Rats And Gargoyles - Rats and Gargoyles Part 22
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Rats and Gargoyles Part 22

A sense of turning sickened her. She slitted her lids to block out the sky, and the sun that moved: shifting thirty Degrees across its arc from the Sign of the Lord of Morning to the Sign of the Lady of High Summer. Cramps twisted her womb, and she bent over, grinding a fist into the pit of her belly, the pain of the moon waxing and waning in a heartbeat.

"At the precise moment that the Great Circle is once again brokenthen act!"

The great paws of the god-daemon closed together.

The White Crow flung out both arms, pushing against the sun-hot brick that writhed beneath her palms. She staggered, slipped to one knee, sneezed violently as cold air forced its way into her lungs; and scrambled to her feet.

A wall of tiny ocher bricks blocked her vision. Her dusty hands rested flat against them. She pushed away, her eyes following the brickwork up . . . to where it hooped above her head in an arch.

The first entrance-arch cast a dawn shadow into the street. No coach waited outside. The White Crow stood alone, shivering in air that felt cold only by contrast with the soul of heat. Her womb ached with the loss of time passed.

"Shit-damn!"

Her voice echoed.

The White Crow swung around, taking in the dew drying on the cobbles, the dawn-mist turning the blue sky milky. "Evelian! My rooms! Who's been feeding my animals while I've been gone?"

A citizen, out early, skittered past one corner of the Fane, and the White Crow yelled: "The day, messire?"

Without turning or stopping, the man called: "Day of the Feast of Misrule."

"That long?"

She swung back, stabbing a dusty index-finger at the Lord-Architect, to realize that she stood alone and faced a blank gateless brick wall.

"Casaubon?"

Chapter Five.

Light spreads out across the heart of the world.

Down in Eighth District North quarter the barter-stalls open early, candy-striped awnings pearled with dawn's dew. Men and women argue the value of rice, portraits and chairs against pomanders, shoes and viola da gambas. The barter-markets will close in an hour: it is the Feast of Misrule.

In Thirty-First District morning is advanced. Children dig the heavy clay earth of allotments, unearthing shards of pottery with a peacock-bright glaze, where sun sparkles from the edges of broken telescopic lenses. Parents call the children in; it is the Feast of Misrule.

At the royal palace light slants into wide gravel-floored courtyards, glares back white from walls. Echoing: the clatter of guard-change, the rattle of hoofs. Even this early, heat soaks the thick-walled chambers where Rats await a special morning audience.

And down where Fourteenth District meets the harbor the sailless masts of ships catch the first yellow fire of the sun. Tugs anchored; wherries moored; light stains the lapping water where ships lie idle, even the transients part of the preparations.

Ashen, the dawn touches the Fane. Light curdles, chitters; sifting to fall upon the ragged wings of daemons: acolytes rustle and roost. Storm-bright eyes flick open.

Light spreads out across the heart of the world, the dawn of the day of the Feast of Misrule.

Reverend Mistress Heurodis said: "I cannot stay so long as I thought. It would hardly do for me to be seen with you."

Archdeacon Regnault sat on the gutter step, sandal in one dark hand, fingering the ball of her aching right foot. She raised her head when Reverend Mistress Heurodis spoke, and laughed mirthlessly.

"I'm told by the novices that Reverend Master Candia took equally great care not to be seen with Bishop Theodoret of the Trees." She pitched her voice to carry over the constant ringing of a charnel-house bell. "They were together, I know that. I know nothing else. And that was thirty days ago!"

She stood, clutching one sandal in her hand.

"My time to search grows less. I'm needed back at the hospital now. We've never needed to heal so many sick with pestilence as this High Summer."

Beckoning Heurodis with a nod of her head, she limped across the wide, tree-lined avenue towards the illegal cafes of the human Eighth District South quarter, just opening or shutting with the dawn.

"If your Church didn't insist on healing those the god-daemons fate for death and rebirth"Heurodis seized the trailing edge of her blue cotton dress, and picked a neat way between fallen leaves, cracked roadstones, and fresh dung"you wouldn't now stand between poverty and ignominy."

Two- and three-story sandstone buildings took a warm light from the sun, the cafes' shield-shaped signs glowing blue, crimson and gold. The smell of fresh water rose from newly washed pavements. Where the soapy liquid trickled into the gutters, it accentuated the dung-odors of the avenue.

