The Rat and the Serpent (5 page)

She studied at me, her expression remote, but then she grinned, showing white teeth. “I am a shaman,” she admitted.

I looked down the street towards the Forum of Tauri, then returned my gaze to her. “What animal do you have as your totem?”

She turned to stroll away, smoothing her hands down her waist and thighs, then glancing over her shoulder to reply, “The widowspider.”

12.1.583

It seems an age since I last wrote on this grey paper—that I suppose must be impregnated with the vile soot that so spoils the air—and yet only a few days have passed by. Such days!

I was correct before. All my thoughts were correct. This is good, for it means that the storm in my head has not sunk down to the place where my real mind cogitates.

There is a test that a nogoth may take in order to be accepted by the Mavrosopolis into the citidenizenry. My intention is to put myself forward for such a test.

I have looked at myself in the cracked mirror that my mother gave me. I am pale, haggard, and my eyes are dull. My skin is prematurely aged, and stained with soot. My parasol is a mongrel, composed of oddments that I found in the gutter. Citidenizens, I notice, carry nice parasols, some of them with lamps underneath to illuminate their way. I imagine these parasols acting both in the physical street, lighting the way, but also as illuminating the philosophical street—the bright path that I have become so fond of. If I could acquire such a parasol, I keep telling myself, then I would not stumble.

Today I went for the first time into the Tower of the Thawers. It is a remarkable place: a marvel of white marble, a spectacle, that left me aghast, that left me agog. It is a place whose occupants—a grim band of people with worry-lined faces and shoulders bowed under the responsibility that I dream of receiving—are devoted to the elimination of frost. Frost, it turns out, is an anti-Mavrosopolitan entity, a schema from outside that must not be allowed to disrupt the existence of the conurbation in which we all live. Such was news to me. There have been frosts on clear winter nights, that is for sure, and yet I am reminded of bustling people carrying what at the time seemed absurd implements, devices that I now know to be part of the equipment of the thawer. These people—who I managed to ignore in recent years, perhaps because I was too busy denying the existence of everything around me in my rage of anguish—live to protect the Mavrosopolis from frost, which they do by thawing out frozen parts. For frost is an agent of erasure, and erasure is the great enemy.

I must devise a mantra. I must not forget anything that I have learned. I am a sponge. A sponge soaks things up. The storm in my head must blow itself out and my mind must become a sponge, absorbing information, knowledge, and, please, wisdom, so that my place in the citidenizenry is assured.

It seems that I must become acquainted as much as possible with the concept of warmth, for it is warmth that halts the erosion — the erasure — created by frost. This is good. I like warmth. Too often I have found myself shivering in the gutter with only a rotten potato and half a black olive for supper; and that disgusting water that always reeks of soot and tastes of salt. I must find a place where the food is not rancid and where the water is pure. Once, it did occur to me that there is no such place, but then I realised that such an idea must be an absurdity.

I noticed too how keen were the masters of the Tower of the Thawers—in their black suits and their low hats and their fine gloves—to promulgate the notion of citidenizenship. I understood this immediately; it chimed with my own thought. To become a citidenizen is to inhabit a finer world, a world of light, goodness, peace, and, perhaps, one of interest.

Is it wrong to feel bored out on the streets? I have never once heard a nogoth say that he was bored. My mother never once told me that she was bored. It seems to me as I write now that there was never any time to be bored. And yet, despite this freight from the past weighing me down, I do know boredom and I wish to eradicate it from my mind. I want to find a life more interesting, more worthy.

Chapter 3

My mother Astarta lived with other mothers in a shared basement. There were five of them, each with a private alcove, sharing the main cellar which they defended with matriarchal pride when other nogoths tried to take over, as happened several times a year. It was situated at the bottom of steel steps leading off a yard on Blackguards’ Passage, a yard unlit, stinking of refuse, clogged with soot and dead cockroaches; awash with knee-deep water following the sootstorm. I splashed through the pool, clambered over sootbags laid in defence, then entered the cellar.

