Celephaïs: Sludge

Bortras wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his arm, the clean one. Over the years he’d learned how to keep one section of one forearm relatively dry and clean, especially for that purpose, even though the rest of him was usually wet and covered in filth.

He no longer bothered with the cloth mask around his mouth and nose anymore… he’d gotten used to the stench of the tunnels of Celephaïs years ago.

He took another step in the muck, his feet automatically seeking stable bottom, his arms automatically pulling the rake back and forth, cleaning detritus from the huge grating. Forged of steel bars, each as thick as two fingers, the whole was far too heavy for any man to move, let alone lift.

The noon sun didn’t penetrate far into the tunnel today, and while he wouldn’t have minded a little sunshine to lighten his mood, it would have meant he’d be a lot hotter while he worked. And a lot smellier as the muck warmed.

He didn’t have to clean this grate too often, but as the final barrier between the sewers of the city and the churning waves of the Cerenarian Sea below, it was critical to the whole sewerage network that underlay the city.

Seven years already, he thought. Seven years of working in the darkness, buried in the garbage and the excrement of the teeming city above. Only meagre lamps and torches to illuminate the labyrinth of tunnels and caverns, light that rarely penetrated far enough into the murky water to reveal what caused those ripples and splashes in the darkness.

He’d really wanted to work on the city’s defenses: the walls, the scorpions, the gates. He knew how to build all the machines of war, how to reinforce tunnels dug under the walls by sappers and how to defend against them, how to anchor a ballistae to withstand the stress of multiple shots.

And he’d been working in water and shit for seven long years.

The north end of the city, where the waters of the River Naraxa were first drawn in, was clean and pristine, pools and streams almost glowing under the lamps ensconced around the walls. The air was clean there, too, just the smells of water and rock and lamp oil.

There, the boats could travel freely through spacious tunnels, often with towpaths alongside broad enough for even horses. With a map, an artificer could traverse the city underground, whether into the farm markets, High City and its noble houses, even Skala Eresou itself, forbidden to most males.

He’d ventured to Skala Eresou once, just for the thrill, and found the grates there locked securely. No doubt Chief Artificer Marcus had the keys.

The water was flowing more freely now.

He raked one more time to pull out a long thin pole that had somehow managed to be washed down here, and checked once more to be sure he hadn’t missed anything.

Years ago he’d been so disgusted with the stench and the never-ending boredom and had abandoned his work before it was complete—and on that day, of all days, Artificer Krunogle had come to check.

He’d been dragged up in front of the Chief himself, and if Krunogle hadn’t said he was worth giving another chance, the Chief would have drummed him out on the spot. As it was he’d only gotten three strokes of the cane, and he was pretty sure Krunogle had held back.

His back had hurt for a few days after, and he had thought of just quitting, but he’d promised he’d see it through. Pa had made him promise to stick it out until he finished his apprenticeship, and swore it would be worth it if he could only reach journeyman.

As a boy Pa had told him endless stories about the work he’d done for the King, both here in Celephaïs and all over the eastern continent. He’d even worked on Serannian, the King’s flying palace!

He shook his head as he dumped the last load of brush and garbage into the scow. The mule twitched its tail once at the spray of droplets across its nose but otherwise just continued standing there, ignoring him as it always did.

He’d expected to be working on erecting castles, buildings, and machines of war, drafting exciting new designs to awe everyone with his talent. Not this, not raking muck all day.

As luck would have it, he was assigned to the underground network that supplied water to the city and swept away its waste, dumping it into the Cerenarian Sea. The outlets, including the grate he’d just finished cleaning, were situated to the north of the city seadocks, taking advantage of the current sweeping northward to carry it all away from the city, ever northward toward Inganok, or the Northern Marshes off Lomar.

His apprenticeship should be over soon, and as soon as he was a journeyman he’d be out of these tunnels and up in the clean, fresh air as soon as he could. He couldn’t wait to start working on real projects, not just shoveling shit.

He swatted the mule on the flank and it began to trudge back upstream, pulling the loaded scow slowly but steadily away from the gate. The landing was only a few dozen meters away, and when they reached it he moored the scow to one of the posts. A second tunnel, almost as big as the one he was in, joined his tunnel here, and there was a ladder down from the street above, one of the several entrances in the fish market. Somebody else would be along tomorrow to get rid of it all.

