The Rat and the Serpent

12.11.582

I must get off the streets. I cannot be a nogoth forever. There are only so many cockroaches that I can tread on before disgust becomes unbearable. I have heard that there are some nogoths who, out of an existential repulsion for their position, throw themselves into the dark waters of the harbour, never to be seen again. It is known that underwater beasts consume them, though what those beasts are is a mystery. In other words, it is known that death is definite in the harbour. I will not face a demise so certain.

Yesterday I was twenty. It was as if I crossed a boundary. My childhood is behind me now, and the rest of my life... no, it does not stretch out before me like a bleak, black road, it stretches out before me like a bright path. But I am not sure where that path leads.

From where do I get this manner so nice, this philosophical quirk? Imagining bright paths when they do not exist. I suppose it must be from my mother. But my over-active mind makes life even more difficult for me. Were I a citidenizen, the Mavrosopolis would find a place for me. But I am a nogoth.

I must write this down, this fate that faces me: I live on the streets, I have no sure supply of food, I drink filthy water, and the constant fall of soot is like an eczema of the air that ruins my skin. I am a nogoth.

Is it so much to ask that I find a place where living is not a trial?

All I know is that I am in the wrong place within the Mavrosopolis. The Mavrosopolis must—it must!—draw me up into a place where I fit, and where, I hope, I will find peace. For there can be no peace on the streets. Cacophany distracts me, tumbles my finer thoughts into a storm-like brew that never calms. It is not good to live with a mind like a storm. Nobody has told me this, yet I know it is true, as if something inside me is guiding me. My conscience, perhaps. I have heard that everybody is born with the possibility of finding a conscience. (This implies that some never find such a thing. What happens to them? Are they nogoths? Or are there evil citidenizens of which yet I know nothing? I really must find out.)

Crossing the line between nineteen and twenty has given me a new direction. However I do not know why this should be. Perhaps it is because they say that most nogoths die in their twenties. For sure, it is a brutish life, the life of the street. It is not a humane life, certainly. It does seem wrong that the Mavrosopolis allows such lives to exist.

I think it is this thought, this central thought with which I have wrestled all day, that is leading me in the direction of the bright path. The bright path! What nonsense. But something is leading me, or pushing me. The only way is up. That is not true. There is one station lower that nogoth, and that is corpse. But that dread station is not for me. Up, then. I will become a citidenizen. I have heard that it is possible for nogoths, through the force, goodness, purity or otherwise of their character, to pass a test and so become a citidenizen of the Mavrosopolis. I must find out whether such a test exists.

If it does, I am determined to take it. If I pass, I am determined to discover why it is possible for nogoths to die on the street aged twenty.

I am determined. And I am no cripple—I have a chance of passing.

But I cannot believe however that I am the only man to have given this elementary problem some thought. Am I the only one who ponders? Is pondering a lost art? I believe it must be, for if others ponder as I do, and become citidenizens, what is there to stop the continuance of their path? I can think of no obstacle that would stop me pointing out the poor quality of street life, and therefore it stands to reason that no such obstacle exists that has stopped others. Yet where is progress?

Chapter 2

It was an hour after nightfall when, with trepidation, I approached a tower on the junction of Gedik Pasa and Divan Yolu Streets. There I saw a flight of black steps, a single lamp at the top, a half open door, and above that dozens of windows and balconies topped with a conical roof: the Tower of the Dessicators. Earlier, I had made a parasol from cloth and wood fragments found in the gutters of Blackguards’ Passage; this I put into the bin at the foot of the steps, knowing it would be there when I returned. An unspoken nogoth custom.

I was nervous, aware of my naiveté, but more aware of my crutch, which I knew would mark me out even in a group of novices. I was in two minds. I had sworn the oath, but doubt remained. For some minutes I looked up through softly falling soot, studying the lamp, the solidity of the door, the pale windows above it. Then I sighed, and with heart thumping I began to hobble up the steps.