The Archdeacon paused on the far pavement, waiting for the old woman to catch up. She squinted up at the milky sky, sighed, anticipating heat and the distances to be walked across the heart of the world when one's Church is too poor to afford carriages.

"A Sign's passed, but I won't give up. Tell me one thing," she persisted doggedly, "before you return to the university."

The old woman in the neat cotton dress turned smoky- blue eyes on the Archdeacon.

"I have honest work teaching at the University of Crime," Heurodis said, her thin voice firm. "Why should I jeopardize it by becoming concerned in the dubious activities of the Church of the Trees?"

The Archdeacon stepped into the shadow of a eucalyptus tree, hearing its leaves rustle above her head. A rush of water from a shop-front wet her bare foot, and made Heurodis step aside with an irritated mutter. She made to take the old lady by the elbow and guide her.

"Ah! I didn't mean-" She shook her wrist, rubbed her elbow and stepped back from the Reverend Mistress. The white-haired woman smiled.

"What is it you have to ask me, girlie?"

The Archdeacon brushed the shoulder of her green cotton dress, and touched the scrolling bark of the eucalyptus for comfort. She cinched her belt in another notch. The dappled shadow and light of leaves fell across her black skin. She pointed down the avenue, to one of the bars that, open all night in the heart of the world, now began to close its doors.

"Is that Reverend Master Candia?" she asked.

Heurodis brushed tendrils of silver hair away from her face, and shaded her eyes with a brown-spotted hand. The Archdeacon followed her gaze into the open frontage of the cafe. Broken mirrors lined the walls. Among tables and shattered bottles and the fumes of hemp, a heavily built caf-owner stood arguing with a man slumped into a chair.

"Yes." Heurodis rubbed her bare corded arms, as if with a sudden chill.

The Archdeacon slipped her sandal back on her bare foot and strode towards the caf. The Reverend Mistress hurried after her.

"We'll take over here."

The burly man turned a scarred face on the Archdeacon and the Reverend Mistress. He nodded his head to Heurodis.

"If this bastard's a friend of yours, he's got a score to settle . . ."

Heurodis looked around, and slapped her hand down on Candia's table. The burly man's voice died as she lifted her palm. Sue or seven silver coins gleamed on the scarred wood. Snake-swift, he brushed the money over the table-edge into his hand, fisted it, and glared at the old woman.

"You're mad! Using coin! The Rat-Lords will hang all four of us."

"Then you'd better not tell them."

The bar-owner met Heurodis's occluded gaze for a second, turned, and stomped to the back of the caf to oversee the haphazard cleaning.

"Candia!"

The blond man sat slumped down so that his head was below the back of the chair, his booted legs sprawled widely. His uncut beard straggled to his collar. The buff- colored doublet, open to show filthy linen, had more slashes than sufficed to show the crimson lining. He twitched at Heurodis's sharp tone.

"Reverend Master!"

The Archdeacon leaned forward. His warm foul breath hit her in the face. She reached out, wound a dark hand in his hair and jerked his head upright. Blond hair flopped across a face all pallor but for sepia-bruised eyes.

The man muttered something inaudible.

Heurodis folded her hands neatly in front of her. "It takes more than days to get into this state."

The Archdeacon straightened, looking around. Morning light showed unkind on upturned tables and the deserted bar. Dark wood scarred with knife-cuts and slogans reflected in shards of mirrors. She reached out and took a pail from one of the cleaners as he passed, and up-ended dirty water over the slumped man.

"Where's Theodoret? Where's my Bishop?"

The blond man reared up from the chair. Swearing, he threw out dripping arms for balance, opened his eyes and turned an uncomprehending gaze on the cafe and Heurodis and the Archdeacon. He stooped. One filthy hand went out to the nearest wall for support. An expression of amazement and embarrassment crossed his pale features.

Candia bent forward and vomited on the floor.

Broken mirrors at the back of the bar reflected the owner in conversation with two men. Both newcomers wore gold-and-white sashes; both wore clumsily adjusted rapiers and sword-belts.

Over the noise of retching, Heurodis said: "Those are Salomon-men . . . We should move him from here, before they begin to question us."

Gritting her teeth against the stink of vomit, alcohol and urine, the Archdeacon pulled one of the blond man's arms across her shoulder and guided (not being tall enough to support) him out into the avenue. A few yards on he fell against her, and she let him slide down to sit with his back against one of the eucalyptus trees.

