Chapter 4
It was evening, and Musseler’s apprentices were sitting before his dais in the Tower of the Dessicators. I knew a speech was coming because of the serious look on Musseler’s face.
“Apprentices,” he began, “we have arrived at the penultimate stage, the task prior to the citidenizen test. Those of you who undertake this task in the manner I expect will be recommended for the test.” He paused, glanced down a moment, then continued, “Though I should not say this, I confidently expect all of you to be put forward. But because the task you face—not to mention the test itself—is difficult, even dangerous, we have decided to allocate cimmerians to you. One each.”
Musseler paused, glancing towards the door behind the dais, then snapping his fingers as a murmur of conversation arose from the apprentices. Cimmerians, I thought; what are they?
In walked a column of dark-skinned people, the men naked from the waist up, the women dressed in tunics, every one athletic of build, though nervous in manner. I counted six, three men and three women.
“What’s a cimmerian?” Yabghu asked.
“A nogoth from one of the settlements at the periphery of the Mavrosopolis, very rarely seen. I will allocate one to each of you. Rely on your assistant, for you will need every particle of help in the forthcoming days. They are here to aid you.”
I frowned, a nervous tremor beginning in my stomach; six cimmerians but seven apprentices, and it did not take much thought to understand the reason for that. I ground my teeth, took a deep breath, then stood up.
“Musseler,” I said, “I apologise for interrupting, but I’ve got to point out that there are only six cimmerians.”
“Yes?”
“Who won’t get one?”
Musseler stared at me. “You want one too?”
“I am doing the task, aren’t I?”
“Well... I suppose so. Of course, you won’t be taking the test.”
I could not help but shout, “I will take the test!”
Musseler’s eyes narrowed, making me wonder if I had gone too far, but then he said, “Very well, Ügliy, you’ll get a cimmerian too.”
I sat down. “Thank you,” I said.
Under his breath, though not so quiet I would not hear, Musseler added, “Though what good it will do you I don’t know.”
The others stared at me. Atavalens had returned from his sick-bed and his gaze was the most aggrieved. I looked away.
“So to the task,” said Musseler, returning to his brisk manner. “The sootstorm destroyed a sorcerer’s tower, the upper half of which has collapsed, leaving the lower half standing. A great well of water has gathered inside, and you have to decide how to deal with it.” He began pacing the circumference of the dais, hands behind his back. “Obviously you can’t let it flow away because of the erosion that would cause. No, rather you have to transport it, or perhaps encourage it to seep.”
I returned my gaze to Atavalens, recalling our disagreement during the soot storm over the merits of freeing channels or blocking them. Musseler’s remarks proved me right. Then I realised I was grinning. Shocked at myself, I returned my face to nonchalance, but Atavalens grimaced and raised his right hand, fingers curled like a feline paw, moving it slowly through the air. Feeling a touch on my arm, I looked down to see four white lines appear on my skin, like scratches. I jumped, forcing my chair back and making it squeak against the floor.
Musseler stopped pacing. “Ügliy! Be quiet.”
“Sorry.”
There was silence before Musseler resumed speaking. “As I was explaining, you cannot allow any water to leak out of the tower since the pressure inside could be enough to magnify any flaw in the stonework to the point of collapse, and that would be a disaster for the local area. There must be no erosion. Could you transport the water? There are thousands of gallons trapped inside, it would take a month. So here is your dilemma. You will have to think, work as a team, and the result must be a success, for your test depends upon it.” He looked us over, then added, “Of course I won’t be with you. Nor do I require you to tell me your plan. Just succeed.”
He stopped speaking, nodding to us, then gesturing for Yabghu to approach.
“This is your cimmerian,” he said, taking the wrist of one of the women and putting it in Yabghu’s hand. In turn he allocated cimmerians to apprentices, until I was left standing alone, whereupon he grimaced, then made for the door, where he whistled. A fourth woman entered the room, and he thrust her in my direction.
