Read Online The Rat and the Serpent by Stephen Palmer - Free Book Online
Authors: Stephen Palmer
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nogoth society, where groups were glued together by circumstance, force, or through desperate emotion. This was no collective of arthritic mothers in a cellar, no harbour gang ruled by fierce men who would murder without thought, no scavenging pack tearing through the alleys impelled by their own hunger. This was a natural feeling: friends in harmony. Having given, we now received, and because we were sharing it was all the better.
I was startled by this revelation, and delighted. I understood that it would be impossible for me now to refuse the test. I had to become a citidenizen. I needed more time in heaven.
We spent a further two hours dessicating the streets, before we returned exhausted to our alleys and chambers. I felt as though I was being warmed by the glimpse I had been afforded of life to come, the poverty and hardship of the street now something that could be left behind.
But I knew there was one more task ahead of me before I threw my whole weight behind apprenticeship. I had to reject the wraith. Why I had been haunted I did not know—Raknia as conspirator had faded from my mind—but I knew it was vital to deny the wraith, that there be no doubt in my own mind and in the minds of others of my determination to become a citidenizen.
I needed help, however. Daring the forbidden streets of the Mavrosopolis alone was not recommended. I thought of Raknia.
So I returned to Raknia. She listened to me, and while she was not convinced by my idea, neither did she reject it. There was hope. She could be persuaded. With no other bargaining point I was forced to dangle the possibility of further intimate encounters before her, and though I suspected she grasped this plan, she nonetheless took the bait. We would explore together. Our arrangement seemed to me to be another indication of the possibilities to be found in friendship.
Neither of us knew the locations of haunted streets, not least because nogoths never went there; or perhaps they did, and were unwilling to tell the tale. Raknia thought most streets would lie at the tranquil eastern and northern shores; not on the southern shores, where life was brutish. So we made up Vezirhani Street towards the Galata Bridge, though we were uncertain of what to do when we arrived.
“We could seek areas where nogoths don’t congregate,” Raknia suggested.
With no better plan, I agreed, knowing that I would be able to spot the signs of nogoth occupation without difficulty. An absence of such spoor would be suspicious. The night was sootless and cool, perfect conditions, though hardly comfortable. I thrust my hands into the pockets of my rags and strode on.
The night seemed endless. We trudged through shambles after shambles, along a continuous path of debris and soot pawed over by hunchbacked nogoths like so many ink blots, with never a clean street in sight.
And then something odd—a lane cleared of stone and masonry, yet lacking those winding trails in the soot produced by scavenging nogoths; just a single furrow in the middle, as if made by citidenizens going about their business. I stopped short, aware that something here was different, but unable to pinpoint what it might be. I looked around, but I saw nothing unusual in the buildings and towers—lanterns lit, doors closed, bleached signs hanging from poles carved in bone. Yet I felt something, almost a presence, as if the silence itself was a tangible entity.
“Here?” Raknia whispered.
I scanned the lane ahead. It was long, and, I noticed, did not carry a name. Suspicions struck me. All streets were named; why not this one? But perhaps it was marked, in writing only ghosts could see. And there was not a single nogoth in sight. I glanced at Raknia, and nodded.
We waited. I did not know what to expect, if anything; I just knew that I must declare the truth burning inside me, that I must oppose the wraith on its own ground so that it never returned to haunt me.
“Don’t think you can fight any ghost,”
I was startled by this revelation, and delighted. I understood that it would be impossible for me now to refuse the test. I had to become a citidenizen. I needed more time in heaven.
We spent a further two hours dessicating the streets, before we returned exhausted to our alleys and chambers. I felt as though I was being warmed by the glimpse I had been afforded of life to come, the poverty and hardship of the street now something that could be left behind.
But I knew there was one more task ahead of me before I threw my whole weight behind apprenticeship. I had to reject the wraith. Why I had been haunted I did not know—Raknia as conspirator had faded from my mind—but I knew it was vital to deny the wraith, that there be no doubt in my own mind and in the minds of others of my determination to become a citidenizen.
I needed help, however. Daring the forbidden streets of the Mavrosopolis alone was not recommended. I thought of Raknia.
So I returned to Raknia. She listened to me, and while she was not convinced by my idea, neither did she reject it. There was hope. She could be persuaded. With no other bargaining point I was forced to dangle the possibility of further intimate encounters before her, and though I suspected she grasped this plan, she nonetheless took the bait. We would explore together. Our arrangement seemed to me to be another indication of the possibilities to be found in friendship.
Neither of us knew the locations of haunted streets, not least because nogoths never went there; or perhaps they did, and were unwilling to tell the tale. Raknia thought most streets would lie at the tranquil eastern and northern shores; not on the southern shores, where life was brutish. So we made up Vezirhani Street towards the Galata Bridge, though we were uncertain of what to do when we arrived.
“We could seek areas where nogoths don’t congregate,” Raknia suggested.
With no better plan, I agreed, knowing that I would be able to spot the signs of nogoth occupation without difficulty. An absence of such spoor would be suspicious. The night was sootless and cool, perfect conditions, though hardly comfortable. I thrust my hands into the pockets of my rags and strode on.
The night seemed endless. We trudged through shambles after shambles, along a continuous path of debris and soot pawed over by hunchbacked nogoths like so many ink blots, with never a clean street in sight.
And then something odd—a lane cleared of stone and masonry, yet lacking those winding trails in the soot produced by scavenging nogoths; just a single furrow in the middle, as if made by citidenizens going about their business. I stopped short, aware that something here was different, but unable to pinpoint what it might be. I looked around, but I saw nothing unusual in the buildings and towers—lanterns lit, doors closed, bleached signs hanging from poles carved in bone. Yet I felt something, almost a presence, as if the silence itself was a tangible entity.
“Here?” Raknia whispered.
I scanned the lane ahead. It was long, and, I noticed, did not carry a name. Suspicions struck me. All streets were named; why not this one? But perhaps it was marked, in writing only ghosts could see. And there was not a single nogoth in sight. I glanced at Raknia, and nodded.
We waited. I did not know what to expect, if anything; I just knew that I must declare the truth burning inside me, that I must oppose the wraith on its own ground so that it never returned to haunt me.
“Don’t think you can fight any ghost,”
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