In the entrance hall I saw a man sitting on a black velvet couch; burly, swarthy, smoking a clay pipe and writing with a feather upon a scroll. He looked in surprise at me. He was a citidenizen—kohl around his eyes. There came a single word. Yes?

I stood as straight as I could. Good evening. I am here to become apprenticed to a dessicator group.

The man looked at my crutch, then at the torn breeches covering my legs. Is that so, he said, returning his gaze to the parchment.

There was silence. I thought the man must be checking a list, but after a few minutes there was no further word, so I said, Yes, I am here to join up.

Again the man looked me up and down. What?

I was told to come here. My name should be on your lists.

The man smirked. Is that so, he said once again.

There was a hint of desperation in my reply. Yes!

Muttering, the man leaned over the back of the couch and extracted another scroll from an alcove in the wall behind him. And do you know your name, nogoth? he asked. The bitter sarcasm dripped from his tongue.

Ügliy.

Of?

Blackguards’ Passage.

An expression of surprise came to the man’s face. Well, there is an Ügliy here, but it can’t be you.

Why not?

The man gestured at my withered leg. Look at you. You must know it would be impossible for you to become a citidenizen. Why are you bothering to go through with the apprenticeship?

Why should it be impossible? I asked.

Look at you.

I felt angry, but I knew I must not let it show. Nonetheless, I am presenting myself and I am the Ügliy on your list. You must let me join.

The man shook his head, uttered a sound halfway between a laugh and a sigh, then pointed to a door and said, Through there. You’ll be in Musseler’s group. Don’t say I didn’t warn you, cripple, when they tell you your chance of passing the test is no chance at all.

I approached the door, then opened it. I saw a room lit by candles, ink-stained drapes on the walls, a dais at the far side, six people sitting on chairs before it. They all turned to see who had disturbed the silence.

The first thing I saw was white hair and black eyebrows: the panther shaman. He frowned at me, but there was confusion in his eyes too. I was no less baffled. The other people were unknown to me, three women and two men, the women unkempt, the men unshaven, except for the panther shaman, who had washed his handsome face and dusted the soot off his clothes. The two henchmen were not present.

The panther shaman stood up. What do you want? he asked me.

I was told to join this group, I replied.

You?

There was a clunk from behind the dais. I said nothing as from a concealed door a giant of a man emerged, his muscles bulging under his garments, his face pale like the moon, his eyes kohl-lined, his lips compressed. When he mounted the dais it creaked under his weight.

Very well, he said. Sit, all of you, and listen to me.

I limped across the floor and sat in a chair.

I am Musseler. I am here to direct the apprenticeship which will, for some of you, result in citidenizenship. This is the Tower of the Dessicators, an important group. We travel the Mavrosopolis soaking up excess moisture. He pulled out a scroll from underneath his tunic, then began reading from a list. Who is Yish? One of the women raised her hand, as did her friend when the name Kaganashina was read out. Who is Atavalens? That was the panther shaman. And who is Raknia? The third woman, slender and beautiful, raised one delicate hand. The two remaining men were Brud and Marmarad. Then Musseler came to the final name on his list. Who is Ügliy?

I hesitated for a second, then raised my hand.

Frowning, Musseler looked at the crutch resting on my lap. You are Ügliy? He glanced at his list. Of Blackguards’ Passage?

Yes.

And you want to take the citidenizen test?

I felt emotion surging in my chest, and it was all I could do to keep the frustration from my voice. I want to become a citidenizen, I really do.

Musseler waved a hand at me as if to brush me away. After a pause for thought he said, So you are genuinely crippled?

I’ve been lame all my life, I replied. Because I’ve had to cope with it all my life it is nothing to me.

But you can’t pass the citidenizen test.