Some water had entered the basement, so the place smelled of street urine and soot. The mothers sat clustered in one corner, where a single lantern burning silver bright illuminated them. When Astarta recognised me—her sight was not what it had been—she wailed and ran across the cellar, batting aside my crutch so that she could hug me. Her hands were like cat claws, so tight were they, so bony sharp. I took her to her alcove and sat beside her on a couch.

“I’ve been asked to visit the chamber of a colleague,” I said.

“Who?”

“An apprentice in the dessicator group I’m attached to. Raknia is her name—”

“Oh, it’s
happened,
” Astarta cried, clutching her chest as if to calm her thumping heart. “Oh, marvellous! We must get you ready.”

I showed her the flask of water. “She said I was to clean myself.”

Astarta rolled her eyes. “It’s a sign. A sign for my son.” And she wailed again, as though the shock was too much for her to take.

Embarrassed, I indicated my rags. “I don’t have anything to wear.”

“Never mind that. I keep your father’s old things.”

From a chest she took folded garments, grey with white stitching; breeches of cotton, an undershirt, a tunic made of square patches. I undressed then tried on the clothes. They were too large, but not so oversized that I looked foolish. I used the water to wash the soot from my hair and from my face and neck, then cleaned the leather mukluks that I used as shoes.

Astarta returned to the alcove with a handful of salt.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Clean your teeth,” she replied. “Hurry, now.”

I rubbed the salt over my teeth, wincing as I did, swallowing some of it and retching, then trying again with a new batch and fresh water. There came a screech of laughter from the other mothers, and then one of them brought me a spray of white, sweet-scented flowers.

“What have you brought that for?” I asked.

Astarta elbowed the mother out of the way. “It’s from the jasmine that climbs up the side of this building,” she explained. “Put some in your pockets, but leave some to chew on. You don’t want your breath reeking, do you?”

“I had better go,” I said. I was not sure that eating jasmine was a good idea.

“Good luck,” Astarta said. “And remember Ügliy, if you get her with child that will count as a family, and then your standing in this passage will increase and you might even become—”

“Mother!”

I departed the cellar. At the top of the steps I sniffed the air, then hurried down to Divan Yolu Street and made along that thoroughfare towards the Gulhane Gardens, where Raknia said she had her room. Sootstorm debris lay everywhere, but I saw few nogoths; most would still be in their hiding places.

I was nervous. Part of me regretted accepting Raknia’s invitation, which now seemed sinister in a way that I could not fathom, but I was also curious to know more about her. Many times I stopped—and it was only the scent of the jasmine that gave me the confidence to carry on. I had smelled it before, yet never guessed how one day it would aid me. As I reached the end of the street and stepped across the road into the nearest garden, I saw more jasmine, entwined around dead trees and bushes like hundreds of luminous flies under the fading moon. Tonight there was no soot in the air. The Mavrosopolis was quiet, with only a few people venturing onto streets washed black by the sootstorm. Around me the labyrinthine gardens lay damp and dark, like so many bruised cemeteries. I heard the caw of a crow, the hoot of an owl. I shrugged and walked on.

There was a tower set alongside others off a muddy lane. This, I knew, was the place. I knocked once upon the tower’s single door.

The door opened—by sorcery, for there was nobody behind it—and I entered a chamber lit by candles. A parchment had been nailed to a wall, upon it names set next to numbers, some names crossed out with quill and ink, others faded, as if they had been there the longest. I realised that this was a list of chambers and occupants. I frowned. Not one single nogoth that I knew had access to accommodation like this. The place was dusty, however, sooty, with an air of decay, and recalling the cellars, hovels and ruins appropriated by nogoth gangs far and wide I wondered if this was a glorified version of such dwellings.

I read the list, finding Raknia’s name against the number four. I began to climb the spiral staircase that led upward. Three doors I passed, every one opening a fraction to reveal a pale face, before slamming shut. At number four I knocked twice.

