The City (2 page)

He thought the world was probably right as he followed two grimy children along a narrow slippery ledge through the darkness of the sewers deep beneath the City. The boy held tightly to the girl’s hand, yet she walked on the side of the ledge nearest the sewer and Bartellus watched anxiously as her steps veered towards the stream then away to safety again. He was not sure the thin little boy had the strength to hold her if she slipped and fell. He wondered if
he
had.

The attrition rate among the City’s soldiers, in their never-ending war with the world beyond the walls, was so high that the birth rate was plummeting. Children were becoming an increasingly rare sight. So each child should be precious, the old man thought, kept safe like a jewel, hoarded and nurtured. Not discarded, flushed into the sewers, or left as prey for evil men. He brought his hand to his chest in reflex invocation, praying to the gods of ice and fire to watch over two such small children in this terrible place.

Elija didn’t
like
the Eating Gate – it was dangerous to cross, it was so noisy your brain went dead, and the stench here was worse, if possible, than anywhere in the Halls – but he found it reassuring. It was a fixed point in his world. From the monstrous structure were measured the distances to all the other places under the City. Wherever he had been in his time as a Dweller, he could hear its cacophony, and know how far he was from home. Elija knew he would never get lost in the Halls, because of the gate. He never went anywhere except as part of a foraging party, so he was unlikely to get lost anyway. Drowned, yes, caught by a trap-tide, crushed in a roof fall, murdered for pickings by a gang of reivers, killed by the emperor’s patrols, but not simply lost. Expeditions never got lost, certainly not those led by Malvenny.

The Eating Gate was a high weir, built of timber and metal, dripping with water, slick with slippery weed. It rose taller than three tall men above the walking ledge, and measured the width of the
stream, which at this point was more than thirty spans. He could barely make out the other side. The stream was running high today and Elija could not see the twenty great rolling barrels which formed the gate’s machinery, but they were not far below the surface; the water was churning violently, heaving and rolling. They sucked in the stream high on the south side, pulverized anything floating in it between them, then spat it out lower down. High on either side of the gate simple filters allowed the stream to flow continuously, should the tide be very full.

In the torchlight Elija could see the new man had his free hand over his ear. Elija said, ‘You get used to it.’ He knew the man couldn’t hear him, but he would have known what he’d said. It was something you heard daily in the Halls.
You get used to it
.

Getting across the Eating Gate was no more dangerous than most exploits in the Halls. A wooden ledge crossed the structure a man’s height below the top. It was reached on each side by spiral steps. It was slippery with water and rat droppings and the pale sinister plant life that mysteriously flourished in the darkness and damp. You had to step carefully. Elija had seen a woman fall from the top of the Eating Gate once. A nasty death, but a quick one, crushed between the turning barrels in moments. Elija had no intention of falling.

A small hand pulled at his sleeve and he turned to see Em gazing at the top of the Gate, a rare smile on her heart-shaped face. Elija saw what she was staring at.

It was a gulon, a rare sight this deep into the Halls. The creature was walking casually along the top of the gate, stopping to look down at them, sniffing its way, then walking on, tail high. The company watched as it reached the end of the gate then padded lithely down the steps. It was a big thing, big as a pig, dark as the Halls themselves, with a sharp whiskery snout, crumpled ears and golden eyes. Its face was sharp, like a fox’s, but its body had feline grace. It sat and wrapped its bushy tail neatly round its paws and stared at them.

Em ran forward and crouched down in front of it, one grubby hand outstretched. The gulon stood and stepped back two deliberate paces, then stretched out its neck and hissed, showing strong yellow teeth. Elija was going to tell her not to get too close – you could die from a scratch down here – but the grey-haired newcomer strode forward and snatched up the little girl and put her down again next to Elija. Startled, Em looked about to cry, but then the familiar look
of tired resignation came over her face. She held on to her brother’s hand as the company passed wide of the watching creature and started up the winding stairs.

The gulon sat down again in a puddle of filth and started delicately washing its paws.

The company was more than a league’s march beyond the Eating Gate before the noise of its machinery was sufficiently muffled to allow speech. The way was uphill and Malvenny signalled a halt, raising his torch. They stopped gratefully and were about to sit when Emly stepped forward to the edge of the ledge and stared across the stream. She turned to her brother and pulled at his sleeve, pointing to the other side.

