Kathrin leaned on Frank’s shoulder. Frank put his arm around her—it seemed in some undefined way to be expected of him.
Paper lanterns, red, green and yellow, glowed everywhere, casting a dim fantastic radiance. By their fitful light were visible several ponderous, ribbon-hung barges rocking in the water, each one piloted by a tall, hooded gondolier who carried a long punting pole. Frank waved at the nearest boatman and the man pushed his barge to the padded dock.
“Passage for two,” Frank told him, “to Quartz Lane and back.”
“Two malories,” said the pilot. Frank handed him the five and got change. He helped Kathrin aboard, and they sat close together on the wide leather seat in the bow while the gondolier pushed away from the dock. Frank trailed the fingers of his left hand in the cool water, and eventually put his right arm around Kathrin, who obligingly snuggled up under his chin.
Neither of them spoke as the barge drifted down the tunnel; the only sound was the soft bump of the pilot’s pole as he corrected the barge’s course from time to time. As the distance grew between them and the dock, the paper lanterns became fewer; soon they were in total darkness. Then, gradually, dim moonlight began to filter through cracks and holes in the ancient masonry that passed by over their heads, for Timog Canal, in several places, reached the surface, and the roof that had been built over it in such places was in bad repair. Some of the holes were a foot across, and the stars were plainly visible; and once Frank saw, like a thin chalk line across a distant blackboard, the luminous vapor trail of a Transport freighter hanging in the night sky.
Without premeditation Frank leaned over and kissed Kathrin, and was half surprised to find that she didn’t object. Afterward she rested her head on his chest and he thoughtfully stroked her long brown hair.
At Quartz Lane, an abandoned stretch of once stately houses, the pilot laboriously turned the barge around and began working his way back up the slow stream, the thumping of his pole sounding regularly now, like a pulse.
When Frank got back to Orcrist’s place he found a courier nodding sleepily in the easy chair. It was after midnight.
“Are you ... uh ... Francisco de Goya Rovzar?” the courier asked as Frank shed his coat.
“Yes. Why?”
“I have a letter for you from his majesty King Blanchard, and I’ve got to deliver it directly into your hands. Here. Now goodnight.” Abruptly the courier put on his hat and left.
“Goodnight,” said Frank automatically. Blanchard wrote a letter to me! He remembered his only sight of the old king, burly and white-bearded and gruff, at the first meeting of the Subterranean Companions he had attended.
He broke the seal and unfolded the letter.
My dear Rovzar; I would be very pleased if you would drop round my chambers on Cochran Street this Thursday for the purpose of discussing and perhaps demonstrating fencing techniques.
I hear from various acquaintances that you are very good.
—BLANCHARD
Well, by God, thought Frank. It’s quite the social climber I’m becoming. I’ll show this to Orcrist in the morning. Right now all I want to do is sleep.
He put the letter on the table and stumbled off to bed. He woke up once during the night when a deep, echoing rumble shook the building; but it had stopped by the time he came fully awake, and so he just rolled over and went back to sleep.
THE next morning Frank put on his smoking jacket and wandered out to the breakfast room. The table was empty.
“Pons!” Frank called hoarsely. “Dammit, Pons! Where’s my breakfast, you lazy weasel?” He knew Pons hated to be yelled at.
Orcrist entered the room. It was the first time Frank had ever seen him unshaven. Something, clearly, has happened, Frank told himself.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“All kinds of things, Frank.” Orcrist sat down and rubbed his eyes tiredly. “There was a demonstration last night on the surface, near Seventh and Shank. Shopkeepers or something, a whole crowd, hollering and demanding that Costa break all connections with the Transport. And from somewhere, God knows where, came flying an airplane with the Transport insignia. The damned thing circled the square where this demonstration was taking place, twice, and then dropped a bomb right in the middle of it.”
“A bomb?” Frank was incredulous.
“That’s right. Wiped out most of the shopkeepers, of course, but more to the point it tore a hole through four understreet levels, and caused collapses in five below that. The Companions alone have lost an estimated hundred members. Pons’s wife was among the casualties.”