Raknia opened the door, and I stared at her. She wore a black dress that shone like silk, a fabric so thin I could see every curve of breast, waist and hip; the cut deep to the waist, exposing her cleavage. Over that she had thrown a white shawl made of loose net and decorated with black flowers. She wore no shoes, nor even socks: black lace gloves to her elbows. Her dark hair was pulled back as if it was wet, held firm by a circlet of dove feathers.

No make-up, I noticed, but I had never seen a woman like this before. She smiled, looked me up and down, then said, “Come in, jasmine man.”

It felt as though I was following a dream. I walked into the room and she shut the door behind me. The chamber was large, though bare, furnished with couch, table and one chair, rows of pots and bowls along one wall, piles of cloth along another. The single window was internally shuttered. I looked up to see a ceiling hung with cobwebs.

I turned. She was bolting the door. Her dress was backless and I glimpsed moles and a birthmark laid across her skin, a sight that somehow made her even more fascinating.

I swallowed. The noise seemed to fill my ears. But she heard nothing, turning, smiling, then saying, “So you made an effort for me.”

I knew what she was alluding to. In my most neutral voice I answered, “You did ask me to use the flask of water.” I took the empty vessel from my pocket, sending a shower of crushed petals to the floor, then handed it over. She tossed it away.

“Whose clothes are those?” she asked me.

I felt I had to ask questions before something bad happened to me. “Why did you ask me here?” I responded. “Why all this strangeness?”

“Is it strange to be clean? I suppose it is for you—no, that was no insult. I would never insult you. But you are a street nogoth.”

“And you?”

“The nogoths of Gulhane Gardens are not like those of the superterranean Mavrosopolis.” She smiled, her expression at once charming and demonic, and I had to shiver to release the tension building up inside me.

“You are a nogoth, then,” I said.

She took off the shawl, threw it to the couch, then walked across to the table, reaching for the two goblets that stood there beside a single black bottle, then glancing over her shoulder. I had been admiring her buttocks; with a sharp intake of breath I looked up. She returned with the bottle and the goblets, pouring a measure of clear liquid into them then setting the bottle on the floor. I smelt aniseed. “You like raki?” she asked.

“I have never had it,” I replied.

“Have you had alcohol at all?”

“Only the street brews of local alchemists.”

She laughed. “This is better,” she said, handing me a goblet. “Be brave, don’t sip it. It’ll just burn your throat.”

I tried to smile. I looked down at the drink.

“Thank you for bringing the jasmine petals,” she said.

“Are they your favourite? I saw lots in the gardens outside.”

“Convolvulus is my favourite.” She squirmed and closed her eyes as she added, “They twist and entangle as they grow.”

I downed the drink in one. It seared my stomach, but I did not cough. “I’m not sure why I’m here,” I said. “Me, just a cripple.”

“As long as only that one of your three legs is lame, I don’t care.” Her voice was intense, almost angry. “What’s important is that we are
alive
. Is that the only way you see yourself? Cripple? You will never become a citidenizen if you don’t build respect for yourself.” And she grinned. “That’s what you and I are doing now, helping each other to respect.”

“I don’t want respect if it’s insincere,” I said.

“Sincere, insincere, what does it matter so long as it works?”

I was baffled. “Then why are you making the effort to become a citidenizen? If nogoths can help themselves and live in comfort like you do, why bother?”

“Perhaps I won’t bother,” Raknia replied, her eyes smouldering. “Perhaps I will stay here. I’m free to. It’s
my
choice.”

“Nogoths are not free,” I stated.

“Untrue.”

I felt a hint of anger come to my mind. The liquor was setting my tongue free. “Where do you get your food?” I asked. “From the gutters like me?”

“Berries grow wild here in the summer.”

“And what do you eat in the winter?”

She drained her goblet then took a pace forward, leaning against me with one hand on my shoulder, an expression of lust, of hunger upon her face. “Men like you,” she said.

I found that I could not pull myself away. I said, “If you scavenge for food like I think you do, you aren’t free, you’re just fooling yourself into thinking you are.”