They had to be careful of the weather, since even a mild rain could cause these tunnels to turn into raging torrents, sweeping any incautious artificer to their death. The scow would have to be stowed way safely, too, until next time.

He didn’t plan on being here by then.

He hesitated.

If he had been alone he could climb up and go back through the fish market, now that the grate was clean. The stench of the fish market was, in a way, even worse than the stench down here, though… he’d grown accustomed to this smell, and while he certainly didn’t enjoy it he usually didn’t even notice it anymore. Rotting fish, on the other hand, he definitely hated.

He had to take care of the mule, too, and so they slowly walked back through one of the smaller tunnels that ran almost under the Wall of Euphrosyne, handling mostly water from the public baths and fountains. Unlike the loathsome inhabitants of the sewers, those tunnels were home to more innocuous denizens: frogs, fish, and the like. And the towpath was dry almost the entire distance, with torches at hand.

Much happier at the different smells in the smaller tunnel, the mule even took advantage of the improved water quality to snap up a few stalks of grass every so often as a snack.

They approached the north end of the city, where the waters of Naraxa entered the tunnel system. The mule lived in the stables there when it wasn’t working, along with its fellows, with plenty of fodder and fresh water. The artificers had their own bath there, too, with its own hot spring feeding it!

Many of the city’s artificers, and all of the apprentices, lived in the barracks aboveground, at the north end of the farm market, close to the Avenue of Boreas. Once he became a journeyman he’d be able to live elsewhere, if he wished, even marry, although he hadn’t really thought that far yet.

He’d been paying little attention as he walked, familiar with every bend and stone of the tunnel after years of use, but suddenly something caught his eye.

A light was moving down one of the unused tunnels.

That particular tunnel was, as he recalled, entirely unused. He’d never entered it, and his map showed it as a dead-end extending toward the adamant upthrust of the Pinnacle. Offhand he couldn’t recall if that was one of the tunnels that had a branch extending down, deeper into the water, but he thought it might have been. There were a number of such submerged tunnels scattered about under the city, leading deeper into the watery depths, but he’d never heard of anyone venturing into them.

He could see a light moving slowly, bobbing slightly as if a carried torch.

The mule could get home by itself, he thought. It knew the way better than he did, no doubt. He needed to see just what was happening down there, and raise the alarm if necessary. He’d been warned countless times that these tunnels were off-limits to everyone without the King’s permission—which they had—and if they spotted an intruder to report it at once.

He dropped the rope and hesitated for a moment as the mule continued to shamble away into the darkness, leaving the circle of light cast by his lamp.

Bortras adjusted the brightness of his lamp, twisting the thumbscrew to lower the wick until it was a dull glow, barely illuminating the towpath.

He retraced his footsteps back to the prior bridge—a row of simple wooden slats nailed to beams—and crossed over to the other side.

He walked slowly and quietly, holding the lamp low to check his footing and also make it harder for anyone to see him coming.

He reached the corner and peered around.

Yes, the lights—there were three of them now, it looked like—were still there, and still moving a little. He thought maybe one of them might be in a boat, judging from the way it seemed to bob up and down.

He moved a foot around the corner, and stopped when his boot touched something.

He could barely make it out in the dim lamp light.

A cloth bag.

He knelt down to look inside, and pulled it toward himself, only to discover that it was surprisingly heavy.

He opened the top and lifted his lamp up a bit to see better.

Gold. Dozens, maybe hundreds, of gold tiaras. More than he’d made in seven years of working these tunnels, more than enough to live well outside the city.

He blinked.

A fine house in the country, a wife, family… he could have it all.

The faint echo of voices from the tunnel brought him back, and he hurriedly pulled the drawstring closed.

He pulled the bag back around the corner, out of sight from the mysterious intruders, and turned to walk back toward the nearest ladder.

It was only a short distance, and now that he was safely out of sight he could turn his lamp back up. He raised the wick and quickened his pace.

The ladder was of wood, old but well maintained. There was a faint light seeping in from above, so he could extinguish the lamp and set it on the nearby shelf.