Bartellus held his torch high and, as he squinted through the thick air, he thought he could see a pale blur upstream. He lowered the torch and blinked and shifted his gaze back and forth slightly to focus his eyes.

‘A corpus,’ commented a stooped old Dweller, not without relish. ‘Ay, that’s a corpus.’ He nodded and looked around the company, seeking agreement.

Bartellus squinted again and could barely see what Em’s sharp young eyes and the veteran’s ancient ones had picked out. On the other side of the stream another, smaller, waterway joined it through a pitch-black tunnel, and at the junction there was a grille that had broken in two halves, one fallen outward. Between the two halves a body had lodged. Bartellus could make out nothing of it, except an arm, or possibly a leg, stretched out, appearing and disappearing in the flow of the stream.

‘Good,’ said Malvenny, ‘there’ll be pickings.’ He glanced around his team, then said, ‘You, new man, with me.’ He jerked his head. ‘Rest of you stay here.’ He set off without looking back.

Bartellus started up after him, then, realizing they had both the lit torches, turned back and thrust his burning brand into Anny-Mae’s hand. When he turned again Malvenny was far ahead, just a bobbing point of light in the darkness. Bartellus caught up with him and they continued on until the newcomer started to wonder if the leader knew where he was going. He had no doubt of the possible value of a corpse in the Halls. Where a copper pente could lead to a fight to the death, the chance of finding a gold tooth – perhaps several – was worth considerable risk.

They came to a break in the stream, where a mighty shifting of the land had broken the tunnel, moving it sideways, so the near side came close to the far side. A man could easily jump the gap, he thought. A man could easily jump the gap – if it weren’t dark, wet, and slippery. And a slip of the foot didn’t mean a hideous death.

Malvenny handed him the torch, took three steps back, then forward, and jumped lightly, landing rock solid, his weight perfectly balanced. He turned back to Bartellus and gestured for him to throw the torch. Bartellus threw it carefully and the leader caught it nonchalantly. He stepped back.

Bartellus dismissed the image of the river of sewage beneath his feet, replacing it in his mind with a lush greensward. He jumped the stream easily, and by the time he landed Malvenny had turned and was already returning along the stream.

The corpse was that of a man. The body was bloated, so it was hard to judge if he was once fat or thin. His head was shaved and his torso decorated with the pale blue and green lines of tattoos. He was naked. A sad rag of clothing remained round his neck. Rats had been at him, Bartellus saw.

Malvenny squeezed through the broken grille and hunkered waist-deep at the man’s head. He pulled open the mouth and peered quickly in, then stood up. ‘Tongue’s cut out. No gold.’ He spat in the stream with venom. ‘Let’s go.’

Bartellus gazed at the corpse. It was an arm, lighter than the rest, that waved in the flowing water, waved in the direction of their little group which Bartellus could now see huddled on the opposite side of the main stream. The tattoo lines on the chest and back had faded, just as the colours of the skin had faded, until they looked like the lines on a map, a plan of campaign, thought the old campaigner.

Just as Malvenny was about to return through the gap in the grille, Bartellus stepped forward and squeezed through, forcing the leader to make room for him.

Tattoos were common enough, especially among the soldiery. Some carried pictures of spiders or panthers. That was the mark of the tribe. This man was a walking picture book, his torso closely inked with birds and beasts and obscure signs. He even had tattoos on his scalp. Bartellus saw the man’s hair had started to grow again in a dense stubble.

‘Give me the torch.’

He held his hand up, but Malvenny said, ‘Time to move on.’

Bartellus looked up. ‘Give me the torch!’

Malvenny paused. A Dweller for more years than he could count, he knew the movements of the stream and the times of the tides better than any. When he said it was time to move on, it was.

But he realized the quiet-voiced newcomer could well break his neck if he refused. A long-time student of the practical, he handed over the torch, and watched as the older man bent again to the corpse.

There was an old scar, thick and white, high on the man’s right shoulder, an S-shape which stirred a memory in Bartellus’ mind. He studied it, frowning.

‘Time to move on,’ said the voice behind him.

It was a brand, Bartellus realized. The memory stirred again, then disappeared, ungrasped. His memory was full of lacunae now. It worried him that whole episodes of his past had vanished into those gaps. The old soldier foraged in the pouch at his waist and took out a small sharp knife. He looked up. ‘Do we come back this way?’