I could take no more. I grabbed my crutch, stood up and yelled, I have to! I took a deep breath, looking down at the floor. "I have to become a citidenizen, I declared in a softer voice. I am a nogoth, and there are many nogoths with faults—some are blind, some are deaf. They still aspire to the citidenizenry."

Musseler looked me straight in the eye. We’re going to have some fun with you, he said.

There was a titter from the others. I sat down. Atavalens favoured me with a look of disgust.

Folding his arms, Musseler returned to his speech. Before any of you take the test, you must be apprenticed to one of the many groups that bring order to the Mavrosopolis. In this way you will come to understand what the test is, and thus what citidenizenship is. If you fail the first obstacle, you will return to your alleys and streets, never to be seen again, for citidenizenship is not easy and it is not free. To receive, you have to give. As nogoths you have no concept of such a relationship. To learn this most basic of principles is why you are here. Do you understand so far?

Atavalens nodded, and in a loud voice said, I understand.

Very well. I am your leader. I will be running this group, though that does not mean I will be with you all the time as you make your way around the Mavrosopolis. Some of the time you will be teaching yourselves. There are no other rules. At the end of the apprenticeship I will decide who is suitable for the test and who is no good. Musseler glanced at me. Those I recommend will go forth into the Mavrosopolis to take the test. They will be in a state neither nogoth nor citidenizen.

Again Atavalens nodded. This is all clear. But the test—what does it consist of? Is it difficult?

Musseler ignored Atavalens. Now I’m going to take you into the heart of this tower, he said, to show you the tools you’ll be using, and to explain the principles involved.

We were led down dusty corridors to a large chamber that echoed and boomed as we followed Musseler inside. It was arrayed with tables, upon which lay objects that I could imagine no use for.

Musseler led us to the nearest table and indicated the objects upon it, before folding his arms and raising his gaze to the ceiling. These are the tools you’ll be using, he said. Doubtless you’re wondering why the Mavrosopolis has to be dessicated. The reason is simple, but profound. What the Mavrosopolis must be protected from is erasure. Everything around you, every street, every tower, every man’s name, every sword design, every lore book of sorcery, is at the heart of the Mavrosopolis, and that heart must never be allowed to fade. Erasure, therefore, is the ultimate evil. Loss of knowledge, loss of records, of history, is what we exist to stop. He glanced at the tools. As dessicators, we travel the Mavrosopolis soaking up the water that might cause erosion and decay, might flood, might flush history itself into the Propontis. Water—like wind and frost—is an agent of erasure that we oppose.

What are these tools? Atavalens asked.

There were four designs. Musseler took the largest object—a hook on a pole—and said, This is a general purpose opening device that we use to seek sources of water that may lurk in subterranea. This, on the other hand, is a more subtle item, a range-finding water-locator that works by sensing moisture borne on the air. This third object is a combined knife and skewer. Finally, we have a dessicating rod. The lump on the end is sorcerous and can carry far more water than its volume suggests—although weight itself is not altered. As some of you may know, water is not light.

It’s heavy, Atavalens agreed. When do we go out to work?

Tomorrow evening, came Musseler’s reply. He reached out to pick up a tray of goblets and a pewter tankard. We will celebrate the formation of our new group with a drink. Opening the tankard lid, he poured milk into the goblets and handed them out to the group. I was last in line. When Musseler came to me he looked at the dregs remaining in the tankard, shrugged, and said, I suppose you’d better have some too. I took a goblet to receive the final drops.

Musseler raised his goblet. To dessication and the preservation of the Mavrosopolis, he declared.

We answered in ragged unison.

Musseler returned us to the speaking chamber, then departed. I made to hobble out of the door, but Atavalens ran in front of me and shut it. Wait, all of you, he said.

Raknia frowned and said, Why?