Holding the bag with one hand, he climbed with the other, and quickly reached the stone-walled room at the top. The door could only be opened from the inside, thanks to a complex mechanism. Someone could knock a hole in the wall, of course, but the idea was that it would make enough noise to attract the Watch.

The strategy had worked for centuries already, in spite of a few attempts.

Except maybe for tonight… who were they? What were they doing in the tunnels? And where did this money come from?

He opened the door and stepped out into the street.

He was standing across the street from a merchant selling vegetables of all sorts, with a carload of carrots being unloaded.

“Hey, Bortras! All done for the day?”

He spun around to see one of the older men he’d worked with, Artificer Framo of Cornwall. He looked to be shopping, with a basket of produce in one hand, munching on an apple.

“Ah… yeah, hi, Artificer Framo,” he stammered. “Finished with the bottom grate, all done. Got a few things to pick up myself.”

“Might want to wash some of that muck off first.”

Bortras laughed.

“Yeah, maybe I should’ve. Bit busy tonight, didn’t think I had the time.”

“Hot date?”

“Uh, yeah. Gotta get a few things ready, and then clean up,” he agreed.

“Good luck to you, Bortras!”

“Thanks. See ya tomorrow,” he answered and waved goodbye, turning into a convenient alley to escape the conversation as quickly as possible.

He trotted down the alley and turned the corner onto the Avenue of Boreas. The Gate of Calaïs was a stone’s throw away, offering a glimpse of the fields outside the city walls. It was open to the daily traffic, the constables perfunctorily checking carts and wagonloads.

He could be outside Celephaïs and on his way to years of ease in only minutes.

Bortras laughed, and turned away to enter an older, weather-worn building.

He shouted even before his eyes adjusted to the dimness of the interior.

“Intruders in the tunnels! At least three, I think, with a boat!”

“We know, Artificer Bortras, we know,” came a quiet voice.

Artificer Krunogle.

As his eyes began to make out shapes in the darkness, he saw dozens of men and women surrounding him, standing silently.

“They dropped a bag of gold on the towpath,” he explained, holding it out, then spun around in confusion. “Wha…? Why don’t you…?”

Krunogle stepped forward, placing his hand on his shoulder.

“Artificer Bortras, you have done well.”

He stepped back as another figure stepped forward to take his place.

Chief Artificer Marcus!

“Artificer Framo, how do you say?”

“He did not take any of the gold, and came here directly. He is worthy.”

“Artificer Krunogle, how do you say?”

“He has completed his tasks with skill and responsibility, as an Artificer of Celephaïs should,” said Krunogle. “He is worthy.”

“Does anyone have reason to doubt this man?”

There was silence from the assembled crowd.

“Artificer Bortras,” continued Marcus, “I hereby certify that you have completed your apprenticeship, and proven that you are a man to be trusted. You are now a journeyman, and, if you wish, free to leave the tunnels of Celephaïs behind.”

He could escape those damned tunnels! And work outside, in the clean air!

“I… I did it!” he gasped in shock, then shook himself. “Thank you, Artificer Marcus! Thank you!”

Marcus held out his hand, and Bortras reached to grasp it before stopping.

“My hand… it’s filthy.”

Marcus shook it anyway.

“You’re one of us now, Artificer Bortras.”

At that signal the whole crowd erupted into cheers and laughter, his friends pushing forward to clap him on the back or shake his hand. A key of ale appeared from somewhere and suddenly the oil lamps were lit and three people in aprons wheeled in an enormous haunch of roast buopoth, followed by a tableful of vegetables and fruit.

A panpipe started hooting in one corner of the room, almost drowned out by the noise.

“But what should I do with all this gold,” he asked Krunogle.

“Things you find in the tunnels are yours to keep.”

“There are no intruders down there?”

“No intruders. Just some of us testing you, and you passed with flying colors.”

He hefted the bag again.

“That’s a lot of gold…”

“Heh. Don’t worry, only the dozen or so on top are real… the rest is all skelfs; not enough to buy a meal with.”

Someone pushed a mug of ale into his hand.

So he couldn’t have lived happily ever after anyway. Whatever.

He was a journeyman now!

END