Free The Rat and the Serpent by Stephen Palmer

aggrieved. I looked away.
    “So to the task,” said Musseler, returning to his brisk manner. “The sootstorm destroyed a sorcerer’s tower, the upper half of which has collapsed, leaving the lower half standing. A great well of water has gathered inside, and you have to decide how to deal with it.” He began pacing the circumference of the dais, hands behind his back. “Obviously you can’t let it flow away because of the erosion that would cause. No, rather you have to transport it, or perhaps encourage it to seep.”
    I returned my gaze to Atavalens, recalling our disagreement during the soot storm over the merits of freeing channels or blocking them. Musseler’s remarks proved me right. Then I realised I was grinning. Shocked at myself, I returned my face to nonchalance, but Atavalens grimaced and raised his right hand, fingers curled like a feline paw, moving it slowly through the air. Feeling a touch on my arm, I looked down to see four white lines appear on my skin, like scratches. I jumped, forcing my chair back and making it squeak against the floor.
    Musseler stopped pacing. “Ügliy! Be quiet.”
    “Sorry.”
    There was silence before Musseler resumed speaking. “As I was explaining, you cannot allow any water to leak out of the tower since the pressure inside could be enough to magnify any flaw in the stonework to the point of collapse, and that would be a disaster for the local area. There must be no erosion. Could you transport the water? There are thousands of gallons trapped inside, it would take a month. So here is your dilemma. You will have to think, work as a team, and the result must be a success, for your test depends upon it.” He looked us over, then added, “Of course I won’t be with you. Nor do I require you to tell me your plan. Just succeed.”
    He stopped speaking, nodding to us, then gesturing for Yabghu to approach.
    “This is your cimmerian,” he said, taking the wrist of one of the women and putting it in Yabghu’s hand. In turn he allocated cimmerians to apprentices, until I was left standing alone, whereupon he grimaced, then made for the door, where he whistled. A fourth woman entered the room, and he thrust her in my direction.
    “Think hard on your plan,” he told us. “I will return at midnight.” He departed without further instructions.
    But before one word of a discussion could begin, Atavalens walked over to where I stood and slapped my face with one of his gloves. “Rat boy,” he said, “you embarrassed us.”
    Despite my apprehension, I was not intimidated. “I have the right to do this task,” I said.
    “Don’t you see, you fool? The test requires physical perfection. How many citidenizens do you see walking with crutches? None. Part of this test is the ability and desire to use make-up, to become flawless under the aegis of the Mavrosopolis, and I’m telling you that I for one will never allow a cripple to be ranked as a citidenizen alongside me.” He spat at me. “You are nothing but a vile cretin, and that is the reason Musseler arranged no cimmerian for you, because he knows malformed nogoths cannot pass the test.” He gestured at my withered leg and concluded, “What kind of make-up is going to hide that?” And he strode away.
    I was left standing alone, thirteen pairs of eyes locked upon me. Total silence.
    I replied, “I will take the test. If I don’t I automatically fail, but if I do take it and then fail at least it will be because of my own actions.”
    Atavalens turned to point at me, his whole body shaking. “You will fail,” he said. “You will fail because I will see to it that you fail.”
    I nodded, forcing my face to remain expressionless. “Then you admit that I will be taking the test,” I said.
    Atavalens was about to reply when Raknia raised then dropped her chair to the floor; the crash echoed around the chamber. “We need to discuss our task,” she said.
    The atmosphere was broken. Grumbling, Atavalens arranged