The Waterborn, page 24
“Which way now?” Tsem asked from behind her.
“Left,” she replied. She had memorized as much of her map as possible to avoid having to consult it constantly.
The ledge was comfortably broad, even for Tsem. At his insistence, he went first. Hezhi began to protest, but at the limits of the lantern light she noticed something that changed her mind: a plethora of minuscule lights, the shining eyes of rats staring at the lantern. She relinquished the light to her bodyguard, and they continued on.
The larger tunnels were less noisome than their entryway. The air moved a bit more readily here, helped by the sinks and storm drains they occasionally passed beneath. Twice they heard people near these openings, conversing about this or that, and she felt a little thrill of excitement. It was like being invisible, able to see and hear others but not noticeable herself. In fact, however, she realized that they were in a great deal of danger of being detected, if anyone happened to be glancing down one of the shafts when the light of the lantern passed beneath them. But this didn’t happen, and her fantasy of invisibility remained intact.
“We’ll enter the Second-Dynasty sewers soon,” she whispered excitedly to Tsem. “They are below these and lie atop the buried city.”
“Second-Dynasty sewers,” Tsem grumbled. “My heart is filled with joy.”
Up ahead, water muttered angrily, cascading more loudly than the constant background gurgle of inflow through the small ducts. The crashing increased as they approached it, and soon the two stood peering down into the depths of yet another hole. This one was very large, white limestone blocks set along its rim. The stone below it was limestone, as well, but it was a different color, seemed older somehow.
“See?” Hezhi commented. “This hole was cut down to the old system. Everything below this is Second Dynasty or older.”
Tsem just sighed and uncoiled the rope, keeping any further comments to himself. The cataracts fell downward perhaps fifteen feet. There was nothing to brace their trusty poker against—the hole was much too wide. Tsem cast about for something to tie the rope to. He stopped when Hezhi tapped him on the arm.
“What?” he asked. She pointed.
“Engineers have to come down here periodically to make sure nothing important has collapsed,” she explained. “We don’t need a rope.”
A series of steel spikes were driven into the side wall of the shaft. They were almost certainly intended to be used as a ladder.
“Ah,” Tsem replied. He approached the spikes, reached down, and grasped one. He pushed hard on it, gradually shifting his full weight to bear upon it. The spike remained firm.
“Seems sturdy enough,” he commented, and after a slight hesitation, he began clambering down the questionable ladder. He yelped when the fifth spike down tore from the stone under his enormous weight, but maintained his hold.
“Several of them are loose now,” he called back up, when he had reached the landing at the base of the wall. “The stone is more rotten the farther down you go.”
“I’ll be careful,” Hezhi promised. In a few moments she stood on the landing next to the half Giant.
“Well,” she said, scanning what she could see in the lamplight. “Second-Dynasty sewers look remarkably like Third-Dynasty sewers.”
“I have no opinion,” Tsem commented, “lacking your informed judgment.”
The lower tunnels were a bit narrower than the upper, and now and then the two were forced to leap crumbled places in the ledge. More often, they were forced to step over side passages entering the channel. Many of these seemed absolutely still and stagnant. Hezhi gave out a little gasp when she saw something up one of them, something large, moving beneath the surface, visible only by its ripples.
After that they saw ghosts, many of them. Most were as insubstantial as the one in her room, points in the atmosphere that caught the lamplight and twisted it up. The majority fled from their lamp, though a few more curious ones actually approached. There was one, however, that seemed quite solid. It was a man—she could tell that much—and he stayed just ahead of them, at the fringes of illumination. The dark hollows of his eyes were unreadable, but Hezhi still had the impression of intense concentration, as if the ghost were studying them in some way.
“If we meet a real ghost down here,” Tsem muttered, “like the one in the Hall of Moments…” He did not finish.
“I have part of a broom,” Hezhi whispered.
“What?” Tsem turned to face her, his eyes wide, shocked.
“I took part of an old broom from one of the shrines,” she explained.
“You stole from the priesthood?”
“Well,” she considered, “I don’t know that stealing is the right word.”
“I don’t believe this.” Tsem sighed. “My days are certainly numbered.”
“Hush, Tsem. Besides, I did a bit of research on ghosts. Monsters like the one in the Hall of Moments are rare and usually asleep. Hopefully we won’t wake any.”
“Hopefully.” Tsem snorted.
Whatever strange, dead thoughts their onlooker might entertain, he continued to back away from them, made no move to attack.
Not much farther along, the passage suddenly widened, and they found themselves crossing a room. The channel cut on through, and they could easily see, across the room, that the tunnel continued on. Above them the roof rose perhaps a span more than the roof of the sewer, and it was vaulted. In the dirty stone they could see numerous cracks, and a dense mass of gnarled and groping tendrils punched through the fractures.
“Roots,” Hezhi remarked. “We must be beneath one of the gardens.”
“What is this? This looks like some of the buried rooms we used to explore under the old palace.”
“It’s the same architecture,” she replied.
“I thought the buried city—First Dynasty—was still below us.”
