The Dark City (14 page)

Underfoot, the mud was hard to tug out of; the disturbed water was brackish; twigs floated in it, and sediment rose in clouds.

He splashed the whining insects off, and saw that Galen had slid into the water with him, and that what had been sea was swamp.

It took them over an hour to come ashore properly, and by then the sun was almost setting. They stopped to eat a little and change their clothes, and then started off, stiff with tiredness, walking west.

Galen hurried them on. He knew that if the ship was caught the crew would talk, and if the Watch found out their destination they were in trouble. But more than that, the hunger for Tasceron drove him like a pain; all his blinded senses longed for it, to feel the secrets that were there, the power that might be hidden. Silent, he climbed and scrambled relentlessly over the salt-marsh and through the rough scrub, Carys and Raffi struggling to keep up. No one spoke. The journey became a nightmare of cold, cut hands, breathlessness. For miles they walked into a darkness that seemed to grow thicker before them, even though all seven of the moons rose one by one to form the great Arch, each strange and eerie in its own light, the pearl-pale Karnos, red Pyra, the crescent of Agramon at the zenith.

Then, on a low hill, Galen stopped suddenly. Raffi sank down, too sore to be glad, doubled over the stitch in his side. It was a while before he lifted his head, breathing deeply.

Below them lay Darkness. A valley of night. Tall spires rose out of it here and there; far, far in the distance strange domes were shadowed with steams and vapors. The blackness was heavy; it stretched as far as he could see. Behind him Carys brushed back her muddy hair; Galen stood upright, saying nothing.

They all knew this was Tasceron.

The Wounded City

16

Tasceron, O Tasceron.
I mourn you, my city.
Your great halls are broken open;
The Darkness has come over you.
Rats eat the finery of your kings.

The Lament for Tasceron

C
ARYS CRAWLED BACK around the tangle of thorns and sucked a scratched hand. “Useless,” she muttered. “They’re searching every pack and wagon, looking at everyone’s papers. I got close enough to listen. We’ll never get in this way.”

If anything, Raffi was relieved. He peered through the branches at the city gate. It was a gaunt, dark turret, jutting from the wall, and through the gloom that seemed to seep from it he could make out muffled men and a short line of wagons waiting to pass through.

“Bringing food?” he wondered.

“Probably.” Galen stared out, his eyes moving along the line. Then he glanced up at the walls. The double ramparts of the Evil City were huge and black, smooth, Maker-built. There was no chink or window in them; the great stones stretched away into the eerie dark, and Raffi guessed they ran like that for miles, endless miles. The travelers might walk along them for weeks and not find a breach.

“And if we did it would only be guarded,” he muttered aloud.

Galen turned, squatting. In the murk his face was only an edge of shadow, but when he spoke Raffi knew that harsh, determined tone, and felt uneasy.

“I have an idea. It’s dangerous, but it seems the only way. These wagons—”

“We’re not going to hide in one!” Raffi caught his arm. “Galen, they search them! Stab the flour sacks!”

“Not inside.” Galen shook him off irritably. “Underneath.”

They were silent. He went on quickly. “They’re strong, and small. The axle bars don’t look too far apart, and there’s a wooden brace between them. We should be able to crawl above it and lie there, just under the planks.”

“It’s crazy,” Raffi breathed.

“What about your leg?” Carys asked.

The keeper glared at her. “I’ll manage. Once we’re all through the guard-post, we drop off and meet.” He nodded at a tall spire that rose in the darkness. “That building. Or as near to it as we can get. Understand?”

Carys thought, then nodded, reluctant.

“Raffi?”

Shaking his head, he said, “There’s got to be a better way . . .”

“There’s not.” Galen gave him a sharp look. “Trust me, Raffi. I’ll take the pack. Let’s get nearer.”

They worked their way through the scrub to the road, opposite the third wagon in the line. Two men leaned on the front of it, talking. Their voices were clear in the stillness. Far back, a dog barked. Galen touched Carys on the shoulder. She gave one exasperated look at Raffi, then dropped to a crouch and sprinted soundlessly out to the wagon. She slipped under it like a shadow.

“What if they find her?” Raffi whispered, appalled.

“Then they’ll find all of us. You next.”

The wagons jolted forward; the pack-beasts, mostly mules, plodding a few weary steps among shouts and one whip-crack. Galen touched Raffi and he ran, stooping low. Halfway there he froze, heart thudding, as the wagoner walked by, kicking the wheels, but the man’s back was to him, and in seconds Raffi was ducking underneath, the stink of mule droppings close to his face. Grabbing the front axle, he hauled his chest up over the brace, jamming his feet wide against the planks at the back.

Above him the wagon base was bowed with its load—Galen hadn’t thought about that. It lay heavy on his back now, and in a moment of terror he imagined the Watchmen climbing on board and crushing him, and he gripped the greasy axle tight, his cheek lying sideways, the stink of dung in his nostrils.

It was a long time before they moved.