“Pons was married?”
“Yes, he was. She went insane about four years ago and was committed. He put her in an old asylum up on Seventh; this explosion shook loose the roof of her cell.”
“Bad business,” said Frank.
“You could say so. Well then”—Orcrist looked up at him—“any news on the home front?”
“Oh, yes! There is.” Frank went into the next room and got the letter from Blanchard. “Look at this.”
Orcrist blinked over the letter for a minute, then put it down. “Not bad, Frank,” he said. “I guess fencing has been your true calling all along.”
“Maybe so.” Frank stepped to the kitchen door. “Wait two minutes and I’ll make some eggs and toast and coffee,” he said.
“Thank you, Frank,” said Orcrist. “Why don’t you throw some rum in the coffee, eh?”
“Aye aye.”
Later in the morning Frank went to see the crater where the bomb had fallen. He approached it from a little alley about two levels below the surface, so that when he stood on the alley’s crumbling lip he could look down into a rubble-and-debris strewn valley in which workmen stumbled about, or up at the blue sky framed by the ragged outlines of the crater. Curls of smoke eddied up from the wreckage below, and fire hoses on the surface streets were sending arching streams of water into the abyss.
SIX men were in Orcrist’s sitting room when Frank returned; they wore muddy jeans and boots, and had a wet, mildewy smell about them.
“Who's the kid?” growled one of them, jerking his thumb in Frank’s direction.
“Partner of mine,” said Orcrist, who strode in from the hallway, knotting a scarf around his neck. “Hullo Frank. We’re going to go drop bricks on a party of Transport sewer-explorers. Want to come along?”
“Sure, I guess so. What is it you’re going to do?”
“Oh, the Transport cops are puzzled by all the underground tunnels this bomb has revealed. They didn’t know the understreet city extended that far. They’d be surprised if they knew how far it does extend! Anyway, they’re sending exploring crews down into the crater to follow any tunnels they find and arrest whoever gets in their way. So we’re going to go impede them.”
“Yeah, I’ll help.”
“Good. Get a sealskin jacket and boots; there are three branches of the Leethee spewing around down there looking for new channels. And take a good hunting knife out of that closet. There’ll be no room for swords, but there’s always room for a knife.”
Frank quickly slipped into a jacket and boots and put a knitted wool cap on his head. Then, after selecting a sturdy knife, he was ready to go.
The eight of them left Orcrist’s place silently and strode away down the low, torch-lit corridors. Bands of furtive, hurrying men were no unusual sight in the understreet city, and Orcrist and his companions caused no comment. They made their way northwest, filing down narrow walkways, going up and down stairs and walking along the sidewalks of big streets. These were areas unfamiliar to Frank, and he made sure to follow the others closely.
After about twenty minutes of walking Orcrist pulled them all aside into a little yard filled with garbage cans. “We split up here,” he said. “Lambert, you come with me and we’ll circle north and come in from the other side. Poach, you take Frank and go west around the crater. Wister and Colin, try to come up from below. Bob, you and Daryl wait here ten minutes and then go strai
ght in. Everybody got that?”
They all nodded and broke up into pairs. Frank’s partner, Poach, was a weather-beaten, middle-aged man with three fingers missing from his left hand. “Okay, kid,” he said hoarsely, “follow me and do what I do.” He had not looked directly at Frank yet, and did not now—he simply set off down the nearest east-west cross street. The older man had very long legs and a quick pace, and Frank had to trot to keep up with him. An uneven muted roar was becoming audible, and Frank knew it must be coming from the disrupted sections of the Leethee.
After a few blocks they took a right turn, which had them facing north, and Frank saw bright daylight at the end of the street; as his eyes grew accustomed to the glare he saw the jagged, tumbled wooden beams that were silhouetted against the brightness.
“This is it,” whispered Poach. “Move slow and don’t make no noise.” Frank saw that Poach had his knife out, so he took his out too. He looked around, and realized that the last couple of streets had been completely empty. It’s like sandcrabs, he thought. You dig a hole, let the sunlight in, and they all burrow deeper down, back into the darkness.