Atavalens ignored her query, jumping upon the dais to address us. Now that Musseler has gone we must organise the group by placing ourselves in a hierarchy, otherwise we will not know who is to do what when we are alone in the Mavrosopolis. He folded his arms, glanced up at the ceiling, then nodded at Brud. You will be number two, and you, Marmarad, number three. He waved at Yish and Kaganashina as if to brush them away. You will be four and five respectively. Raknia, you are number six. He folded his arms again and glared at me. Number seven is rat boy. That is all. I will see everyone tomorrow at the designated meeting place.

Which is? asked Raknia.

Atavalens grimaced. We will know when we’re told, won’t we?

I was tempted to make a remark, but I thought better of it. Atavalens walked over to me, preening his white hair with his hands, yawning, then glancing down at me. Yesterday, rat boy, you claimed we were brothers in black. I tell you we are nothing of the sort. You are the coal, I am the jet. Better keep out of my way, eh?

I nodded. I don’t mind that.

Atavalens swept out of the room. I followed at a slower pace, to see Atavalens’ two henchmen at the top of the steps outside. The trio began talking in low voices as they descended, Atavalens’ arms around each of their shoulders.

I returned to Blackguards’ Passage. I was worried. Musseler must know something of our backgrounds, in which case why had two shamans been placed in the same group? The conflict of totems was a potential danger. And yet... it made a kind of sense. Even in nogoth circles shamans were outsiders, falling back on their powers as they forged a way through the underside of the Mavrosopolis. To put them together was to exclude them from other apprentice groups.

I sighed. Wherever I went, I struggled. Atavalens was correct: the rat was an insignificant creature. I had insignificant powers. I could not recall the last time I had used them... perhaps a year ago to locate food? What a fool I was to imagine myself a citidenizen.

That night I slept wrapped in rags on a doorstep, starving once again, as a sea breeze swept falling soot away to leave a night of moon and stars.

At the Tower of the Dessicators the following evening we all met atop the main steps. Musseler was surprised to see Atavalens’ two henchmen present. Who are you? he asked them.

Atavalens stepped in to reply. Brud and Marmarad have decided their fates lie elsewhere. These two fine men are their replacements—here Yabghu, and here Uchagru.

Musseler grunted, but said nothing more. He raised his parasol, sniffed the air, then, pointing to a pile of equipment, said, Take your gear, one each of four items. No scuffling.

As if by common consent we all waited for Atavalens to have first pick. I cursed to myself, knowing this kind of unspoken assumption would be the worse for us all, but I said nothing. I was last in line: the smallest hook-pole, a dented knife, a dessicating rod and a water locator blackened with silver oxide. Musseler seemed unconcerned by the new dynamics of the group, staring across the roofs of nearby buildings at the veils of soot blowing in from the plains to the west. I glanced at Atavalens, amazed by the ease with which he had replaced Brud and Marmarad with his own cronies.

Ready? Musseler asked.

We’re ready, Atavalens confirmed.

The hours that followed were spent watching Musseler as he strode the streets opening drains and examining gutters to extract their water, hefting his dessicating rod to see if it required emptying, in which case it was a march down to the Propontis, for no water could be allowed to remain in the Mavrosopolis. We learned the principles of water location—a task I found easy, as if my rat-enhanced senses were assisting.

I noticed that Atavalens was uneasy with the idea of water. It is said that to the east there lives a race of white cats that will swim in water, he said. He attempted a laugh. All nonsense, of course.

I watched everything. I soaked up knowledge as if I myself was a dessicating rod.

Midnight brought a surprise. Musseler declared that it was time for a rest. From his immense backpack he withdrew a package, which he opened to reveal a basket of food. I stared astonished at bowls of olives, mushrooms, slices of aubergine fried in pale oil, and at the ubiquitous grey bread of the citidenizenry.

Is this for us? I asked.

It is, Musseler replied, and it illustrates a crucial lesson that you must all learn.

I think I understand, said Atavalens, sitting beside Musseler. We have contributed to the wellbeing of the Mavrosopolis, as do all citidenizens. Though we are only apprentices we deserve a reward, and this reward is to be the sustenance we need to survive. Doubtless there will also be milk.