“This is an upper story,” she answered smugly. She indicated a stairway in the corner of the room, leading down. “That’s how we’ll get down to the buried palace.”
“Right here?”
“No, this isn’t the right place. At least, I don’t think it is.” She took out her map and unfurled it in the lamplight.
“No,” she said. “I’ve been counting side passages. We have to cross six more.”
“Did you count the one that was filled in?” Tsem asked.
“Yes.” Hezhi nodded.
They went on, counting six more tributary ducts. Their companion remained with them, gazing hollowly from the shadows.
“The next room, then,” she whispered. Her skin was beginning to tingle with a strange sort of exhilarating fear. A few more paces, and they passed into another upper-story room.
She located the stairway easily enough, splashing across the water standing on the floor.
“This is it,” she breathed.
“I will go first here,” Tsem stated. It was not a question.
“Good enough, Tsem,” she agreed.
The stair was stick, with a fine coating of mud, but unlike the rooms under the abandoned wing, it was clear of substantial debris. Water stood in the room, as well, but they discovered it to be only a few feet deep—to Tsem’s knees and Hezhi’s waist.
Even Tsem recognized the place, despite the outdated architecture.
“This is a shrine,” he muttered, taking in the thin, decorative columns, the inoperative fountain choked with stagnant water, the faded glyphs on the walls.
“Yes,” she confirmed. “A First-Dynasty shrine. You see? That is the royal seal of the Chakunge.”
“The seal is much larger here. I’ve never seen it so prominent in the shrines above.”
“Back then the Chakunge was the First Priest, as well,” Hezhi explained.
“I thought he still was.”
She shook her head. “Only symbolically. In the First Dynasty, there was no Priestfather. Everything flowed from the Chakunge. After the war of priests, the priesthood and the emperor became divided.”
“I’ve never heard of any ‘war of priests,’” Tsem said.
“No. It isn’t much talked about,” she told him.
“So now where to? I don’t see any exits.”
Indeed, the exits from the room had been walled up, precisely similar to many of the chambers they had encountered a few years before.
“Oh,” Hezhi said. “This won’t get us where we are going. I needed to see this shrine to mark my place and to learn a bit more.”
“About what?”
“I think the glyphs in here may tell me some things I need to know.”
“Ah.”
“Here, let me have the lantern.” She took the light source over near the sacred pool and began studying the glyphs there.
“Tsem,” she said after a moment, “go count the number of treads in the stairway for me.”
“What? Why, Princess?”
“It’s important.”
Tsem sighed and began sloshing toward the stair. Hezhi took her opportunity, knowing she had to hurry before Tsem caught on. The lip of the sacred well was above the waterline; she set the lantern down on that and scrambled onto it herself. From there she was able to reach the narrow duct that once fed the pool. Heart pounding, she grasped the slippery lip of the tube and began pulling herself up. Her arms seemed absurdly weak—she had only managed to get her elbows inside the duct before Tsem cried out behind her.
“Princess!” he yelped, and she heard a great splashing as he slogged across the room toward her. She wriggled desperately, abdominal muscles clenched, heaving herself into the tube. Everything in it was slimy, offering no purchase. In one frantic heave she got inside up to her belly, braced her arms, and wriggled farther in. Strong fingers clutched at her foot. She kicked wildly, worming away from Tsem’s grip and farther into the dark shaft.
“Princess,” Tsem repeated, the sound of his voice muffled by her body. The tube was narrow enough that she could not quite get to her knees, and so she effectively blocked it.
“I’m sorry, Tsem,” she called back, hoping he could hear. Her voice rang weirdly, right in her ears but also humming down the endless duct. “I’m sorry, but you can’t fit in here, and it’s the only way. I knew you wouldn’t let me go alone.”
“Nonsense,” she heard him say. “But come back out here for the light”
In response, she drew out the tiny oil lamp she had concealed in her bag. Calmly she checked the wick to make certain it was still soaked with oil. Resting on her elbows, she also drew out a small packet of four matches, sealed in waxed paper. She struck one match against another and lit the lamp.
“You knew about this,” Tsem howled, stamping about in the water. “You planned it.”
“I had to, Tsem,” she called back.
“Princess, please,” Tsem begged.
“Wait for me, Tsem,” she said. “I’ll be back.” Holding the little lamp in front of her, she began to crawl with her elbows.
The shaft was not exactly dry, but it was at least not full of water, either. She was grateful, once again, for the clothing Tsem had acquired for her, her elbows hurt already but she could imagine how badly they would be scraped if they were bare. Too, she could comfort herself with the thought that the slime that now darkened almost every inch of her was not, for the most part, on her skin. She sighed as Tsem continued to yell after her. The tube had the unfortunate quality of conducting sound undiminished. In fact, she remembered reading of priests using the tubes to talk to one another, communicating between shrines without need of actually sending a messenger.
Though she fought the sensation, Hezhi quickly felt hemmed in. The realization that she could not rise up, even to a crouch, was accompanied by the overwhelming desire to do so. Her breath became rapid, and she tried to move along more quickly, as if racing with her lungs. Images of the tube being blocked at the other end kept coming into her mind. Then she would be forced to back out, something she was not certain was possible. She began to tremble. What was she doing? This was insane! The shaft was becoming smaller as she went along!