She tilted her head up and kissed me, then flung her arms around my neck and pulled herself into me, so that I found myself leaning over her, my lips upon hers, my hands on her buttocks. My crutch clattered to the floor. I squeezed with my hands, and she squealed, pulling away. “That’s right,” she gasped. “That’s right,” as she licked her lips.

Without thinking I relaxed my right side, only to realise that my crutch was not there. I turned, then span and fell to the floor. I looked up to see Raknia and the whole room spinning around me. That raki...

She crouched at my side, her dress riding up so that I could see darkness between her legs. “Isn’t this better than being a dessicator and taking the test?” she asked. “Isn’t this wilder, better, truer to the nogoth way?”

“I’m... I’m not sure,” I replied. I could think of nothing to say. Fascinated, I knew I lacked the strength to resist her; yet I retained my principles—they were at the forefront of my mind, telling me that I was courting danger.

“We could play here,” she continued. “I’ve been watching you, Ügliy.”

“Have you?”

“You’re not right for the citidenizenry. Don’t do it. It’s not worth it. You don’t know how we live here in the Gulhane Gardens, you’ve never tried it. It’s
living!
Forget rules and responsibilities. Just live.”

“How do you know I’m not right for the citidenizenry?”

She knelt over me, her aniseed breath warming my face, her breasts touching my chest. “Because you’re right for Gulhane. You’re a nogoth through and through. Aspiration to the citidenizenry is a lie, it’s a way for the Mavrosopolis to preserve itself by exploiting innocents like you and me.”

“How do you know all this?”

There was sadness in her face. “Innocents like I used to be,” she said. “But no more. I’ve learned things.”

I felt a sudden need for action, as if this change in her mood marked a moment between fates that I might be sucked into. I rolled, grabbed my crutch and managed to haul myself upright. Raknia remained on the floor. “I’ll consider it,” I said.

She gazed at me; and she seemed to possess innocence. “I believe you will,” she said. But then she grinned.

The moment dissipated.

“You’ll be back,” she added.

I stared at the floor, knowing that this gesture and my silence spoke to us both: she knew I would return, and I knew I would return. What had happened here could never be forgotten.

I glanced at the window. “Dawn’s near,” I said. “I’ve got to get back to Blackguards’ Passage. There’ll be dessicating to do tomorrow night, once the emergency teams are off the streets.”

Raknia rose, unsteady and heedless of her dishevelled state. “I hate the dawn,” she said. “Dawn is just the failure of night.”

I glanced at the door. “One day I might be in such an emergency team.”

Raknia shook her head, approaching me, caressing my cheek and my chin with the raki-scented fingers of one hand. “I don’t think so,” she said. She pulled back my tunic and undershirt, and kissed me on the nipple. I pulled away and unbolted the door; then without looking around or bidding her goodnight I departed. Outside the tower I hurried to the end of the lane, but then I paused. On impulse I changed direction, making east to the edge of the Gulhane Gardens.

On an ebony bench I sat silent. A fine mist of soot hung over the Mavrosopolis. Before me, like obsidian under velvet, the expanse of the River Phosphorus lay heavy and slow, filled with clunking boats; an occasional splash as eels leaped for prey. I heard the echoes of distant voices as citidenizen sailors took down sails and tied rigging; thumps, and the chimes of ship bells. All around, the scent of nocturnal flowers seemed to cradle me.

Then a familiar voice wound its way into my mind. “Do you think you will take the test?”

I span around to see Zveratu standing behind the bench. Without further word the old man walked around, to sit, joints creaking, beside me.

“I don’t know,” I replied.

“I do. You will take the test. You must.”

I gestured at the expanse of garden behind me. “I didn’t know anything about this,” I said.

“Do not be swayed by temptation, Ügliy. You know little as yet of the advantages citidenizens enjoy. As an apprentice you have but tasted the possibilities. You know nothing of the peace that you crave, of the security of life as a citidenizen. I promise you that peace and security exist—they are part of citidenizen life. You can hear it now, in the confident voices of those sailors on the Phosphorus.”