A harsh voice broke the quiet: “Tommy, get over here. They got more tunnels down here than an anthill.” There were sounds of splashing footsteps and another voice, presumably Tommy’s, spoke. “Captain, the whole floor is swaying on this level, and that damned river is thrashing around only one level below us. I haven’t seen one person yet, and I say we should clear out of this lousy maze.”
Poach made a “wait here” gesture to Frank and set off silently in the direction of the two voices. Frank stood absolutely still in the semi-darkness, clutching his knife and breathing through his mouth in order to hear better. Tommy has a point, he thought absently; the floor is swaying a little. A gray and white cat hurried by nervously, tail held high and eyes darting about. Frank tried to attract it by scratching his fingernails on a wooden gate post, but the cat, not in a playful mood, didn’t stop.
A shrill, jabbering yell was abruptly wrenched out of someone’s lungs a block away. “He’s killing me, he’s killing me, help me for God’s sake!” Frank jumped, dropped his knife, picked it up again, and ran off in the direction of the desperate shouting. More yells echoed up ahead: “Look out, Wister, over your head!” “Not me, idiot!” “Get him, will someone once and for all get him?”
Frank rounded a corner, running as fast as he could, and found himself in the midst of it. Two men in Transport uniforms were down and motionless on the street, and Orcrist was chasing a third, waving his knife like a madman. One of Orcrist’s companions sat against a wall, white-faced, pressing his stomach with blood-wet hands. Two more Transport cops burst out of an alley at Frank’s left, and one of them drove his knife at Frank’s chest. The blade ripped his coat, but missed hitting flesh, and before the man could recover Frank drove his own knife into the Transport’s side until he could feel the fabric of the man’s jacket with his knuckles. The other one clubbed Frank with a blackjack in the left ear, and Frank went to his knees, dropping his knife. The cop raised his own knife, but Poach kicked the man in the stomach and cut his throat as he buckled.
Frank was trying to clear his head and stand up when the angle of the street pavement changed. He had fallen onto a level expanse, but by the time he struggled into a sitting position the street was slanted like a roof. Panicky yells echoed on all sides, so he knew he was not imagining it. The floor is collapsing, he told himself. That’s the only explanation.
With a thundering, snapping crash the ancient masonry of the floor gave way like a trap door; Frank tumbled through a board fence, rolled over a collapsing wall and then plummeted through thirty feet of dust-choked air into deep, cold rushing water. The impact knocked the breath out of him and he was pulled far under the surface by savagely pounding whirlpools and undertows. Rocks and lumber spun all around him in the dark water, buffeting his ribs and back. Very dimly, he thought that he would not survive this. He convulsively gasped water, and then was racked by gagging coughs. Even if he could have mustered the strength to swim, he no longer knew which way was up.
He collided hard with a row of stationary metal bars. It must be some kind of grating or something, jammed across the stream, he thought. I could climb it and maybe get my head above water. Why bother? said another part of his mind. You’ve already gone through all the pain of dying—why not get it over with? You’ve earned your death: take it.
Working by instinct, his mind ordered his arms and legs to pull him upward against the wrenching of the cold water. In a few seconds his head was above the foaming surface and he was retching water, trying with desperate animal gasps to get air into his misused lungs.
He hung there for five full minutes, until the act of breathing did not require all of his concentration. Then he pulled himself along to the right, hoping that this gate, or whatever it was, was braced against the bank; there was absolutely no light, and he had to work by touch. A couple of times he felt the gate slide an inch or two, but it did not pull loose. Eventually he found his shoulder brushing against the wet bricks of a wall—that’s all it was, just a brick wall with the rushing flood splashing against it. There was no passageway, so Frank simply hunched there on his perch of metal bars, with one hand braced against the bricks, and wept into the stream.
