sort that old women usually pushed around. She shoved it at Tark.
‘Puts it in ’ere,’ she instructed.
Tark nodded and went to load their stash. As he did so, Zyra reached into the closet and pulled out her leather travelling coat. Well-worn and dark red in colour, this was her signature piece — the one bit of clothing that meant more to her than any other, the coat which she looked best in, the coat that swayed and swished as she walked, the coat with a great many pockets in which to conceal a great many weapons. She loaded up those pockets with some extra knives, a pair of tarnished brass knuckles and the last of her stars.
With the cart loaded and Zyra dressed for the occasion, they headed for the exit.
‘Wot wuz that?’ asked Tark, whirling around.
‘Wot wuz wot?’ asked Zyra, nervously.
‘That sound,’ said Tark. ‘Like shifting rubble.’
They both looked towards the pile of rubble. Nothing moved. Everything was silent.
‘Ya don't suppose,’ started Tark.
‘No way!’
‘Comes on,’ said Tark, turning away, deciding it was best not to think about what he thought he might have heard. ‘We betta go.’
‘Yeah,’ agreed Zyra. ‘Let's go sees the Oracle.’
10: Where to Go
Tark and Zyra looked up at the imposing building. Although still crumbling, attempts had been made to patch it up. Dried mud held old bricks in place and wooden beams supported leaning walls. The enormous windows on either side of the double doors still had a few pieces of stained glass in place. The remaining sections were covered over with cardboard, wood and even old newspapers. The yard around the building was neat and cared for, something unheard of elsewhere in the City.
Above the double doors was a wooden beam with words carved into it: ‘The Temple of Paths’.
‘’Ere goes,’ said Tark, striding up to the front of the building, shopping cart in tow. He pulled the chain by the double doors.
‘Hopes we gets an easy path,’ said Zyra.
‘Yeah, like that'll happen!’
Easy paths were not assigned to thievers like them. The Designers’ rules set out certain types of paths for certain classes of people. The best they could hope for was a path that wasn't too life-threatening.
The door creaked open to release the sound of chanting from within. Brown robes and a cowl concealed the identity of the monk who had opened the door. A small Designers Paradise logo, the letters DP in an intertwined silver and gold swirl, hung around the hooded figure's neck on a long piece of twine.
‘In the name of the Designers,’ said Zyra, ‘we seeks the wisdom of the Oracle to shows us the way to Paradise.’
The monk inclined his head and stepped back to allow them entry. Tark and Zyra stepped into the gloom. The building was all one room, with a high vaulted ceiling. The interior was in much better condition than the exterior. The walls were lined with a row of television screens on sconces, each displaying the image of flickering candles. More screens hung from the ceiling joists, these displaying nothing but static. The combined screens, along with the streams of sunshine entering through the few remaining pieces of stained glass, gave the room an eerie quality.
Just below the ceiling joists, a set of four booths protruded from each of the longer walls. They had the appearance of opera boxes, except that each of them had a Designers Paradise logo stencilled onto its rounded front. Tark wondered if distinguished people sat in them during important ceremonies, while ordinary people stood on the stone floor below.
Monks in hooded robes knelt on the flagstone floor, chanting and occasionally prostrating themselves.
A monk in red robes stood silently at a raised altar. Brocaded drapes of bronze and purple adorned the wall behind it. The monk that had shown them in indicated to Tark and Zyra that they should go forward. They walked quickly up the aisle of chanting monks, Tark still pulling the cart containing their stash.
‘Place your keys onto the altar,’ boomed the red monk's deep, gravelly voice. ‘So that the Oracle may see if you have permission.’
Zyra placed the two stolen keys onto the smooth stone surface of the altar. It lit up from within, the top glowing a pearlescent pink.
‘Place your palms onto the altar,’ continued the monk, ‘so that the Oracle may see if you are worthy.’
Zyra took a deep breath and placed her hand, palm down, onto the altar next to the first key. Tark hesitated, wondering if his thoughts about Zyra were enough to make him unworthy in the eyes of the Oracle. Thoughts were not against the Designers’ rules, he told himself, only actions. Zyra glared at him sternly. He hastily reached out his hand and placed it onto the altar, next to the second key.
The colour of the light segued to green.
‘You are worthy,’ said the monk. ‘The Oracle will speak to you.’ Then he turned his back to them and knelt.
Tark sighed with relief and snatched his hand back. Zyra also withdrew her hand. An image of their faces appeared on the stone surface of the altar.
‘Identity confirmed,’ said a soft, androgynous voice. The voice did not seem to have a point of origin, rather it echoed from all around. ‘Base level contenders. Appropriate pathway being assigned.’ There was a brief pause, during which Tark and Zyra looked at each other expectantly. ‘Pathway assigned. Entry point allocated. Door 162. Location: City area designation — ’
Suddenly the Oracle stopped speaking. Different colours flashed across the surface of the altar.
‘New information being downloaded and assessed. Please wait!’
‘Huh?’ said Tark.
Zyra noticed the red monk move slightly, inclining his hooded head to one side. Was something wrong?
‘Additional elements required for contenders. Pathway reassigned. Entry point allocated. Door 323. Location: sewage tunnels.’
‘Crap!’ said Tark.
Zyra elbowed him to be quiet and respectful. If they antagonised the Oracle, they may be given an even worse pathway — although Zyra found it hard to imagine something worse than the sewers.
‘Displaying pathway now.’
A map appeared on the surface of the altar, just as a loud crashing sound shattered the calm ambiance of the Temple.
Tark and Zyra whipped around to see the Temple doors torn from their hinges, a dishevelled Vera standing in the opening, fragments of rubble and dust caught in her hair and clothing.
‘Not happy!’ she screeched, as she began to advance up the aisle.
The red monk stood and turned.
‘The Temple of Paths is home to the Designers’ Oracle,’ boomed the monk. ‘It is not a place of conflict.’
‘Quick,’ hissed Tark to Zyra. ‘Memorise the map.’
As Zyra turned back to the altar and studied the map of the sewers, Vera took another step forward and bellowed, ‘Gold. Mine. Take. Now!’
‘Why's she chasing us for one lousy bag o’ gold?’ asked Tark. ‘With ’er strength, she coulds smash ’er way into a treasury and runs off with a king's ransom.’
‘Dunno.’ Zyra shrugged without looking up from the map. ‘Sentimental value?’
As the red monk nodded, the other monks all stood. As one, they moved to block Vera's path.
‘Do not defile the Designers’ Temple,’ said the red monk, his voice booming through the temple.
Vera answered by backhanding the nearest monk. With the jangling sound of bracelets and bangles, he was flung back into one of the television screens. Sparks erupted, smoke billowed from the broken screen and the monk fell to the stone floor — dead.