“Think hard on your plan,” he told us. “I will return at midnight.” He departed without further instructions.
But before one word of a discussion could begin, Atavalens walked over to where I stood and slapped my face with one of his gloves. “Rat boy,” he said, “you embarrassed us.”
Despite my apprehension, I was not intimidated. “I have the right to do this task,” I said.
“Don’t you see, you fool? The test requires physical perfection. How many citidenizens do you see walking with crutches? None. Part of this test is the ability and desire to use make-up, to become flawless under the aegis of the Mavrosopolis, and I’m telling you that I for one will never allow a cripple to be ranked as a citidenizen alongside me.” He spat at me. “You are nothing but a vile cretin, and that is the reason Musseler arranged no cimmerian for you, because he knows malformed nogoths cannot pass the test.” He gestured at my withered leg and concluded, “What kind of make-up is going to hide that?” And he strode away.
I was left standing alone, thirteen pairs of eyes locked upon me. Total silence.
I replied, “I will take the test. If I don’t I automatically fail, but if I do take it and then fail at least it will be because of my own actions.”
Atavalens turned to point at me, his whole body shaking. “You will fail,” he said. “You will fail because I will see to it that you fail.”
I nodded, forcing my face to remain expressionless. “Then you admit that I will be taking the test,” I said.
Atavalens was about to reply when Raknia raised then dropped her chair to the floor; the crash echoed around the chamber. “We need to discuss our task,” she said.
The atmosphere was broken. Grumbling, Atavalens arranged twelve chairs in a circle, pushing two others aside that I realised were meant for me and my cimmerian. Without comment I sat down, as did the cimmerian woman. She was short and slight, her soot-stained tunic ripped and worn. She wore leather mukluks not unilke my own. Her jet-black hair was fine and long, and she had made some effort to comb it.
I glanced aside, then said to her, “I’m Ügliy—don’t worry, we’ll manage.”
She attempted a smile, but she was afraid. “I’m Karanlik,” she whispered.
Silence descended upon the chamber. I whispered back, “I’m glad you were allocated to me. We must remain true against the wayward methods of this group. Don’t worry. I am a shaman.”
Karanlik nodded. The fact that she comprehended the word ‘shaman’ was a great comfort to me.
For an hour the group discussed options, with me contributing not a word, nor Atavalens, who sat head bowed as if enduring the idle conversations of children. The apprentices discussed the possibility of transport, of natural seepage, even of sorcery, but they could not agree on a solution, not least because the amount of water was so large.
Then Atavalens rubbed the back of his neck, sighed, and looked up. “I cannot credit what I have just heard,” he said. He stood up, jumped upon the dais and began walking around it, hands behind his back. “Have none of you any imagination? Midnight is close and you still haven’t seen the obvious solution.”
“Tell us,” Raknia said.
“That is what your leader is going to do. The answer is simple. Do you think Musseler used the sorcerer’s block merely to fry fungus? No. It was a clue. We have to use the block to boil away the water.”
Raknia laughed. “Haven’t you seen a can on a bonfire? It takes a long time—”
“This is a sorcerer’s block,” Atavalens interrupted, “not a child’s fire. We are dealing with the implements of the citidenizenry here. We face a big problem so we use big tools. Please—have some realism.”
“Carry on, then,” Raknia said.
“The sorcerer’s block will be lowered into the water, and after a short time the water will boil away. There, that is decided.” He jumped down from the dais, adding, “Remain here, all of you. I will return before midnight.”
I watched as Atavalens approached the door through which Musseler had departed. He crept through the doorway, and I knew he was going to steal a sorcerer’s block from the equipment room. I glanced at Raknia, who shrugged, then smiled; a gesture of sadness, not confidence. So I turned my attention to Karanlik, but before I could strike up a conversation Raknia was at my side, grabbing me by the arm and pulling me from my chair.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
“This plan can’t work,” Raknia said.
