The White City

15

First a finger, then a hand, then a head, and Mary could finally see the land beyond the top of the cliff. She reached out for the last flat stone, slapped her palm down on it, and heaved herself up. She didn’t have much strength left, but the sight of the short, scrubby bushes that dotted the inland slope gave her just enough encouragement to tip her body over the final ledge and crawl forward until her feet were no longer dangling over the precipice.

She lay there for a moment, feeling almost floaty, before rolling over on her back and reaching between her legs for the length of rope that ran taut over the edge. Her arms were so weak, they were trembling, but the longer she allowed herself, the higher the risk of Crows coming back.

She hooked the rope, pulled carefully until the sack appeared just above the top step, then inched across so she could lean over and lift it clear. It was stupid, really. She never used to be cautious, but then again she’d never had to expend so much effort to do anything. It was always easy come, easy go: now that a single mistake could spell the end of everything, she was meticulous.

The canvas bag creaked as she hugged it. That was half the hard thing done. Now for the other part: get to the White City without Crows spotting her. Firstly, she needed to move away from the staircase, and quickly. The scrub would help hide her, but it’d also hide Crows’ approach, and he needed no encouragement to sneak.

She scrambled off, sometimes on two feet, sometimes on all fours, until she’d put some distance between herself and the coast. The booming sound of the sea lessened, and the cold north wind rattled the gnarled branches around her. She crept under a bush, where the soil was bare and dusty and the black wood knitted a shelter of twigs and leaves over her head. She was exhausted, and she had to keep going. She knew that. She wasn’t safe.

She was woken, just as it was getting dark, by a cry of loss and anger.

She sat up with a start, caught her hair in the thorny branches above, and quickly ducked down again. She calmed her breathing: Crows hadn’t found her, but he’d discovered her, and the maps’, absence from the cobble beach.

That meant she still had time to make her escape, get to the city before him, even though she’d been careless in falling asleep and was now going to have to make her way at night. She crawled out from under the bush and stood up in the twilight, trying to orientate herself. The sun was setting, and was almost gone, just a red line on the horizon with pink clouds above it. Apart from that, she couldn’t see anything◦– no lights, no smoke, no walls. All she knew was she had to head inland.

She slung the bag over her shoulder, blinked in the gathering gloom, and set off, the sea at her back.

It was impossible to steer a straight course, because trees didn’t grow like that. The scrub of the cliff-top gave way to a light, open woodland as the land descended, and the canopy began to obscure the sky. Robbed of sight lines and cues in an unknown landscape, she slowed, and then stopped. She was already lost.

‘Fuck,’ she breathed. Crows knew the way, didn’t he? Didn’t he? He could already be at the top of the cliff again and striding out while she was blundering from tree to tree and swearing at the night. Holing up somewhere and waiting until morning, or waiting to take advantage of the late moonrise, seemed to be her only options.

She slumped down against a tree trunk and realised just how tired her legs were. Then she hauled herself up again. No. She wasn’t going to do that. She was the Red Queen and she wasn’t giving in.

The ground was sloping away, but there was no guarantee that if she followed the gradient, she’d end up where she needed to be. If the moon wasn’t going to be up for another four or five hours, then it was going to get properly dark. Neither she nor Crows could use magic to light their ways: she couldn’t fly, and he couldn’t send his crows up. They were suddenly mortal, the pair of them. He had more experience of Down, but was much more cautious. He’d wait for the moon.

She could use that time, if she dared, to beat him.

The maps weren’t going to be of any use: they only showed portals, and there were none here. It wasn’t as if she was going to sort through them anyway, not now.

Then she remembered. She loosened the fastenings on the neck of the bag, and delved for the compass.

She could only assume that it was tiredness, hunger and thirst that meant she hadn’t thought of it earlier, but it was obvious really, even if she’d never used one before. Once she’d wrestled the lid off, she held it up to the last glimmer of light. Behind the glass, the dial turned slowly, and the one thing she did know◦– that the sun set in the west◦– was confounded by the direction the compass showed. West wasn’t over there, deeper into the forest, but pointing along the coastline.

She tapped the tin and turned it, but it was resolute, and wrong.

‘Well, fuck you too.’ It didn’t work. Or she couldn’t work it. But compasses were supposed to point north whoever was holding them, even ones where north wasn’t marked and only west was. Unless the W was north, in the mind of Down. It had given her the compass: of course it worked, because what kind of shitty gift would it be otherwise?

