Rats and Gargoyles (17 page)

"Oh, Lucas . . ."

His body brushed her hair as he passed. "Tell me."

"There is a thing that men search for."

She spoke into the rain-scented air, not attempting
to watch him as he paced about the room.

"Although the Decans found it long since; or, being
gods, never needed it. I mean the Philosopher’s Stone: that same elixir that,
being perfect in itself, cannot help but induce perfection in all that it
touches."

The after-effect of wine dizzied her, and she
laughed softly.

"Including the human body. And a perfect body
couldn’t be corrupted. Couldn’t die. Hence it’s sometimes called the elixir of
eternal life."

The parchment star-charts crumpled in Casaubon’s
fist as the Lord-Architect heaved himself out of his chair. He knelt down beside
the chest. The thud vibrated through the floorboards. He lifted the leather
satchel and the sword, laying them carefully in the trunk.

"You can still clean a sword," he said, "but I fear
for your scholarship, if that’s how you interpret these charts."

She reached across to ruffle his orange-copper
hair, and feel the massive shoulder straining under the linen shirt.

"No.
No.
I was just explaining to Lucas that
. . ."

Light shifted from storm-cloud yellow to sun: the evening clearing. A cold
air touched her. She sat at table, among the remains of the meal, still tilting
the wine- bottle. A deep sky shone through the street-window. She looked at the
black-obelisked horizon.

"Lazy, this heart of the world . . . I came here
when I thought I would do nothing but listen to it beat, hear the Great Wheel
turn; forget I had ever studied
magia,
wait to die and be reborn."

She thumbed the cork out of the bottle with a
hollow sound. The glass was cold at her lips.

"And then, a month after I got here, I saw it.
Written in the sky, clear for anyone who could read the stars. A fracture of
nature. I didn’t know what it was; I hardly believed I saw it. So–ah."

She laughed deprecatingly, and waved both hands as
if she swatted something away from her; meeting Casaubon’s gaze as he got to his
feet.

"So just what you’d expect to happen, happened. I’d
thought I’d done with study. But I paid with labor for a room, and worked in
kitchens and bars for what else I needed–optic glass and books mainly–and stayed
here searching the
De occulta philosophia,
the
Hieroglyphika
,
the
Corpus Hermeticum,
the
Thirty Statues . . .
Everything and
anything. So much for Valentine’s history, hiding out in case the College should
find her."

The Lord-Architect still held one chart in his
ham-hand. The most recent, she saw.

"Four is too many to be accidental," he remarked.

"Now, I believe that. I thought it might just be an
accident, and the second time coincidence. There are god-daemons on earth here
in the heart of the world– is it so surprising if miracles happen? Black
miracles," she said. "Black miracles."

Lucas, tracing a finger down the annotated line of
the star-chart the Lord-Architect held, frowned in concentration.

"It’s a death-hour, isn’t it? The heavens at the
moment of somebody’s death?"

The White Crow reached up to take the parchment and
unroll it among the dishes and plates on the table. She weighed one corner down
with the wine-bottle.

"Not some
body.
Bodies die all the time,
young Lucas. The Great Wheel turns. We’re weighed against a feather,
ka
-spirit
and shadow-soul both; and then the Boat sails us through the Night, and back to
birth."

The last after-effects of the wine tanged
melancholy on her tongue. Workaday evening light glowed in through the window.

"It’s a chart of the heavens at a moment I’ve only
seen these four times. When the Great Circle itself has been broken."

"It’s not possible," Lucas denied.

"It is possible. Black alchemy, and an elixir not
of life but of death, true death . . . Four times the Great Circle has been
broken by a death that was not merely the body’s death."

Her callused finger touched at the alignment on paper
of Arcturus, Spica, the Corona, the
sphera barbarica.
The constellations
of animal-headed god-daemons marched across a sky of black ink on yellow
parchment.

"In this city the soul can die, too."

"But I must keep hostages," the
Hyena concluded. She turned her slanting red-brown eyes on Falke and Charnay and
Zar-bettu-zekigal.

Plessiez’s slender dark fingers moved to his neck,
feeling in his black fur for the missing
ankh.
His piercing black eyes
narrowed.

"I need Charnay; the Lieutenant’s familiar with the
plan. And the Katayan. Keep Master Builder Falke."

