When Hershaw finally emerged, Blackford nearly ran him down. ‘She’s gone,’ he barked.
Hershaw blanched. ‘Gone? What do you mean she’s gone?’
‘I think she’s in there.’ Blackford nodded towards the ramshackle cabin that housed the mysterious stone table.
‘Oh, gods-rut-a-whore.’ Hershaw ran his fingers through sleep-tousled hair and started straightening his crumpled uniform. ‘What do we do?’
‘I don’t know. Wait? Take cover? Swim for shore?’
The corporal Blackford had startled remained at his post, but he was staring at the two nervous officers, obviously straining to hear what was being said. His superiors were not instilling him with much confidence.
The barge passed beneath the stone bridge and, moving quickly with the current, slipped out the inlet and into the harbour.
With the corporal watching, Hershaw tried to project an air of quiet confidence and leadership; instead, he looked like someone with bad stomach cramps, trying his best to stand upright.
Blackford said, ‘Let’s send him.’
‘Who?’
‘Him.’ He nodded towards the anxious sentry.
‘Send him where?’
‘The imperial palace, the old Barstag place. It’s not far from here. He could sound the alarm, rally the whole division, tell the whole story, General Oaklen’s dispatches, Pace’s murder, all of it. But we need to act quickly-’
The barge moved towards a group of mooring buoys several hundred paces offshore; it would be too far to swim in this weather. They had either to convince the corporal to slip over the side right away, or one of them would have to go themselves.
Hershaw pressed his lips together in a tight smile, made eye-contact with the soldier and waved him over It was too late. A low resonating humming sound began behind them, coming from the major’s quarters. Blackford and Hershaw braced themselves for something terrible, but even so, they both jumped when the first ship, a Malakasian schooner moored nearby, began to break apart.
Mark slogged through the muck, stepping over exposed roots and fallen trees, all the while trying to get to the centre of the marble trough, to the bridge. He hadn’t noticed the bridge last time; he had been distracted by the tadpoles with their tumours, and the snakes chasing them down. But the bridge was there, lit by the glow coming from the top of the shallow rise. It spanned the marble trough, a short arch also made of marble, a miniature version of something he might have seen in Venice, the Ponte de Rialto… but Mark decided to cross there, nevertheless. He didn’t want to be back in that water again.
Why have a bridge if I don’t need to use it? Mark thought, and wasn’t surprised when someone answered; it sounded like him.
Now you’re thinking. Why don’t you come up here with me?
He stopped near the edge of the nightmarish koi pond. It was longer than he remembered and lined on both sides by rows of marble columns. Shaker, baker, candlestick-maker columns? Neo-classical. That’s it. Neo-classical columns, the ones like they have in front of the Capitol Building in DC, hell, they’re all over DC, marble bones holding the place up.
That’s not the right place, Mark.
Blow me; I’m busy.
The bridge was a trap; it had to be. He could jump this trough. It wasn’t more than four or five feet across. Hell, he could step over it, step through it. He’d already been elbow-deep in the thing, and as long as there were none of those snakes – he was fairly sure the crippled tadpole sperm were no threat – he’d be fine.
I didn’t put the bridge there, Mark. You did.
I did?
I don’t give a shit if you get across. I’m fine over here by myself.
You sound like me. Why do you sound like me?
Blow me; I’m busy.
‘Fucker,’ Mark said aloud. ‘Where are you? Why don’t you leave the lights on in here, and I’ll come kick the shit out of you, just for fun. Huh?’
The lights dimmed and Mark heard something slither through the slime. Panic gripped him; his voice changed and he begged, ‘No! No, leave them on.’
It does get friendly in here when it’s dark, doesn’t it?
Something crawled from his boot onto the skin of his lower leg; it had too many of its own legs to count. Mark swatted it away and felt it crunch beneath his palm. ‘Screw it,’ he said, ‘I’ll take the bridge.’
Good choice.
He pushed on until he reached the marble trough then hugging the perimeter, he walked on the stone coping. It was solid and clean, free of marshy debris, and it made for faster going. He just had to be careful he didn’t step off and slip into that putrid water. He shivered at thought of it.
The tadpoles were there, not fleeing this time but lazing in the pool. Fat bulbous tumours still disfigured them. There mustn’t be any snakes around, Mark thought.
You want snakes?
No.
The others had a job to do for you.
For me?
For me.
They’re gone?
We have a few snakes left in here if you need one.
Mark squinted through the gloom. Whoever was talking to him – thinking to me – had to be the one working on top of the rise. If he could just get over the bridge, he could run up there, hit him, just a couple of quick cathartic shots to the head, and then make for the clearing. That sky meant safety; somehow he knew it did.
He slipped and fell, hitting his head on one of the columns. The marble was wet in places, and treacherous. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.
Rolling over, he used the column to regain his feet, but something gripped his right ankle, a whorl of snarled root protruding through the muck. Mark tugged his lower leg, trying to extricate himself. It was hot here, and humid, hard to breathe. His clothes were soaked through with sweat and clung to his flesh like a peelable second skin. He was covered head to toe in marsh muck and shit… and he reached for the root, pulled hard and slipped his boot free.
A coral snake – those are poisonous! – slipped from behind the root and up onto the back of his hand. Mark, covered almost entirely in goose pimples, screeched and jerked back reflexively. The rainbow-coloured serpent went on its way, slipping over the root, across the marble ledge and into the trough.
Told you we had a few more.
Fuck you.
I’m not the one doing this to you, Mark. I was happy with you in the dark. I have what I need, and I’ll call you when I need you again.
The lights began to dim. Before they faded all the way to black, Mark checked the length of the rectangular koi pond. It was marble, narrow, shallow, and lined as far as he could see with neo-classical columns. Where had he seen these columns before? The Capitol Building. Those were the ones that flared up in his memory, anyway.
Wrong again. The voice was fading with the lights. That’s not the right place, Mark, it said, echoing its earlier admonition.
Well, where then?
The column was cold. Real marble had a way of staying cold, no matter where you put it. The marble columns of Hell would be nice and cool, a good place to rest while enjoying a cold drink, whatever they’re serving down there. He tried to memorise the lie of the land between himself and the bridge. If I can follow the columns, I’ll get there. I’ll cross in the dark. That’ll surprise him, the bastard. I’ll cross in the dark and the next time he turns on the lights, I’ll be there.
There were eight or nine columns between Mark and the bridge. They were each about twenty feet apart. One hundred and sixty feet. I can make that. Just stay on the edge, I can make it.
He remembered the coral snake. That one’ll bite you. The others wouldn’t, but that one will. That’s the one I have to watch. Mark used the dying light to check for the colourful serpent. It was there, keeping pace with him in the water. It would know if he moved. He hugged the column; it felt good against his face. He had to stay put. The snake would bite him – more than once, too. It’ll go on for a while – if he tried to reach the bridge in the darkness.