She took a sightline down the dial, shouldered the maps and started walking. There was so little light to see by, though. She wished she’d started so much sooner. The trees closed over her, and killed even the ephemeral skyglow.

Anywhere else, she would have snapped her fingers, lit a dead branch or something. Here, so close to the White City, that wasn’t going to happen. She felt for the lid of the compass, to put it back in the bag, when she realised that she could still see the dial. A pair of tiny green dots, invisible by day, marked the cardinal point. Why not? How else was a navigator going to steer during the dark hours, without stars or other reference points?

It was still painfully slow going. She walked, compass in one hand, close to her body, the other outstretched in front of her, feeling for the trees. She’d had to tie the maps to her like a tail so they wouldn’t drag on the ground.

Everything was black, but those two little flecks of light. They swam before her eyes, and it was a struggle to keep them still. At first she headed downhill, then it levelled off into a series of small rises and falls, alternating boggy ground and dry leaf litter. She could see nothing, going only by the sounds her feet made and the textures they encountered. She could walk off a cliff and only realise as she was falling, so she strained every other sense, even the difference in the echoes and the change in pressure around her.

There were flying things. Little buzzy insects and, chasing them, the high-pitched squeak of bats. They were distracting, and she couldn’t afford to be distracted.

She pressed on, and there was a new noise, the low, slow sound of a river.

Water. But she resisted the urge to run towards it. If she fell in, she could drown. Even if it wasn’t that deep, she’d ruin the maps and get the compass wet◦– it should probably still work after that, but she could drop it and lose it as she floundered and splashed.

If she had gone tentatively before, she ended up on her hands and knees now. The river grew louder as her fingers crept forward, her legs shuffling along after. Then, suddenly, nothing. She could smell the water, though, just below her, and hear it gurgle as it rolled along the bank.

Mary put the compass behind her, where she could see the dial but not run the risk of knocking it flying, and reached down. The cold against her fingertips was surprising, shocking even. She jerked her hand back, but when she licked the moisture still clinging to her skin, she went back for more, cupping her palm and drinking until she was slaked.

Her belly was full to sloshing as she knelt up. She gasped and wiped her mouth, and saw another light.

It was tiny, and impossible to tell how far away it was◦– just a chip of yellow in the utter blackness that surrounded her. She groped for the compass and held it out. The dots swung around and settled. They pointed at the light which, as far as she could tell, was on the far side of the river.

So close, so much still to go wrong.

The slot of sky above the river showed no detail. Moonrise was still at least an hour or two away. She didn’t feel she could afford to wait◦– Crows didn’t have to worry about crossing like she did. She wasn’t a good enough swimmer to hold the maps over her if it got too deep. Either she found some shallow stretch she could ford, or she’d have to wait. Crows could be miles behind her, or very near. Or ahead of her, waiting. She couldn’t control that, only her own progress. She was going to have to try and reach that light, no matter what.

She collected the compass, adjusted the map bag and turned left. One step, listen. Another step, listen, and compare it with what she’d just heard.

And it did change, gaining a note of hollowness that grew, then faded. She retraced her steps, slowly, so very slowly. Her fingers felt something rough, when they should have touched only air. She dug her nails into its slightly yielding surface. Wood. Cut wood. She sniffed at it. It wasn’t new, but neither did it smell of decay. Beyond that, there was another… what? Plank? Half-log?

Was it a pier sticking out over the bank which would end abruptly mid-stream, or might it be a bridge? She didn’t dare hope. She crept out, aware of the water all around her, feeling for the sawn edges to either side of her. No hand rails, no parapet, no margin for error. Her heart banged in her chest, and she could barely breathe. She swallowed hard, and reached out for the next rough section.

The water swirled beneath her, and the boards creaked. She didn’t even know how far she’d gone, or how far she had left to go. If she got disorientated, she’d just have to stop and wait. But the little fleck of light beckoned her on, and she crawled closer.

Nothing. She patted around, and there was nothing. She lay down on her front and stretched out. Her hand waved uselessly, not connecting with anything. She reached down, and even that met with nothing. It was as if the universe ended and beyond it was empty.

‘Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.’

It made no sense. There was no reason for this structure to be here◦– it had to be man-made◦– if it just ended in the middle of, or even further across, the river. If it was a bridge, it could have been washed away. If it was a jetty, then what?

She felt for the corners. One was sharp, one had a post. She shuffled closer to it, and something brushed her hand. She held her breath, and felt it graze the back of her wrist again. Swinging. The next time it came past, she caught it. It was a rope, thin, a knot on the end. And as she explored it, there came a metallic clang from over her head.