I nodded, saying, “You could be right.”
“I am right. Have you seen a can boiling? It’s violent. If Atavalens boils a tower full of water it will break the stonework, or explode, scalding us and everybody else in the area. We have to stop him.”
I saw her reasoning. If Atavalens was allowed to pursue a scheme that failed none of the apprentices would be allowed to take the test. Suddenly I felt desperate. Atavalens was not a man who would listen to reason. “We have got to do something,” I said, “before it’s too late.”
“Exactly. Have you thought of a plan?”
“No.”
Raknia glanced at the door. “Musseler will return any minute, and I have a feeling Atavalens won’t discuss the details of his boiling plan.”
I sensed my chance of becoming a citidenizen slipping away. I bit my bottom lip, then said, “We’ve got to think of something!”
“I know.”
“You?”
Raknia sighed, then replied, “Nothing yet.”
From deep inside the tower a bell tolled, marking the division of the night. I cursed under my breath, then said, “We’d better sit down.”
Raknia grabbed my sleeve. “Even if somebody does come up with a better plan, nobody can tell Atavalens. We would have to convince him it was his own idea.”
I cursed again. I felt panic approaching—my future departing. “I’ll ask Karanlik,” I said.
Raknia frowned. “Oh, yes,” she drawled, “ask an outsider.”
I ignored this remark, replying, “You ask your cimmerian,” then returning to my chair, where I whispered in Karanlik’s ear. “Have you thought of anything?”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s beyond me.”
Fretting, I sat back. Atavalens sprang into the room and hurried to his chair, sitting down just in time to see the return of Musseler.
From the dais Musseler said, “Well?”
Atavalens stood, his manner unctuous, his expression a haughty smirk. “We have a plan,” he said. “We are ready. May we depart?”
Musseler gestured at the exit. “The sorcerer’s tower awaits.”
So we departed the Tower of the Dessicators, Atavalens and his henchmen first, cimmerian women in tow, followed by Yish, Kaganashina and their men, then me, Raknia and our cimmerians. I found myself stupefied, too frightened of failure to think of a plan, aware that this night might be my last before a return to the streets. I was shaking. Karanlik noticed, slipping her hand into mine as we walked along Sehzadebazi Street towards the ruined tower.
At the tower we milled around while Atavalens took his henchmen to inspect the walls. I surveyed the area. I noticed that the sorcerer had built his tower adjacent to the channel left by the River Lycus, long since diverted into the Propontis to reduce erosion. This channel, though many feet lower than street level, was used as a road south to the harbour—and so I was struck by an idea. In the space of a few seconds, I imagined water rushing down the channel to the sea, rejected this idea because of the erosion it would cause to the channel base and walls, then wished the water could somehow be made solid. I thought of water boiling, then of ice, but I rejected those ideas as unworkable. But then I imagined ice spheres rolling down to the sea, and I remembered the dessicating rods.
With a wave of my rags I gestured Raknia over, pulling her a few steps away, out of earshot. “I have it,” I said, gripping her shoulders.
“What?” she asked.
“The dessicating spheres at the end of our rods. Their sorcery limits them by weight, not by volume—”
“No, it would take months to carry all that water down to the sea—”
“Listen,” I insisted, “we fill all seven spheres with the water—”
“They will weigh a ton—”
“Then we just let them roll down the channel left by the River Lycus. It’s their weight that we exploit.”
Raknia glanced at the tower, then at me. “It might work, and it’s all we have,” she said.
I turned to examine the channel. “There’s only one problem,” I said. “It’s been centuries since that river ran and I don’t know if the channel retains a slope down to the Propontis.” I turned, grabbing Raknia again in the intensity of my thought. “You go and persuade Atavalens,” I said. “I’ve got to check the channel.”
“You?”
“As a rat!” I hissed. “Now go, before it’s too late.”
