value to the emperor. So he sought out an agent of the palace. My network of contacts is legion. Eventually they always draw in the information we need.’

‘Eventually,’ the boy repeated. ‘How did this girl come to have the thing?’

‘We don’t know. My agents took it upon themselves to destroy any evidence of its existence.’ Rafe sighed. ‘The gods save me from servants with initiative.’

‘Nevertheless, Rafe, you have our gratitude. We’ve been eight years without its power, and the reflections were … increasingly difficult. Ask anything of your emperor.’

‘You are generous, lord.’

Rafe turned back towards the staircase, then the boy said, ‘The merchant’s son. See to it that he is …’

‘Rewarded, lord?’

‘Killed.’

Rafe bowed and said formally, ‘With your leave, lord …’

‘You have always been anxious to seek the light, Rafe. It is unnatural.’

Rafe glanced up the staircase. ‘Like you, lord, I do not sleep, but my lady does and sometimes I like to watch her.’ Then he asked again, ‘What were you seeking in the records, lord?’

The boy hesitated; then, as if anxious to prolong the conversation, he said, ‘I am on the track of a soldier called Fell Aron Lee. It seems he is not who he says he is.’

Rafe chuckled. ‘None of us are. Fell Aron Lee,’ he mused. ‘I have heard the name recently. When was it? Kantei?’

‘Before the rout at Salaba, lord,’ one of his warriors replied. ‘He commanded the Wildcats. He left the tower to join the battle against his general’s orders.’

Rafe smiled. ‘Yes, of course. Flavius was beside himself. Fell was lucky to die in battle, for Flavius would have had him crucified if he’d lived. What did you find out about him?’

‘A history of exemplary service to the City. But there is no record of where Fell came from. Of his father and his early years there is nothing.’

‘There are many fatherless sons in the army.’

‘But he has no mother and no place of birth. It appears he sprang into existence as junior aide to Shuskara at the age of fourteen. This in itself makes him suspicious. You believe he died with the rest of the Maritime?’

‘Chances are. Why do you seek him?’

‘I have heard he has made a claim of me.’

‘A claim?’

The boy shrugged.

‘Heard from whom?’ Rafe persisted.

‘The usual channels. Information passed through Dashoul’s people,
or through Saroyan.’ He shrugged again as if it was unimportant. Then he said petulantly, ‘It is not your concern, Rafael.’

Rafe nodded and bowed again. ‘Good hunting, then,’ he said and, flanked by his warriors, he stepped lightly up the stairs. The sound of clattering armour faded until Amita was surrounded by oppressive silence again. The boy stood in the pool of torchlight for some time, apparently deep in thought. Amita waited, fearing he would come her way and ready to flee, but suddenly he started walking down the corridor in the opposite direction. After a few heartbeats Amita followed at a careful distance.

The boy passed several ornate doorways without pause, for he seemed to know where he was going. Then he vanished from sight. Amita crept along the corridor to where he had disappeared, terrified that he would suddenly return and confront her. He had exited through a wide doorway which led to a round chamber in which another flight of stone stairs led further down. Amita had left her torch behind, fearing he would see the glow. So she crept down the stairs in darkness, knowing she would be caught if he returned. Each time she was tempted to turn back and flee this wretched place she reminded herself that the days were passing quickly and Elija’s life might depend on what she found.

She had been descending for some time, holding blindly to the stone wall, when her bare foot stepped into water. Its slimy cling brought back all the anxieties of life in the Halls. It was up to her knees and she felt forward carefully with the other foot, wondering if there was another step down. But there was not; she was at the bottom. There was a dim torch glow coming from her left. She crept towards it, testing each footfall lest she come to more stairs.

The water was icy and the air around her felt thick with the smells of standing water and wet stone. She shivered, with cold and with dread.

She found the boy in a room to her right. The carved oak door was half open and reflected the flicker of his torch. She looked for a bolthole and found, a little further along the corridor, a deep niche in the wall where she could hide if he came out. Then she returned to the carved door and watched through the crack.

The chamber was full of books. Some of the shelves were empty, but there were piles of books, apparently randomly laid on tables and stools. Some had been left on the flooded floor and were fat and
pulpy. The boy had climbed on to a central table and seated himself there, his long legs folded under him like a spider’s. He had a pile of books beside him and in the light of the torch he was opening each one and leafing through. Each volume was large and he balanced them with difficulty on his bony knees. Amita wondered why she was still watching. He could be there for hours and if this was the Library of Silence, which she guessed it was, she must come back. She wondered what the time was, whether it was dawn. She had just determined to leave and return another night when the boy slipped down from his perch. He placed the book he had been reading open on the table and briskly tore out several pages. He closed the book and placed it on a shelf among similar volumes. Then he headed for the door.

Amita moved away, careful not to make a splashing noise. She slid into the niche she had found and saw the glow of the torch shine brightly on the grey water at her feet, then diminish as the boy sloshed back towards the staircase. She followed the torchlight and saw it go upwards as he climbed the stairs. Then, when all sounds had ceased, she made her way up the steps in darkness until she found a lit torch, then headed back to the library.

Petalina rose slowly to wakefulness. She lay adrift in the tangled sheets, unwilling to move. Her throat was sore and her eyes gritty. Her limbs were leaden, like lumps of meat. She took a deep breath and coughed.

‘Amita!’ she croaked.

But no one came, and at last she pushed herself wearily on one elbow and looked around. It was still before dawn but weak light was filtering through the windows, which faced east, bathing the room in shades of grey. It showed upturned wine cups, empty bottles and discarded clothes. Still no one came. Petalina, exhausted by her effort, flopped back down again and lay like a starfish, staring at the ornate ceiling.

I’m getting too old for this, she thought.

She had known Marcellus Vincerus for nearly thirty years. She loved him deeply and she owed him everything: her wealth, her status as a palace courtesan – others who plied her trade were called whores – and even her life. He was a remarkable man and she missed him when he was away. When he walked into her room
the air fizzed like sparkling wine, and when he left the wine became mere water.