She almost fell in. She gripped the edge of the platform so fiercely that it cut into her hand. It was a bell, that was all. The maps were still tied to her, the compass just to one side. Everything was fine. Nothing was lost.

If she rang the bell, who would she be calling? Yet she was stuck, and there was nothing she could do but ring it. It would be loud, it would attract attention, and not just from the person she was trying to raise.

She found the rope again, and steeled herself for the noise.

When the bell stopped sounding, and she could hear again, she noticed there were two lights ahead of her in the darkness: the original, and another that was bobbing on an irregular path towards her. The light shone on the ground, and on bushes and trees, and on a pair of feet. Then on another wooden jetty, and a flat barge which was little more than a raft. The light was then suspended on a pole, and the bargee, cast in deep shadow, fished a rope out of the water and began to pull on it, hand over hand.

As the light got closer, she could see around her, and how short a distance she’d actually crawled along the pier on her side. She could have taken four of her usual steps and arrived at the bell-post. She felt embarrassed, and determined that she wasn’t going to show it.

No one came out of the forest behind her while she waited for the raft to cross.

It bumped into the jetty, making it shiver. She looked down at an old man in a hat.

‘Come on, then.’

‘Is it safe?’ she asked.

‘It’s all there is.’ He held up his hand to her. ‘Sit on the edge and jump down. I haven’t lost anyone yet.’

She could see the reflection of the water sloshing between the raft’s lashed-together logs.

‘Seriously? I don’t mind getting wet, but I’ve… stuff here that does.’

‘Then hold it up. I can just leave you here, if that’s what you want.’

‘I don’t.’ She closed the compass up and squeezed it back through the opening of the bag, then swung her legs over the side of the jetty. His fingers were damp and strong, and he pulled her easily off the edge.

The raft swayed. A wave of water crossed it, up to her ankles, before disappearing back through the gaps. Her toes curled, trying to grip the wet wood. He steadied her as she splayed her legs and lifted the maps high.

‘Most people don’t come with baggage,’ he said. He let go of her, and she teetered as he ducked down for the now-submerged rope.

‘I’m not most people.’

He started to pull on the rope, and the end of the pier disappeared, drifting away in the night. This wasn’t how she’d imagined it, but it would do. The man’s hand-over-hand rhythm was purposeful and calm and reassuring. Even though she couldn’t see the far bank, she knew it was there.

‘Has anyone else crossed tonight?’

‘If they have, it’s their business and not yours.’ He coughed. ‘I don’t mean it to sound that way, but that’s how it is. I’m not telling anyone about you, either.’

‘That’s… thanks.’

‘All part of the service. First time?’

‘Yes.’ It was cold, out on the water, with the river rising and falling through the raft. ‘This is the way to the White City, right? Only I don’t even know if it actually exists.’

‘Not only is it on the way, you’ve arrived. There’s a little further to go, but you’re as here as anywhere. Brace yourself.’

The other jetty loomed, and he stopped pulling, allowing the raft to drift gently up to the black-stained piles. It touched, almost kissing, and he tied them on with a loop of rope. The deck of the jetty was at waist-height, but if she moved to the edge, the raft would tip.

‘How do I get off this thing?’

‘If you clamber up, I’ll stand across here and balance things out.’

The surface was inconstant, and she wasn’t certain, but she had to trust his word and his skill. She made little steps forward until she could get her hands on the solid platform, then launched herself up in one quick jump. She lay half-on, half-off, the map bag dangling below her from her waist, and she scrabbled to drag it to safety.

‘Not the best I’ve seen. Not the worst, either.’

While she gathered her wits and her skirts, the man lifted the lantern pole clear and simply climbed up. She looked at his dripping feet and water-darkened turn-ups.

‘It won’t sink. It might tip and turn, but it won’t sink.’ He tapped the staging with the pole. ‘Come with me, and I’ll set you up.’

She looked back across the river one last time. There was nothing to see◦– all that existed was the bubble around the lantern◦– but nothing to hear either. No tell-tale splashes, nor the tolling of the bell again. Wherever Crows was, he wasn’t right there.

She got to her feet, picked up the bag, and followed the man up a narrow dirt path towards the chip of yellow light she’d seen before. A badly fitting door on a ramshackle hut was open just enough to let the inside out. She’d spotted it, not because it was bright, but because everything else was so dark.