I thrust her in the direction of the tower, then hurried down to the channel. I gazed south through the mist of soot, catching at the extremity of my vision a glimpse of the Forum of Bovis upon Ordu Street, where the channel bent west then made for the sea; white lamps amidst shadows where windows pierced the Forum walls. I crouched down, pushing the Mavrosopolis from my mind and concentrating on the channel, setting my mind along the road to trance with a rhythmic beating of my hands and feet upon the ground: legs back, arms forward, nose twitching.
My senses leaped free, vision enhanced, hearing perfect, my tiny body aware of every nuance of the channel. Fast as water itself I scurried down the channel, detecting the slightest variation in slope below the caked soot and debris, aware through my whiskers of flaws in the stonework, then, before I knew it, standing before the Propontis with triumph ringing through my mind. Success! Yes, there were a few tiny ups and downs, but by the time the rolling spheres reached these obstacles their momentum would carry them through.
I shook myself. I found myself shivering on the ground next to the channel. I got to my feet, brushed myself down, then hurried back to the tower. Just in time, for Atavalens was displaying the sorcerer’s block, about to address the apprentices.
“I took the liberty,” Atavalens said, raising the block above his head, “of borrowing this sorcerous item for tonight’s task.”
Raknia was at my side, listening with an expression of fear on her face, and I realised that she had not yet managed to speak with him. She glanced at me, and I nodded once to indicate my success.
Atavalens continued, “We will dunk the block into the water by dropping it from the top of the ruined wall. Soon—it does not matter exactly how soon—the water will boil.”
Raknia laughed, a sound false to my ears, making me wince. “How clever to use hot water,” she said. “Of course the spheres will absorb the steam and water so much better.”
Atavalens frowned at her. “The spheres?”
“Yes.” She swung out with her left arm, indicating the direction of the channel. “The idea of letting them roll steaming down to the Propontis is very clever.” Again she managed a hollow laugh. “We’re lucky to have you as our leader.”
Atavalens frowned at her, but then he glanced aside at the channel. Uchagru also frowned, but Yabghu, scratching his unshaven cheeks, looked from tower to channel and back again.
Atavalens took a breath and said, “No—”
“Six, not seven,” Yabghu interrupted.
“Pardon?”
“We’d need to hold back one dessicating rod to absorb the moisture left in the stonework itself.” He turned to the tower, then chuckled, “You keep your best ideas to last, eh?”
Atavalens said nothing. I felt my heart thumping in my chest. I knew Atavalens had grasped the plan and realised that it was better than his. Nobody spoke: ravens croaking in the distance, the sound of voices in adjacent streets.
With a grunt Atavalens said, “We won’t bother heating the water.” He gestured at the apprentices and said, “Hand over your dessicating rods. We’ll drop six spheres in, letting them absorb all the water. When the tower is empty I’ll go in to absorb what is left, then we’ll smash the wall next to the channel and let the spheres roll out.” He tapped his fingers together. “Yes, that’s what we’ll do.”
He took our dessicating rods and unclipped their spheres, then gave them to Yabghu, who stared, dismayed, at the climb facing him.
But then Atavalens turned, a grin on his face. “Wait,” he said, “I had better use somebody disposable.” He pointed a forefinger at me. “Rat boy. You look like a fit individual. Take the spheres from Yabghu and put them in your pockets. Then climb to the top of the tower and drop them in.”
I did not hesitate, for I knew that a show of fear, even of weakness was what Atavalens wanted. Karanlik followed in my footsteps.
“Not you,” Atavalens said, waving her away.
I stopped, and we both looked at Atavalens, who in turn glanced into the darkness around him, then muttered something and gestured us on. So... he was frightened of Musseler’s power. Now I felt a mixture of confidence and dread. I doubted my withered leg would support me, but taking the spheres from Yabghu I nonetheless stood before the wall. It was twenty feet high. For some minutes I surveyed the sills and projections, seeking a route, before a cry of, “We’re waiting rat boy,” spurred me on.