The first jolt almost shook him off; he grabbed tighter, feeling the axle slither and turn. Wrapping himself around the narrow brace, he clung tight, arms and legs aching, hoping he wouldn’t slip under it. Then they stopped again and he could loosen his hold.

Gradually the cold seeped into him. After an age of stopping and starting he felt exhausted; on top of the long walk from the ship the strain made his muscles knots of pain, and he was terrified of falling. Splinters of sharp wood jabbed his hands, and the puddles on the muddy roadway splashed his face. Then the wagon stopped again. They were still for so long this time he almost slept; only a wild grab kept him up. After that, a long progress. Looking down, he saw the wheels were crunching in gravel, leaving deep ruts over earlier ones.

They stopped.

“Papers,” a voice snarled.

Raffi gripped tight. The man was close. Boots splashed in the grit; he caught the word
barley
and then
a couple of sacks of birds
.

The footsteps moved to the back. Hens squawked right in his ear, and the shaven boards on his back seemed heavier. Gritting his teeth, he waited for the man to climb on, tiny grains of flour and chaff drifting on him in clouds from the opened seams.

The silence was the worst. Axle grease was all over his hands by now, they slipped constantly, and he had to cling on with knees and fingertips, praying to Flain to send him strength to last out. The stiffness of his own muscles tormented him; he sweated, despite the cold, to think he might not be able to unclench them if he needed to run.

A sound, to the left. Cautiously he twisted his head. The boots were back. They stood close by the left front wheel, one up on the rim, the other turned aside. With a hiss of breath, Raffi gripped so tight his hands ached.

The Watchman had dropped something. A coin.

It lay there in the mud. For a terrible second, Raffi stared at it; then the man had bent and was groping for it, his face close to Raffi’s, the long straggly hair falling over his eyes. His hand reached under the wheel and touched the coin.

Then he was gone, like a nightmare.

Icy with sweat, Raffi clung on as the wagon began to move, lurching and swaying. The shadow of the gate fell over him; briefly there were paved stones, the hollow echo of hooves in a covered place. Then more mud.

He breathed a prayer. He was in the city.

RAFFI CLUNG TIGHT till the wagon came to a corner and slowed; then he let go and slid down with a thump, unable to stop himself. The street was dim; the wagon rolled noisily over him, its great wheels creaking high on each side. He lay there till it had gone, then picked himself up painfully, his hands so rigid he could hardly open them. Standing upright made him gasp, his knees weak.

“Raffi!”

The hiss was from a doorway; briefly Carys’s face showed in a patch of light. “Over here!”

Limping across, he slid in beside her, down to a crouch.

“All right?”

“Half dead.” Rubbing his aching arms, he looked up. “Curse Galen to the pit, and all his ideas!”

“It seems to have worked.” She sounded amused; looking at her he saw she was filthy, her face smeared with grease. He must look as bad.

“Where now?”

“The building with the spire. It must be close.”

They were in a narrow street, evil-smelling, the houses leaning overhead. There was no light, not even from the moons. He wondered if their light ever reached down here, through the blackness of the blighted city. He could glimpse drifts and wraiths of smoke around him, as if the wind could never blow it away. The vapors rose from drains and sewers; anyone who lived here in the rotting city had long forgotten the warmth of the sun. Deep underground, Tasceron was burning. That was its punishment, and for them, its safety.

A rat scuttled down the street. Raffi caught hold of Carys and they ran close to the walls of the dim buildings, stumbling over rubble and holes. A peculiar low screech made them stop and look up in terror, and they saw above the house tops a great dark shape float across the gloomy gap.

“What was that!”

Carys shook her head. “I daren’t think.”

When they found it, the building was ruined. A great hole gaped in the wall; above them the spire crumbled into darkness.

“Looks like it’s going to fall down,” Raffi muttered.

“Maybe.” Carys glanced around. “Is he here?”

“I don’t know.” Raffi rubbed his face. He was so tired, and already the city confused him, the smoke fogging his sense-lines. Nothing felt clear. He climbed in through the hole after her.

It was pitch-black. They edged forward a step.

“Galen?” Raffi whispered. “Galen, are you here?”

The crack of the tinderbox answered him. In a far corner a flame grew; it showed a dark face turning toward them. Carys grinned and took a step in, but Raffi grabbed her, rigid. “It’s not him.”

The face was filthy. A great burn-mark seared one cheek and, as the man raised himself up, they saw that half of his hair was gone, and the burned scalp was painted with a hideous snake, its great fangs wide. He uncurled himself; stained blankets fell from him; he muttered something and to his right another sleeper groaned and sat up.

Suddenly Raffi saw they were all around him; huddled, uncurling shapes. “Out!” he said. “Get out! Now!”

She was already moving. As he fled he heard shouts; in corners faces rose up and stared at him, grotesque faces without eyes, scarred, skeletal with hunger. Leaping the wall, he flung spell-binds behind him, but it was hard to think; the horror of the uncurling creatures made him race into the darkness heedless, around a corner, down a street, until a shadow stepped out in front of him and grabbed him with both hands.