There is milk, Musseler confirmed. He shared out the food, and we settled down to eat. It was all I could do to stop myself wolfing the food, so desperate was I, so hungry; but I noticed the delicate way Musseler ate, and I tried to copy that style.

As you remarked, Atavalens said, spitting crumbs at Musseler, you have to give to receive.

I understand that principle also, said Raknia. It is a relationship of equals. And she emphasised the word equals. I studied her, wondering if she too felt outrage at Atavalens’ move to the head of the group. She had a remarkable, if delicate beauty: glossy black hair that fell in curls around her white face, pale eyes that shone with moon light, and though she wore rags she had arranged them so her figure was in part revealed; a hint of breasts, a flash of thigh. Way beyond me...

Musseler took a flask from his hip, opening the top and sniffing. A bitter odour filled the air, yet it was not unpleasant. This we call coffee, he said, pouring a tot each into our empty goblets. It will keep you alert through the night. We drink it without milk.

The rest of the night we spent refining our skills. As dawn approached we parted, returning to our various alleys, Musseler entering the Tower of the Dessicators with the equipment and slamming the door shut.

Two nights followed, both spent with Musseler, before we were deemed fit to go out alone. I had predicted the arrival of this moment and I was not looking forward to it. Atavalens would seize the opportunity to consolidate his leadership. Raknia and I exchanged glances as from the top of the steps Musseler wished us good luck.

We set out along Vezirhani Street, north past the Forum of Constantine, until we reached our designated area. Though Atavalens dictated what each of us should do, he showed no vitriol, as if he was too intent on learning what had to be learned; and he ignored me as if I did not exist. For my part, I watched them all. The henchmen never let Atavalens out of their sight. The two women had formed a friendship of sorts. Raknia was silent, observing everything with the deep and intricate manner that she showed in times of difficulty.

That night I returned to Blackguards’ Passage to find a collection of pale objects in the doorway where I slept.

Rat skulls.

I knew their form in an instant. I stood shocked. The skulls were new, each laid an exact distance from the edge of the door as if to indicate the deliberation with which they had been placed.

It must be the work of Atavalens.

Weeping, I took the skulls and walked down the passage, passing through a crevice hardly wider than my own body that led to a miniature courtyard between two great towers. Here, rubbish was left by the occupants. Rats were not uncommon. With the tears leaving pale streaks down my begrimed face, I dropped the skulls into a drain, listening to the knocks and clacks as they fell into the dry tunnel below. Then I departed.

I felt no anger, only disgust. Something inside me too deep for understanding negated the possibility of revenge. Bringing rat skulls was the act of a child, nothing more—a child in man’s clothing.

I said nothing next night, biding my time in silence as I had for most of my life; waiting, watching, learning both the principles of dessication and the ways of my colleagues, until the collection of knowledge in my memory was itself a comfort against the ignominy I suffered.

When I returned to my doorstep next dawn the two henchmen were waiting for me. They lurked in shadows, and I did not notice them until it was too late. I jumped back a pace when they appeared.

Wait, said Yabghu, we’re not here to harm you. In fact, the reverse.

Indeed, Uchagru added, picking something up from the doorstep. We did wrong yesterday. We’re here to apologise. Everybody’s going through a difficult time at the moment, worrying about the apprenticeship, the test and all, and... well, we don’t need to say it out loud.

Yabghu shrugged, then took me by the shoulders and briefly hugged me. Sorry, he said.

I was suspicious. What’s that? I asked Uchagru, pointing to the pot that the henchman carried.

Oh, a present. We noticed you didn’t get much of the food today. Here. Something to say sorry.

I took the pot and pulled off the lid, whereupon my nose was assailed by the rich scent of a meat soup, heavily spiced. I began to salivate.

Have that on us, said Yabghu, waving at the pot. We’ve all had some. It’s delicious.

