The City (8 page)

BARTELLUS AND THE
child wandered in the halls for a long time before they saw anyone, anyone alive. At first the way they were following went down and down. The Halls became narrower and smaller, until they were merely tunnels. Bartellus was starting to believe they could go no deeper in the bowels of the City before feeling the flaming heat of the earth’s core when the Halls started soaring away again, high above the light of his torch. He wondered how deep they were, and how long ago these great chambers were built. He remembered what Archange had said about city built above city.

‘Do you know where we are?’ he asked the girl, though he guessed the answer. She shook her head.

The Hall was dry and dusty, as if water had not touched the floors for centuries. Yet they were well below the level of the stormwater tunnels. How could a lower level be this dry? Shrugging to himself, Bartellus dismissed the problem from his mind. He was no architect, no engineer. Just a soldier.

They pressed on, the girl still holding his hand, and before long one end of a lofty stone bridge loomed ahead of them. It seemed to span a wide dry way, perhaps a river once, Bartellus thought. Surely not a road? Though he raised his torch, he could not see how high it went, nor the length of its span. The huge steps started well above their heads. It seemed a bridge made for giants.

‘Shall we cross?’ he asked the girl. He had convinced himself that the child had an instinct for where they were going in relation to where they had been. She seemed confident, although Bartellus guessed that she too had never travelled as deep as this before. He was happy for her to make their decisions for them. It was their only communication.

She looked around her gravely, then nodded.

He bent down and picked her up, placing her on the first of the giant steps. Then he motioned her back and, as she retreated, he threw the blazing torch on to the step beside her. She jumped forward and picked it up and held it for him.

He looked around. There was a pile of broken wood and large chunks of timber in one dusty corner, as if swept there by the giant bridgebuilder’s broom. He dragged two of the bigger blocks to the base of the bridge, then several sturdy chunks of wood on top, making two makeshift steps. If they were forced to come back this way they would be able to get down again.

The steps of the bridge were too high for the child to climb, so Bartellus lifted her on to each one, then scrambled up himself. It was hard going, and when they reached the top he felt no sense of progress. They stood together in the echoing darkness. There was no sound, not even of rats. Since the storm Bartellus had had half an ear cocked all the time, listening for the sound of water. He imagined it now, a tidal wave rushing at them out of the gloom, scouring them off the bridge like motes of dust.

But there was no sound, no water. Gathering his energy to go on, Bart took a last look around and glimpsed a white blur below them. His old eyes strained to see what it was, and he realized it was the shape of a woman, clad in pale robes, standing at the base of the bridge below them. He opened his mouth to call out, but his heart suddenly withered in his breast. The figure carried no torch. No one could survive deep in the Halls without light. Into his mind came the tales, told by Dwellers with fear and sometimes relish, of creatures in the depths they called wraiths. He shook his head at such nonsense.

‘Wait,’ he told the girl.

But when he looked again the pale figure was gone. He looked about, peering into the silent gloom. The child watched him curiously. ‘Nothing,’ he said.

They sat for a while, drinking the water Archange had given them, then they went on, climbing down the other end of the bridge. After that the way quickly started to rise, and it was their downward journey in reverse; first they travelled through high Halls, then the tunnels became mean and cramped, and damp. Soon they were walking along the side of a stream again, just as they had done before the storm came. The tunnel was unfamiliar to Bartellus, but the girl seemed to know where they were. He was amazed she still had the strength to walk when he felt his legs would give out at any moment. He watched obsessively the torch he had taken from the Hall of Watchers. When it failed they would probably die.

He was considering calling a short halt when they heard voices and stopped. Coming towards them out of the murk were four people with one torch. They stopped abruptly when they saw Bartellus and the girl.

The leader, a small elderly man with a grey beard, had fear and suspicion etched across his face as he approached them. He moved crabwise, as if ready to run at the least threat. ‘Where you going?’ he asked roughly, peering up at Bartellus short-sightedly.