Candia frowned, lifting a drooping head. He opened his mouth to speak and vomited into his lap, covering his doublet and breeches.

"It would be better, for his sake, not to take him back to the university." Heurodis blinked in the sunlight.

The Archdeacon stepped back to join her. The blond man lay against the tree-trunk, head back, legs widely apart; moaning.

"Where did you go with the Bishop?"

She squatted down a yard from Candia.

"The novices saw you leave together. Where did you take him?"

A ragged band of crimson cloth had been tied about one of his wrists; days ago, judging by the dirt. A halfhealed scar showed under the edge of it.

"He's been missing for nearly thirty days," the Archdeacon persisted. "Where did you leave him?"

A light tap on her shoulder got her attention. She stood and faced Heurodis. Carts clattered past on the rough avenue. A few early passers-by turned to look at Candia.

"It's been nearly thirty days since the Reverend Master attended at the university," Heurodis confirmed. "I have not the least idea what he would be doing in the cathedral with low-life, but it seems a strong possibility that he was."

The small old woman showed no disgust when she looked at the blond man sprawled on the pavement.

"He will need treatment, I'm afraid, before he can walk; and we can hardly carry him." Heurodis's smoky gaze found its way to the Archdeacon's face. "I have a basic grounding in medicine. And I, too, can remember drinking to drive away pain."

"I can help him temporarily."

Heurodis sniffed. Without a crack in her facade of disapproval, she nodded. "Very well, then, but be quick. To be seen with one of you is bad enough, but to be present in public while you actually . . . Get on with it, girlie."

The Archdeacon knelt down in front of Candia, one hand on his shoulder, one on the trunk of the eucalyptus.

Dawn mist cleared now, over roofs and alleys, and carts passed every few minutes, jolting over the broken paving-stones. All the drivers were human; no Rats visible. Heat began to soak up from the pavement, ripen the smells of the gutter.

Leaves rustled, rattled together.

A faint green color rippled across the Archdeacon's black fingers. She brushed Candia's dirt-ringed neck. He stirred, straightening; his eyes opened and blinked against the sunlight. A smell of green leaves and leaf-mold momentarily overpowered city odors.

Water brimmed in his eyes. A tear runneled the dirt on his face. She saw him focus into himself; the loose- limbed sprawl tensing. She let a little more of the power of green growing things clear his sodden head and veins.

"Can you understand me?"

His thin dirty hand came up and touched hers. As if the faint green color of spring leaves pained him, another rush of water brimmed over his eyes.

"He . . . did that, and it didn't save him . . ."

The Archdeacon glanced up at Heurodis. Healing momentarily forgotten, she tightened her grip on Candia's shoulder and shook him.

"Who did? I talked to builders, some of the builders on the Fanethey say they saw my Bishop there. Was that you? Were you with him? What happened to him?"

He groaned. Sweat broke out on his forehead, plastering blond hair down. His other hand came up and gripped her wrist.

"Askwhy did they let me go . . . and not Theo . . ."

"He's at the Fane? Is he alive and well?"

"Yes . . . no . . ."

His breath stank. The effort it took him to speak made the Archdeacon shake her head in self-disgust.

She reverently touched the eucalyptus-trunk, centering patterns of veins in leaf and flesh, letting energy rise. After a moment she let the color fade from her hands, and pulled Candia's arm across her shoulder again, and lifted. He came up on to his feet with difficulty, weight heavy on her.

Heurodis's chin rose, looking up at him, flesh losing creases momentarily. "Take him to my house."

Trying not to breathe in his stink, the Archdeacon put her arm around Candia's body to support him. Under his shirt her fingers felt each rib prominent. His pelvic bone jabbed into her side. Heurodis, irritable at the increasing number of people on the avenue, moved to hook the Reverend Master's other arm in hers and push him into uncertain steps. He swayed as they walked, slow yard by yard.

"If I do anything, it's what the Thirty-Six want me to do . . . what they let me go loose for . . ." His voice slurred. "People talk when they think you're drunk . . . I'm not drunk. I've heard things. Not as drunk as I'd have to be . . ."

His arms flopped loosely over the two women's supporting shoulders. His head dipped. His eyes shifted to the sky, watching under wary brows, afraid. The Archdeacon shifted her grip. His head turned, and he focused on the hawthorn pinned to her full bodice.

"Fuck your church! Fuck your arrogant beggarly church-"