Rats and Gargoyles by Mary Gentle Read Free Book Online Page B

Rat-Lords. "Our part of the bargain is this. There
are ancient buildings of this city that we may not enter, because of where they
are situated. There are records and inscriptions in those buildings that we
need. If Messire Plessiez and his people can gain us that, we’ll run his
errands."
    "No!" Tannakin Spatchet’s fist hit the table. "Who
knows what retribution we’d bring into our quarter if we did? As Mayor—"
    "Tan, be quiet," Falke ordered.
    Desaguliers leaned forward. "The peasant’s right. I
want to know what and why, messire priest. Some scheme to open up every district
to us, is it? That would be foolhardy, but of use. But, if you say to me certain
‘articles’ needing to be put in certain places, that sounds like magia. Which one might expect from the damned Order of Guiry priests!"
    Falke, head sunk to his chest, seemed by the
turning of his chin to direct quick glances at both armed Rat- Lords. The
corners of his mouth moved. "Will you tell him, Messire Plessiez?"
    The black Rat’s eyes darted to Desaguliers and back
to Falke. "Would you speak of what it is you need, and why?"
    Zar-bettu-zekigal held out her hand to Falke.
Prompting.
    "If I must. If it will make you speak, after."
Falke reached up with grazed and cut fingers. A few strands of black still ran
from his temples into his curling white hair. He pulled the cloth bandage free
of his eyes again.
    "You and I," he said, "are ruled by the Thirty-Six."
    His long
fine lashes blinked over eyes without irises. Midnight-black pupils, vastly
expanded, unnaturally dilated, swallowed all the color that might have been.
    He rubbed water from his left eye, blinking again,
and shot a glance at Desaguliers.
    "I don’t want to make a display of this, but I
will. I hide my eyes, because all light’s too strong for me now, and because I
don’t want to think about them, being like this, what they are."
    "How . . . ?" Zari clapped her hand over her mouth.
    Falke wound the cloth around his knuckles; his hand
lifted to shade his eyes.
    "You come to me, a Master Mason. I, and my hall
brethren, all of us are builders for our strange masters. We build still, as we
have built for generations uncounted. What we build–the Fane–is a cold stone
shell. Nothing human has been into the heart of the Fane since building finished
there."
    Sun and silence filled the hall.
    "Except, once, myself. I saw . . .
    "I was fool enough to find my way in. In to the
center. There’s a cold cancer eating away, spreading out, stone by stone, year
by year. We build it for them, and then they make it theirs. We build for God
and They transform it. We only see shadows of what They seem. Inside, in the
heart of the Fane, you see what They really are." His strong fingers began to
smooth out the bandage; shifted to knuckle the sepia lids of his eyes.
    "Only, having once seen that, you never truly cease
to see it."
    The lean Rat, Desaguliers, grunted. "All of which is
no doubt true, and was true in our fathers’ fathers’ time, so why should we
concern ourselves with it?"
    Falke, very quietly, said: "Because we are still
building. We are compelled. Not even their servants–their slaves."
    "I can’t see the importance of that. It’s always
been so. You . . ." The Captain-General’s gesture took in the men and women who
sat around the trestle table. Skepticism was plain on his wolfish face. "You
think you’ll do what, exactly, against the Decans our masters?"
    The fair-haired woman next to Zari sighed. "Tell
them, Falke."
    Falke stared at his hands.
    "This hall is searching for the lost Word. The Word
that the Builder died to conceal when this city was invaded, and the Temple of
Salomon abandoned. The Word of Seshat–that has been lost for millennia. And for
that long our own Temple has remained unfinished, while we’re forced to build in
slavery for strange masters."
    Tannakin Spatchet slowly sat down, pale blue eyes
dazed.
    "Yes, I’m