The man did not stir. He sat with his back to the
sewer wall, head resting down on his arms. Zari sprang up from where she sat
beside him. Her dappled tail coiled around her leg, whisk-end wrapped tight
about her ankle.

"I could stay!" she volunteered.

Plessiez hid an icy amusement. "You will come with
me, Kings’ Memory, to repeat your record to his Majesty, and to the General of
my Order; I will then send you
back
here, to tell your Memory to the Lady
Hyena."

"So long as I get to come back." Unrepentant, the
Katayan grinned.

The Hyena glanced up at Charnay. "The Lieutenant
stays here. You won’t be concerned if I kill a man, even a Master Builder. If I
kill a Rat, you will. She stays, with him."

"Lieutenant Charnay—"

The brown Rat chuckled, and hitched up her sword-belt on her furry haunches, the empty scabbard
dangling. She flexed massive shoulders.

"No problem, messire. I’ll even keep your pet human
alive for you."

"How very thoughtful," Plessiez murmured.

His eyes moved to the crowd of ragged men and women
who pressed in close now. Sun-banners and skeletons’ shadows danced on the
walls, above their heads, in the flickering torchlight. The stench of unwashed
flesh and old cooking made his mobile snout quiver.

"I can give no guarantees that I will achieve your
demands."

The Hyena swung round, one fist clenched. A babble
of voices echoed off the sewer-chamber’s walls.

"Our freedom—"

"To walk in the streets—"

"—To carry weapons—"

"Carry swords without being arrested, gaoled—"

"—Defend ourselves—"

"Trade—"

One of the raggedly dressed men drew his sword, holding it up so that
it glinted in the light; a rust-spotted epee. Two or three other men and women
copied him, then another; then, awkwardly, most of the assembled crowd.

"Freedom!"

"Ye-ess . . ." Plessiez straightened, one slender
hand at his side, head high. He gazed around at human faces. Each one’s eyes
fell as he met them: subservient, angry, afraid. "I’m not impressed by
third-rate histrionics."

He turned back to the Hyena, adding: "If only
because I know how effective they are with the General of my Order, and with his
Majesty the King . . . Lady, you could kill me now. You could let me work to
gain you the concession of returning to the world above, carrying arms, and then
do nothing of what I’ve asked."

Her dark face glinted with humor.

"That may happen, Plessiez. Or we may let you try
to work your necromancy. Let me warn you: we go above ground secretly, and we
know the city. If you don’t get the truce for us, we’ll stop you dead in your
tracks."

Sweetness made saliva run in his mouth. The stench of roses leaked down
from the sewer walls, gleaming with a phantom sunlight.

"Come here."

As Zar-bettu-zekigal came to his side, Plessiez
rested clawed fingers lightly on the shoulder of her black cotton dress.

"Memory, witness. The Lady Hyena’s people to carry
arms, to walk the streets above ground, to be free of the outstanding penalties
against them as rebels and traitors."

The Katayan nodded once.

The woman folded her arms, metal clicking. "We do
nothing until that happens. Very well. Memory, witness. Certain articles of
corpse-relic necromancy to be placed at septagon points under the heart of the
world, for the summoning of a pestilence . . ."

"Which will happen before very long," Plessiez
added smoothly. "I have already placed two; the rest are yours. And if no
plague-symptoms appear soon, Desaguliers’ police will have words with your
people, lady."

Her slanting eyes met his. "If your Order’s
magia
does work, messire priest, then it’s everyone for themselves."

The
hunger on her dirty face made hackles rise down Plessiez’s spine. He abruptly
turned, snapped fingers for Charnay’s attention, brushing aside humans who
sought to stop him. He waved Zar-bettu-zekigal away.

"Charnay and I are old friends. She may have
messages for her family . . ."

He caught the skepticism in the Hyena’s expression,
and the last inches of his scaly tail tapped a rhythm of tension.

"Lieutenant, give me as many days as you can before
you escape from here."

The brown Rat matched his undertone. "I’ll stay,
messire. To tell you the truth, I’d sooner duel Desaguliers’ Cadets any day of
the week. These scum are amateurs. Just as likely to stab you in the back as
fight . . ."

She dropped her resonant voice a tone softer. "Give
it a couple of weeks, let the plague get a grip down here, and I’ll come out in
the confusion. Don’t worry, messire! I’ll do it."