The air seemed bad, too, thick, and her lungs had no room to fill completely.
Hezhi was close—very close—to screaming when she finally saw the end of the duct. She scrambled toward it so frantically that she extinguished the lamp. She did not stop to relight it, but wriggled on and on, until at last her head emerged into a larger space. There she gasped, drawing deep, full breaths, trying to calm down. She relit the lamp with her last two matches.
She knew where she should be, but this was another instance of paper not preparing one for reality.
The ancient Grand Hall was still magnificent. Even with water standing deep on its floor, even with piles of rubble sloping down from the walls, it was awesome. The ceiling arched up, its roof unreachable by her tiny light. Thick, ornate pillars rose to help the buttresses in the corner support that vast midnight, strips of gold and lapis here and there glittering dully beneath coats of muck. The Chakunge’s dais was a many-tiered pyramid, rising above the water, still impressive in ruin. At each corner of each step crested an alabaster wave, frozen forever in the act of curling back down to the River. The tube opened above the first step emerging from the unrippling real water that filled the cavern. Carefully, quietly, she lowered herself onto the dais. She took up her little lamp.
“I’m here, D’en,” she whispered. “Where are you?”
Her voice trembled in the magnificent abyss.
XI
The Cursed
Perkar awoke to morning light. He had been dreaming of the city and the girl, of the River. He was cold.
A chill mist was settling down from the hills; a few birds were chattering in the trees. Perkar was thirsty, his mouth as dry as cotton. He felt for his waterskin and found it, drained what remained there. The water burned terribly going down, and then he remembered his throat, reached up to feel for the hole. There was much blood there, clotted and congealed, but the wound had closed.
“One heartstring left. You are a lucky man.”
“I don’t feel lucky,” he tried to mutter, but only a strangling noise emerged from his throat. The dead lioness lay across most of his body, and she was heavy. It took much wriggling and squirming to extract himself. Her weight had shoved the arrow in his chest all the way through, and so saved him the effort of doing it himself. He reached back and grasped it on the shaft below the protruding head and pulled it on out. The one in his ribs he was able to extract more easily; the hauberk had all but stopped it.
Removing his armor was actually more painful than extracting the arrows; many of the bright rings were crusted to his rapidly healing wounds, which began bleeding afresh as he removed the ruined hauberk. Freed of that, he felt a bit better; lighter anyway. One heartstring left.
“Surely she knew,” he gasped, managing a faint whisper this time.
“Who knows? Gods can be fully as careless as mortals. Perhaps she did not know me.”
“Should she have?”
“She has never wielded me or met me in battle.”
Grimacing with a hundred pains, Perkar staggered to his feet, leaned against a scrubby tree for support. Mang—or what the wolves had left of Mang—lay not far away. He wondered why they had not eaten him, as well. Apad had not been spared that fate; Perkar could see his savaged body a few strides away, along with the two Bear-Men he had killed. Three dead wolves and the lioness were the only other testimony to their battle.
The sword Apad had been wielding lay near him, quiet now. For a moment, Perkar considered taking it; it seemed in many ways more powerful than the one he bore. But it hadn’t saved Apad, and the jade sword had saved him, for better or worse. He arranged the curved blade on Apad’s chest and left it there, regretting he had no time to bury his friend. He had to go, though. He might still be of some use to the Kapaka. He did spare the time to sing the “Ghost Homecoming Song” for Apad. He burned the last of his incense while singing; some for Apad, some few Mang, and after a moment’s hesitation, some for his slain enemies.
Return to Your Mountain
Ani Waluka, Rutkirul,
Lioness.
Don new armor
Walk forth anew
We may meet again
As friends…
Feeling a bit stronger, he turned and, for the second time, began ascending the last ridge before the River, following the tracks of the hunt.
Perkar found the Alwal at the top of the hill where he had left them. They had acquitted themselves well, armed only with cane spears. He wished he could have seen them fight. Five dead wolves were mute testimony to their determination. Digger lay curled around her torn throat, one hand still grasping her spear; the other end of it was fixed in the mouth of a wolf; the point emerged at the base of its skull. Inexplicably, tears started in his eyes, though years later he could not explain why he chose that moment to cry and not one earlier or later. He sank to his knees, sobbing. For himself, he supposed, for Digger, for Apad, for the nameless woman back in the cave.
Still blinking back tears, Perkar started down the slope. Gravel and scrub soon gave way to sloping expanses of red, sandy rock. It was, in fact, a plateau of solid stone, though soil filled low places and creases in it, giving tenuous purchase to the roots of short thick pines and cedars. Occasional deeper depressions held horsetails and willow, small wet islands of green amidst the rust.
Even on stone, the tracks of the hunt were clear, scratches in the rock, the shed hair of beasts, a stray arrow here and there. He strained his senses for some audible sign of the hunt or his companions, but, try as he might, he heard nothing save the wind; the world seemed all silence and blue sky, the clouds and thunder that rode with the hunt now flown far away.