After a while he gathered his strength and began inching his way across to the other side, clinging tightly to the bars and trying to keep his body out of the water to avoid the wood and debris that were constantly colliding with the gate. Groping blindly in the darkness, he eventually found a rectangular opening that might once have framed a door. He managed to scramble into it and crawl a few yards up the passageway beyond. Then, free from the danger of drowning, he collapsed on the stone floor and surrendered his consciousness.
SOMEONE was tugging at his hair. “Lemme ’lone,” he muttered. To his intense annoyance it didn’t stop. He dozed, thinking, I’ll just wait till they give up and go away. Suddenly he realized that he was cold, colder than he had ever been. I can’t sleep, he realized. I’ve got to get blankets, fast.
He sat up, and heard a dozen tiny creatures scamper chittering away into the dark. Mice, by God! Eating my hair! “Hah!” he croaked, to scare them. He’d meant to yell, but a croak was all he could come up with. He crouched in the stone corridor, clasping his knees and shivering uncontrollably. I’m naked, he noticed. No, that isn’t quite right. I’ve still got my boots on, and my brass ear is hanging around my throat like a necklace. If there was any light I’d be an odd spectacle.
He vaguely remembered his near-drowning and realized in a detached way that he probably needed first aid pretty badly. He stood up on knees that refused to work together, and staggered up the passageway, arms out before him to feel for obstacles. If I get through all this, he thought, I’ll stay home the next time Orcrist wants to go on an adventure.
JOHN Bollinger was a religious man and took no part in the sinful society of Munson Understreet. He subsisted on fish and mushrooms and lived in a tiny one-room house that had belonged to his father. He had four books—a bible, a copy of Paradise Lost, the Divina Commedia, and Butler’s Lives of the Saints. He always said, even when no one was listening, that to have more books than that was vanity.
He had heard the explosion during the night, but figured it was just a judgment on someone, and he forgot about it. He was looking at the Dore illustrations in his Milton when, the next afternoon, there came a knock at his door.
“Who knocks?” asked John.
There was no answer, aside from a confused muttering.
Rising fearlessly from his table, John strode to the door and flung it open. Confronting him was the strangest apparition he’d ever seen.
It was, as John was later to describe it to his pastor, “the likeness of a young man, naked and blue-colored. He wore curious shoes, and an indecipherable medallion about his neck on a string, and his hair was cut in a barbaric tonsure.”
“What seekest thou?” ga
sped John.
“Clothes, for God’s sake. Hot soup. Brandy.”
“Aye, come in. Sit down. Of what order are you?”
“What?”
“What order do you belong to?”
“I don’t belong to any order,” Frank said. Seeing the old man frown, he added, off the top of his head, “I’m an independent. Freelance.”
“An anchorite! I see. Here. You can use this blanket to cover your shame. Will you join me in some fish and mushrooms?”
“Will I ever!”
Half an hour later Frank was beginning to pull himself together. The food and strong tea that John had given him had revived him, and he felt capable now of finding his way back to Orcrist’s apartment. I wonder if he managed to survive that street-fall? he thought. The last time he had seen Orcrist, he was chasing that Transport away from the collapsing street.
He must think I’ve had it, though. I’d better get back quick.
“Thank you for your hospitality to a naked stranger,” he said, standing up and wrapping the blanket around himself like a robe. “I will repay you.”
“Don’t repay me,” John said. “Just do the same some day for some other homeless wanderer.”
“You bet,” Frank said, shaking the old man’s hand. “Can you tell me how to get to Sheol from here?”
“We all go to Sheol eventually,” said John with a somber frown, “and we’d better be prepared.”
“I guess that’s true.” Poor devil, he thought. Brain warped from a diet of fish. A lesson to us all. Frank crossed to the door and opened it. “So long,” he said, “and thanks again.”
It was chilly in the tunnels, and Frank was glad to have the blanket. He hurried southeast, numbed feet beating on the cobblestones, and finally did, as John had predicted, get to Sheol, where he turned left. He was wondering what he’d do if some understreet vagabonds were to attack him, because his strength and endurance were very nearly gone. As it happened, though, none did; he wasn’t the type of wanderer that would tempt a thief.