His hand closed on her brawny arm, dark against the
glossy brown fur. "If it’s from you that they discover they’re not immune to
this plague, I swear I’ll have you gutted at the square and chasing your own
entrails round a stake!"

She nodded, good-humored, still smiling. "Plessiez,
man, give me credit for sense! I want to die as little as you do. The only way
they’ll find out is when they start burying each other."

Plessiez looked up at her. "See that’s so."

He stepped back, adding in a louder tone: "We’ll
leave you now."

The blond man, Clovis, squinted at the woman in
ragged armor. "Lady, who’ll lead him out?"

"I will." The Hyena pointed. "Take those others and
give them food."

A man in the tatters of a satin suit jeered. Youths
scrambled to follow Falke and Charnay as they were led off, scooping handfuls of
ordure to throw, screeching insults. Plessiez bristled, tail cocked high.

As she turned away, he spoke unpremeditatedly:

"And give me back my sword."

The armored woman beckoned, not turning to see if
she was obeyed. The great silence of the sewers pressed against his ears. The
substanceless brambles of roses brushed his fur.

"No," she said. "Feel how it is to go unarmed,
messire, in the presence of your enemies."

Above, in the city, clocks strike four in the
morning.

Footsteps echoed down the main aisle of the
Cathedral of the Trees.

"You!"

The novice sleeping on the oak altar started awake.
Bright starlight showed his patched water-stained robe. He rubbed his eyes. "The
cathedral’s closed."

The brusque voice said: "We don’t close the
cathedral."

She moved into the starlight, monochrome through
night-stained windows. The novice saw a black-skinned woman in her twenties. Her
tree-embroidered robe had a wide belt, cinched tightly, so that she seemed an
hourglass: round hips and buttocks, round shoulders and breasts. Her short hair
tangled darkness in loops and curls.

"Archdeachon Regnault, I beg your pardon!"

He slid down from the altar, an awkward bony young
man.

"I didn’t know you were back from the Aust
quarter."

Regnault smiled briefly. "We remain a church, in
despite of all they can do to us. Are you the only one here?"

"The others are out looking for Bishop Theodoret."

"So am I," the Archdeacon said. "The old man’s put
his head in the Decan’s mouth once too often. We’ll have to do what we can to
get it out."

"You think . . . you think he’s alive, then?"

The Archdeacon tugged at the waist of her robe. Her
dark hand brushed the hawthorn spray pinned on her breast. Her fingers splayed
in a Sign of the Branches.

"Where’s your faith?" she asked.

"Ei!"

Feathers swooped down and flung into an upward
curve. Zari crooked up an arm. Wings splayed like spread hands in front of her
face. She flinched away as the bird skirred past, burring up to the unseen roof.

"Little one?"

"Oh, see you, it’s nothing."

Her voice died. The black Rat stopped, and she
cannoned into his elbow. Humidity had slicked his fur up into tufts. She pressed
close to his side.

A few yards ahead, the Hyena swiveled, pivoting on
the scabbard she used as a crutch. "Keep moving! I told you that we’d have to
cross the bridge."

Cloud and blue vapor drifted across the stonework.
Here, in older tunnels, the brickwork had given way to masonry.
Zar-bettu-zekigal reached out to trail her fingers across one immense pale-blue
block of Portland stone. Chill wetness took the print. A wind gusted into her
face, lifting strands of black hair.

"Messire, where are we?"

The black Rat limped now, weary with four hours’
walking, and his tail dragged in the stone-dust. Thrown ordure marked his
scarlet jacket. His dark fingers continually reached for his empty scabbard.

"In Hell. I—" His arctic calm shattered.
"What’s that?"

Zar-bettu-zekigal scurried three steps to the
Hyena’s side. She pushed past the woman in red cloth and armor, skidded, slipped
to one knee, tail crooked out for balance; pointed ahead.

"That
–
!"

Great wings beat, a thirty-foot wing-span: dipping
down so slowly that the up-curve of flight-feathers clearly showed at their
tips. Zari fell to hands and knees. The sharp beak and amber eyes soared towards
her. Gleaming black, only wing-tips and head feathered white, the condor rose on
a column of air that blew in her face, scattering the white clouds and blue
vapor.