I took the spoon from the pot and tasted the soup. It was good. Thank you, I said. For my part, I don’t want any trouble. I’m in apprenticeship to become a citidenizen, not to fight anybody.

Well said, Yabghu replied, nodding.

They watched me eat for a minute, before Uchagru said, By the way, what do you think that soup is? Does it taste familiar?

I shook my head. The spices disguised the flavour. I don’t know.

The men were unable to restrain their smirks, and when I saw this I stopped eating.

What? I said.

Now they were laughing. You don’t recognise rat when you taste it? Uchagru barked. What kind of shaman are you?

An incompetent one, Yabghu responded. "A fool."

They turned towards Divan Yolu Street. Keep away from us, Uchagru said. And never again call yourself a shaman in our presence.

The pair departed. Unable to move, to swallow, almost unable to breathe for the sensation of retching building in my stomach, I watched as a third figure stepped out of the shadows. Atavalens gave me a wave, then led his men away. I bent down to vomit upon the street, until my belly ached and I could bring up nothing more.

Next day I said nothing. I was aware of tension growing in the group, as if by continuing to appear—by daring to appear—I was distracting the others. But fortune was on my side, for Musseler spent the entire night assessing our progress, and there was no opportunity for friction.

Yet I felt anger building within me.

The sootstorm began without warning on the following night.

It was Yabghu who first noticed the approaching maelstrom. Look, he cried, pointing west over the towers and stacks of the central district. I raised my head to see a vast black cloud with edges defined so well they were like geometric diagrams against the sooty mist; heavy on top, slight below, like a funnel. There were a few cries of Sootstorm! from passers-by in the street, then hurrying shapes and gyrating parasols as everybody ran indoors.

We seven dessicators stood alone on Sehzadebazi Street. I watched Atavalens, who was staring at the approaching sootstorm with horror on his face. I approached Yabghu and said, We’ve only got a minute or two before it hits.

Yabghu struck out, slapping me across the mouth with the back of his hand. Quiet, rat boy. Let the leader think.

I took a few paces back, concealing myself in the shadows of a doorway. Atavalens seemed paralysed.

Then the sootstorm struck.

I had lived all my life on the streets and knew what to expect, but as I watched Atavalens and the henchmen I realised they did not. Somehow they had managed to avoid street poverty for an unknown alternative—some insular family attached to a citidenizen haunt, perhaps some secret group leaching off other nogoths. Now they were the naive ones! Raknia and the women, I noticed, had followed my example by sheltering.

A sudden wind blew down the street, bringing the stench of hot soot and ozone. Hide! I cried. Hide before the rain comes!

Lightning struck somewhere to the west. Thunder roared, sudden as a dog roused barking from sleep. Veils of soot began to buffet the street, blotting out illuminated windows for a few seconds then revealing them, so that a phantasmagorical display of light and velvet dark shimmered up and down the street. Miniature whirlwinds of soot and debris smashed into buildings. Atavalens and his henchmen, leaning into the wind, made for the nearest shelter, but they were too late. There was a double lightning strike, a clap of thunder, and then the rain came.

It was like ink. In minutes Sehzadebazi Street was flooded to knee level as a torrent of black water poured down the slope towards the Forum of Tauri. Already there was evidence of destruction: floating parasols, rags and wood, and, inevitably, a body, already drowned.

With the centre of the sootstorm upon us, the noise became deafening. Lightning struck every few seconds. Atop some sorcerer’s tower there was a flash, then a flower of white flame as stone, wood and a lifetime’s collection of sorcerous items exploded into fragments, sending a halo of debris and silver sparks to the spiralling wind. Another strike and an array of windows on a nearby tower was annihilated. Debris began to whip down the street, so fast I could hardly see it through the gloom.

I hung on. This was a bad one. Already the ink flood had reached my thighs. Opposite me, the women were clutching a tracery of wrought iron framing the doorway in which they