Bartellus wondered that an old man without weapons and a small girl could concern them so. Then he realized all four were elderly, that some carried injuries, and all looked battered by the storm. They no doubt feared reivers, or anyone who was stronger than them. An unfamiliar bubble of amusement welled up inside him. He felt as weak as a sick mouse. Yet these poor people were afraid of him.

He held out empty hands and told them, ‘We are survivors of the storm. We are seeking our way back to the Hall of Blue Light.’

‘We are all survivors of the storm,’ grunted the man sourly. ‘We would not be here if we were not.’ He spat on the ground, making his point.

Bartellus asked, ‘Can you tell us if we are near our destination?’

‘I do not know your Hall of Blue Light. Is it beyond the Eating Gate?’

Bartellus glanced at the girl, who nodded with confidence.

‘Then you are Farsiders. We do not go beyond the gate. It is too perilous. The patrols come from there. And the storms.’

‘Where are you going?’ Bartellus asked him.

The man peered at him suspiciously. ‘Why would you want to know?’

Bartellus shrugged. ‘Perhaps you are travelling to a place of safety. Perhaps we could come with you.’

‘Perhaps it would not be a place of safety if we prattled about it to any stranger who asked,’ the man said, glaring at them sideways.

The other three started to shuffle along nervously, eyes down. The old man shook his head. ‘We want nothing of you Farsiders. You bring only trouble. Leave us alone!’

He scuttled off and the four returned to the gloom. Bart looked down at the girl and shrugged. She pointed the way they had been going, and they moved along.

Once they detected the sound of the Eating Gate they knew they had reached known territory. Relieved, sure now that their torch would last the journey, Bartellus gave them another short rest. Sitting with his back against a dry wall, his eyes closed, he wondered again about the long and meandering path they had travelled. He could never find his way back to the Hall of Watchers. Although he thought the child might be able to. He was certain now, had been sure for some time, that they had not been swept helplessly into that stone chamber where he had met the warrior Indaro. They had been rescued from the stormwater and carried to safety. But for what purpose? His conversation with Archange had revealed nothing, at least to him. But he was sure she knew who he was. He was too tired to concentrate on the problem. Instead his mind idled back over the events of the last day.

Remembering suddenly, he delved in the pouch at his side and from the bottom brought out the piece of cloth he had snatched from the neck of the corpse. It was half dried, damp and wadded into a solid lump. Carefully he teased and stretched it out, as the little girl watched, her dark eyes serious.

He had thought it a kerchief or a scarf, but it was neither. It was a circle made from fine gauze, delicately embroidered at the edges with thread which had once been coloured. There were two tiny pieces of metal attached to it. He took one in his stubby tortured fingers and peered at it, moving closer to the torchlight, squinting. But his ageing eyes could make nothing of it. He looked enquiringly at the girl, who held out her hand. He gave it to her and she looked at it. Then she took the other piece of metal and held them together.

She looked up at Bartellus, realization in her gaze. She put the two close to the ground and trotted them along. He took them from her
and peered again. Yes, they were animals, a dog and horse, perhaps. Or a donkey. Each cunningly crafted in gold.

‘Is this a donkey?’ he asked.

Her lips curved a little and he recognized the hint of a smile.

‘Or a horse?’ She nodded. She raised her hands over her head, and brought them down gracefully to her shoulders. Then she lowered her head and batted her eyelashes at him, a gesture so arch and comical that he laughed.

A veil. A woman’s veil, weighted at the edges with gold animals. Most of the little weights had been washed away, leaving only the dog and the horse. Bartellus smiled at the child and handed the veil back to her. For a while she sat contentedly stroking the tiny beasts, following their tiny backs and tails with a small finger.

Bartellus wondered why the tattooed corpse was wearing a woman’s veil round his neck. A love token perhaps or, twisted, a murderer’s noose? He thought again of the brand on the man’s arm. He picked up a piece of stick and traced the S in the dust.

‘Do you know what this is?’ he asked the child. She looked at it, frowning a little, then shook her head.

‘Neither do I,’ he told her. ‘But it looks familiar. It was … drawn on the arm of the dead man we found.’

Her heart-shaped face clouded over again, and he cursed himself. What was the point of reminding her of her brother? Of a time when her brother still lived.