The man kicked his way through the door, blew out the lantern he was carrying and leaned it up against the wall. Mary hesitated on the threshold, staring in at the piles of clutter and heaps of rags and stacks of boxes.

‘No one cares. I certainly don’t. Close the door, and find somewhere to sit.’

She pushed the door shut behind her. She assumed the one chair in the room was his, so she drew up a box and perched on it. He grumbled and muttered, and eventually sat opposite her.

‘First things first. You don’t have to tell me your name, or anything about you. Where you’re from, what time you’re from, how you got here and what’s happened since. I know nothing, and I don’t need to know anything either.’

She nodded mutely.

‘Take this.’ He opened a chest on the floor by his side, and fetched out one of the little cloth bags inside. Each one was different: hers seemed to be made from an old handkerchief, complete with an embroidered monogram ES.

She opened the top and looked inside, then tipped some of the contents into her hand. Discs, thin and sharp, like coins but blank. ‘What are these?’

‘Those are your honour. Spend them wisely.’

‘My… honour?’

‘Your honour,’ he said firmly. ‘Don’t think of it like money. It’s not money. It can be used as money, but it’s so much more.’

‘So I can buy stuff with it. What else?’

‘You’ll find out,’ he said. He closed the chest and folded his hands into his lap.

‘Oh come on. You’ve got to give me more than that.’ She narrowed her eyes, picked a couple of the coins off the pile in her palm and proffered them. ‘What are these really for?’

He snorted a laugh and waved her honour back. ‘Think of it as your reputation, your influence. It’s how you get answers to the questions you have.’

‘Okay. What happens when I run out?’

‘Of honour? Well, you become dishonoured. You have to leave.’

‘And I can’t come back and get more?’

‘What do you think?’ He leaned back in his chair and waited.

‘No?’ she offered.

‘You catch on quick, girl. Now, are you armed?’

She’d left the hole-maker back in the bay. She’d meant to bring it with her, but had been too exhausted to remember. Her shoulders sagged, but it didn’t matter, since he would have taken it from her anyway. ‘No.’

The man levered himself out of the chair, shuffled across the floor and pulled back a blanket from a pile. On the next one down was arrayed a hotchpotch armoury. His hand hovered as he made his selection. ‘Fifteenth-century misericord. You don’t want anything too heavy◦– I’m not saying this is a woman’s weapon, but I think it’s a good fit for you.’

He passed it to her, hilt first.

It had a narrow, triangular blade, a short cross-guard, and a grip almost as long as the blade. The pommel was engraved with a flower.

‘I don’t understand. Why do I need this?’

‘Because you haven’t got one.’ He threw the blanket back over the rest and took to his chair again. ‘You can’t count on others to protect your honour, only you.’

She hefted the dagger and tapped her finger on the tip. ‘So you hand out knives to those who don’t have them.’

‘I don’t make the rules. I just try and help those who need help. I am right that this is your first time, yes? Some say it is when it isn’t.’

‘I haven’t been here long enough to come twice.’ Her gaze roamed across the hut’s walls and floor. ‘Is there anything else I need to know?’

‘Nothing you won’t find out for yourself in time. Most come for answers. Most leave disappointed. Some don’t leave at all, for one reason or another.’

‘If it’s “welcome to the White City, here’s your sword”, I can guess what one of those reasons is.’ One part of the hut had a stone floor◦– not that she could see much of that under the clutter. A fire smoked listlessly there, drawing up into a crude chimney that led outside. Above the fireplace was a rack, and on that rack was a rifle.

To see something of such modernity was almost a shock, as if she’d forgotten that such things had ever existed. It wasn’t even a new rifle: it looked like a museum piece, or something she’d see in an old film. But it was talisman of power and violence.

‘What about that?’ She pointed with the dagger.

‘What about it?’ he countered.

‘It’s a fucking gun.’

‘My gun. It’s a reminder to everyone who passes this way that you do so at my sufferance. The knife I gave you was for your protection. The gun is for mine. But,’ he said, ‘I can’t recall ever taking it down, except once.’

‘What happened?’

‘It ended badly.’ He sucked his teeth and tutted.

‘Tell me there’s food in the White City,’ she said.

‘There’s food, and drink, and much more. Much, much more.’ He was threatening her with abundance.

She threaded the dagger into a loop at her waist. ‘Thanks for the lift, and the knife, and,’ she held up the bag with her honours in, ‘these. I’ll probably see you on the way out.’

Mary was almost out of the door when he called after her.

‘Good luck.’