I turned to Karanlik. “Follow me up,” I said, “using the same stones I use.”
She nodded; a hint of a grin. “I can climb,” she said.
I placed my crutch against the wall and raised my body up on my good toes, reaching out to grab a stone before hauling myself up into a sitting position. With my good leg I supported myself, raising myself again to locate and grasp two steel poles. I heard Karanlik below me, her mukluks scuffling against the stone; I did not look down. I paused for breath, then pulled, so that I was able to swing myself upon the poles, raise myself, then stand and reach out for a window sill. With questing fingers I determined the state of the sill, found it crumbling, and decided to use a stone instead. I turned so that my left side was pressed against the wall, placed the instep of my left foot on one of the poles, and again stretched, pulled and swung, twice in succession, from one window to the next. I was two thirds of the way up. I glanced down, only to see Atavalens standing head bowed. Panther shaman! Suddenly afraid, I redoubled my efforts, knowing that invisible paws could yet knock me off balance. It was a half deliberate, half improvised scramble between steel projections and stones. Then I felt my hand free in the air. There was a hiss, a growl; the smell of fur. I glanced up to see the ragged top stone of the tower, which I grabbed, hauling myself up with a cry. I lay on my stomach, panting, hands clutching stones on either side of the wall. Karanlik clambered up behind me.
We had made it.
The feeling of triumph was so intense I was unable to stop myself cheering, then waving at the apprentices, heedless of the fury this gesture would provoke in Atavalens. We rested for a few minutes, discussing the climb, smiling at one another, until I took the spheres from my pockets and displayed them to the apprentices. In a rage Atavalens put his hands to his mouth and yelled, “Throw them in, rat boy, before you drop them.”
I did as I was told. The spheres floated for a few seconds, then dropped like stones beneath the surface of the water, lost to view. I waited. Nothing happened; no bubbles, no noise, nor did the spheres reappear. Inside the ruined tower all was in shadow, but when for a few moments the moon appeared behind a break in the soot I saw a black ring on the stone above the water, and I knew its level was falling.
“It’s working,” I shouted.
Atavalens called back, “Stay up there until all the water has been absorbed.”
I was relieved to hear this command, since I wanted Atavalens to enter the tower from the ground while we were still aloft; that would distract Atavalens while we clambered down.
Time passed. The water level dropped. The moon reappeared ever nearer the horizon. When it touched the horizon, I saw a darker shadow at the bottom of the tower that I suspected was damp stone and wood. Taking my water-locator I pointed it into the tower, whereupon it showed only a trace of moisture in the air. I decided that the water had all been absorbed.
“Ready,” I shouted.
Atavalens walked to the door of the tower and began tapping it with a piece of steel; checking for echoes, I knew. All seemed secure. He gestured Yabghu and Uchagru to his side and acting togther they smashed open the door. There was no flood of water. With Atavalens absorbing moisture from the inner walls, his dessicating rod tied to the end of a hooked pole, Karanlik and I clambered down the wall, slowly and with care, until we stood on firm ground. Raknia approached, elbowing Karanlik out of the way to hug me and hand me my crutch. I smiled, relieved it was all over.
It was the hour before dawn, a quiet time in the Mavrosopolis, when citidenizens prepared for their beds and nogoths huddled in their street dens. The channel would be quiet, though not empty, and I realised that we would have to clear the way when the six sorcerous spheres began rolling. But this should not be a problem; it would be simple enough to arrange ourselves in a string of fourteen along the channel, ready to call out warnings to the unwary. I suggested this to Raknia, who mentioned it to Yabghu, and so Atavalens came to agree the idea, convinced it was his own.