‘Gods willing.’

Bartellus paused, uncertain, then put his knife away and stood up. He looked down at the fading tattoos again, trying to commit them to his unreliable memory. Then he bent at the last moment and snatched the piece of cloth drifting round the corpse’s neck. Malvenny looked at him oddly, but Bartellus nodded to the leader and they both climbed back through the broken grille. Malvenny waved to the waiting group on the other side of the stream, then set off uphill again. Bartellus paced thoughtfully behind him, the piece of cloth squeezed dripping in his fist.

THE LONG LENGTH
of a season had passed since bartellus was forced to retreat into the sewers, and he marvelled at the resilience of the Dwellers who had lived there for months, even years. He trudged along at the back of their party, the two children in front of him, the little woman Anny-Mae at his side, still carrying the torch. The tunnel was high there, with vertical walls, and the foul stream ran in a deep channel. Even after a few days Bartellus had found the smell endurable, and the nausea that at first had constantly cramped his stomach had faded.

Anny-Mae paused and beckoned, and he courteously bent his ear to her. ‘Nearly there,’ she told him cheerfully, beaming as if she were personally responsible for the proximity of their goal. And before long Bartellus felt the air around him lighten and the tunnel opened out, soaring high above their heads and widening on all sides. The light of the torches thinned and was lost in the deep expanses of gloom. Bartellus saw they were at the edge of a wide flat basin, where the main water course ran down the middle, leaving rolling banks of sludge on either side. The old soldier looked straight upwards, and for a moment found himself gripped with terror at the thought of the massive weight of the great City, bearing down on this shell of a sewer.

He heard a high thin squealing and saw a pack of huge rats flowing across the mudbanks, fleeing the unaccustomed light. He saw rats
every day, they were constant companions in the Halls, but he had never seen such giant ones, or so many. ‘They’re half blind,’ he had been told. ‘They can only tell light and dark, and they always flee the light.’ Somehow blind rats seemed more sinister.

He turned an ear to what Malvenny was saying. ‘Light your torches and move quick as you like. We’ve got little time.’ The leader glanced meaningfully at Bartellus. ‘New man, stick with Anny-Mae. She’ll tell you where you can’t go. Stay away from the shallow vaults.’ He waved a hand towards the darkest corner of the shores, dismissing them.

‘What are the shallow vaults?’ Bartellus asked the woman.

Her eyes were already fixed on the mud at her feet. ‘Over there,’ she explained, pointing, ‘the vaults beneath are crumbling like sweet-cake. You’d fall through in a trice.’ She beamed up at him.

He glanced at where she was gesturing. ‘But the children …’ He could see the brother and sister already darting across the mudbanks searching for ‘pickings’. An image of another world flashed across his mind, of two other children, golden-haired, on a beach at sunrise, searching for crabs and shrimps in rock pools.

‘Lije knows what he’s doing,’ said the little woman. ‘They’re lighter than us, they can go safe. Everyone’s afeared of it so there’s good pickings.’ Her sharp black eyes picked out the pain in his face and, misunderstanding, she repeated kindly, ‘Young Lije knows what he’s up to.’

Bartellus found there was little for him to do. He held the torch, moving it where she pointed, while the woman used a small rake, combing through the sludge which lay in smooth undulating banks around them. She unhitched a flat sieve from the paraphernalia at her waist and sifted the mud, picking over small objects unearthed.

Once she put up her hand and showed him a coin. He held the torch flame close to it, but could make nothing of it. Her experienced fingers ran over the dull surface. ‘Third Empire,’ she told him triumphantly, handing it to him. ‘It’s gold!’ Then she was back to work, bent over, and he placed the precious piece in a pouch. He wondered how they would divide their spoils.

Anny-Mae moved quickly, stopping occasionally to prod the handle of the rake in the mudbank in front of her, testing the depth, the firmness of the sludge. She pounced with pleasure on small things
Bartellus would never have spotted. She found several coins, though no more gold, half a broken hinge, which she told him to pocket, and a knife handle. She found a metal box, empty, which she discarded, and the leather cover to a book. She handed that to Bartellus, perhaps thinking him a man of letters.