Bartellus sighed. ‘Time to be moving,’ he said. She tied the veil neatly round her neck, patting the little animals. Then she jumped up, taking his hand.

It took them nearly half a day to get back to the Hall of Blue Light, with its familiar ledges and meeting maelstrom of waters. The storm had wrought many changes. They saw few people they knew there, and there were many newcomers. Bartellus was relieved to find Old Hal still in residence. The skinny old man, guarded by his four strapping sons, was the main conduit for food and fresh water in the upper Halls. Bartellus approached him, digging in his pouch again. He found the gold coin Anny-Mae had dug up in the shoals. He showed it to one of Old Hal’s sons, who stood aside and let him through to the father’s ledge.

The old man squatted on the floor surrounded by his hoard of food bags, pots of water and beer, and baskets of bread and roots. He
looked up and cackled with enjoyment. ‘Bartellus, we thought you dead! Many of us dead these last days.’ He shook his head in sorrow, whether for lost lives or lost profits Bartellus could not guess.

‘I have brought the girl back.’ Bartellus realized for the first time that he didn’t know her name. ‘Elija’s sister.’

‘Little Emly?’ said Old Hal. ‘And Lije?’

Bartellus shook his head.

Old Hal frowned and gestured to one of his sons, who gave Bartellus two fresh loaves of bread, some dried meat, and a large jug of water. Bartellus handed him the gold coin. Old Hal rummaged in a wooden box and gave him five silver imperials in return. Bartellus looked at them. A gold imperial equalled five silvers. He was wondering if the old trader had made a mistake, and whether to mention it, when the man told him, ‘A gold is worth more than five silvers down here in the Halls.’ He shrugged. ‘That’s the way it is.’

Bartellus put the coins away, grabbed the food and made his way back to Emly.

It was many days before the old soldier found it necessary to join another hunting party. He and Em had fed well, and rested, and he still had four silvers left after he had bought them both clean clothes and himself a curved dagger. The silvers would last them a long time, but he had already received offers to work, and he could not go on refusing them. Turn down work when you can do without it, and the gods of ice and fire will take notice, and there will be no work when it’s needed. That was his philosophy.

The hard decision was whether to take the child with him. There would be danger for her wherever they went, but danger for her alone here too. An old midwife had offered to care for the child, but she could afford her no protection if the patrols came or, if the gods cursed them, reivers. Bartellus had asked Old Hal if he would take Emly under his protection but the old man had laughed and shaken his head. And the girl had skills that a hunting party could use: her eyes were sharp and she was low to the ground so she could spot things others could not; she was light and could go where others could not.

So one morning, as the dark light filtered down through the lofty roof of the Hall of Blue Light, Bartellus and Emly set off again. There were four others, and they were heading towards the Wideawake
Sluice. This was a major floodgate which filtered off surplus river water. An expedition went there most days when the streams were high. It was fresh stormwater and the pickings were easy. It was also a place where Dwellers congregated, trading news and gossip.

The party of six made good time and they only paused once, at the Eating Gate. The leader, a skinny leathery woman called Ysold, pointed down into the gate’s mechanism and Bartellus saw that one of the great rolling barrels which chewed up passing debris was now missing.

When they reached a place where they could talk again, Ysold edged up to him as they walked.

She winked up at him. ‘Information,’ she said craftily.

Bartellus frowned.

‘There is money in information,’ she told him. When he continued to look baffled, she went on irritably, ‘The Eating Gate is breaking up, man. It is weakened. Next time there is a storm perhaps another barrel will break free. Soon there will be nothing to stop all the rubbish in the City being swept down through the Halls. The lower tunnels will start to block up, then the upper levels, then the Halls themselves. Soon the entire City will be flooded.’

‘Does no one maintain the gate?’

She shook her head. ‘Time was when they sent regular teams down to repair it. Then, many years ago, they stopped. I don’t know why.’

Bartellus looked at her wonderingly, this tough old woman with beady eyes, wrapped in an old blanket with holes for her arms. How long had she lived here? He knew there was no point in asking. She would say what they all said: ‘Time out of mind.’