The distance between the sorcerer’s tower and the Propontis was too long for us to remain in eye contact, so Atavalens placed us in those areas that he thought might be occupied by locals. Soon, we were ready. I stood nearest the tower—under Atavalens’ eye—and so I witnessed the moment when the tower wall was pierced at the point where the spheres rested against it. There was a crack and a puff of dust, then a noise like thunder as the six tiny weights rolled down the slope and into the channel, their inertia causing them to oscillate from side to side before settling. Then they were on their way, slowly accellerating. I watched them pass with hope in my heart. It had been agreed that once the spheres had passed any apprentice could try to run after them, and this I did, hopping as best I could.
I could not keep up, however. A jeering Atavalens sprinted by, jumping into the channel to follow the spheres, disappearing into the gloom ahead. I struggled on towards the Propontis.
I was the last to arrive at the harbour, where the dry outflow of the River Lycus met the dark, whispering shore of the Propontis. I saw a laughing, happy crowd massed around the figure of Musseler. Karanlik noticed me first, and she ran up to tell me the news. “It worked,” she said. “The spheres fell into the sea as you hoped.”
I grinned. Despite the plan being my own I felt no pride, rather a sense of relief that we could all now progress to the citidenizen test. “Well done,” I said. “Thank you for helping me with the climb.”
“I did nothing to help.”
“That you would follow me up was all that mattered. Thank you.”
Karanlik smiled. Her face was filthy and her hair was tousled, yet I was dazzled—not by beauty, but by confidence. I knew that this change had been instigated by my own concern for her wellbeing.
Then Musseler called us together. “Very well,” he said, “good work, though the loss of six dessicating spheres is unfortunate. However, so elegant a solution deserves praise. I can now announce that you are all in a state between nogoth and citidenizen. You are pre-citidenizens.”
There was some cheering at this—Musseler let it pass. My heart was pounding so fast and strong I felt it would leap out of my chest. I was breathing like an athlete after a race.
Musseler continued, “This however does not entitle you to any citidenizen boons. You will sleep where you slept before, although for any of you in dire need the Tower of the Dessicators may be an option.” He paused, gazing across the white sand, that seemed like granulated milk under the light of the stars. “So the test awaits,” he said, “and you’re all wondering what it’s like. I can tell you that it’s quadrapartite, some parts difficult, with the final part more of a formality than anything.” His gaze strayed to me. “For most of you, anyway,” he remarked. “The test will begin tomorrow night. There will be no declaration of test conditions, no defined start or structure. You are pre-citidenizens and you will be expected to recognise the elements of the test and respond in an appropriate fashion. Though I shouldn’t tell you this, I’m sure some of you will have realised that your apprenticeship serves as a foundation for the test. You have not just learned the ways of the Mavrosopolis, you have learned something of cultured and delicate society—so different to what you were used to as nogoths. For this test you will require a different attitude. Cultivate that attitude. I trust you will not fail.” He looked us over, then said, “That’s all.”
A hum of conversation arose amongst the apprentices.
“Except for this,” Musseler added. He raised what looked like a pebble, which exploded out of his hand with a bang. We all jumped. Then a troupe of people ran down from where they had been hiding above the shore. I looked in astonishment at them—musicians and dancers and women bearing trays of food. “Learn from this, too,” Musseler said. “This is what it’s like to be a citidenizen.”
I examined the food as it was passed around. “This is lokum,” Raknia told me, taking a piece of sugar-coated jelly and dropping it in my hand. Then she proffered what looked like a black worm. “Liquorice,” she said.
“And that?” I said, pointing to bowl of powder.
“Sherbet.”
A song and dance was set up. The musicians were asiks, singing traditional songs accompanied by saz lutes, ney flutes and by the frenetic rhythms of their kudum hand-drums. Musseler passed around his coffee, and for the first time I felt that the blunt man might be the equal of me. I felt that I was experiencing the remainder of my life compressed into one frantic moment, scented by lokum and coffee and lived against the pure music of the Mavrosopolis. This must be what it felt like to be happy. My mother had told me about happiness. Now, I knew it.