City of Saints and Madmen

Dradin whirled around, intending to reprimand Dvorak, but found himself speechless as he stared down into the dwarf’s eyes — dark eyes, so impenetrable, the entire face set like sculpted clay, that he could only stand there and say, weakly, “You said she’d be here.”

“Shut up,” Dvorak said, and the stiff, coiled menace in the voice caught Dradin between anger and obedience. Dvorak filled the moment with words: “She is here. Nearby. It is Festival night. There is danger everywhere. If she had come earlier, perhaps. But now, now you must meet her elsewhere, in safety. For her safety.” Dvorak put a clammy hand on Dradin’s arm, but Dradin shook him off.

“Don’t touch me. Where’s safer than here?”

“Nearby, I tell you. The crowd, the festival. Night is upon us. She will not wait for you.”

On the street below, fist fights had broken out. Through the haze, Dradin could hear the slap of flesh on flesh, the snap of bone, the moans of victims. People ran hither and thither, shadows flitting through green darkness.

“Come, sir. Now. ” Dvorak tugged on Dradin’s arm, pulled him close, whispered in Dradin’s ear like an echo from another place, another time, the map of his face so inscrutable Dradin could not read it: “You must come now. Or not at all. If not at all, you will never see her. She will only see you now. Now! Are you so foolish that you will pass?”

Dradin hesitated, weighing the risks. Where might the dwarf lead him?

Dvorak cursed. “Then do not come. Do not. And take your chances with the Festival.”

He turned to leave but Dradin reached down and grabbed his arm.

“Wait,” Dradin said. “I will come,” and taking a few steps found to his relief that he did not stagger.

“Your love awaits,” Dvorak said, unsmiling. “Follow close, sir. You would not wish to become lost from me. It would go hard on you.”

“How far—”

“No questions. No talking. Follow.”

VI

DVORAK LED DRADIN AROUND THE BACK OF THE DRUNKEN Boat and into an alley, the stones slick with vomit, littered with sharp glass from broken beer and wine bottles, and guarded by a bum muttering an old song from the equinox. Rats waddled on fat legs to eat from half-gnawed drum-sticks and soggy buns.

The rats reminded Dradin of the religious quarter and of Cadimon, and then of Cadimon’s warning: “It’s not safe for priests to be on the streets after dark during Festival.” He stopped following Dvorak, his head clearer.

“I’ve changed my mind. I can see her tomorrow at Hoegbotton & Sons.”

Dvorak’s face clouded like a storm come up from the bottom of the sea as he turned and came back to Dradin. He said, “You have no choice. Follow me.”

“No.”

“You will never see her then.”

“Are you threatening me?”

Dvorak sighed and his overcoat shivered with the blades of a hundred knives. “You will come with me.”

“You’ve already said that.”

“Then you will not come?”

“No.”

Dvorak punched Dradin in the stomach. The blow felt like an iron ball. All the breath went out of Dradin. The sky spun above him. He dou bled over. The side of Dvorak’s shoe caught him in the temple, a deep searing pain. Dradin fell heavily on the slick slime and glass of the cobblestones. Glass cut into his palms, his legs, as he twisted and groaned. He tried, groggily, to get to his feet. Dvorak’s shoe exploded against his ribs. He screamed, fell onto his side where he lay unmoving, unable to breathe except in gasps. Clammy hands put a noose of hemp around his neck, pulled it taut, brought his head up off the ground.

Dvorak held a long, slender blade to Dradin’s neck and pulled at the hemp until Dradin was on his knees, looking up into the mottled face. Dradin gasped despite his pain, for it was a different face than only moments before.

Dvorak’s features were a sea of conflicting emotions, his mouth twisted to express fear, jealousy, sadness, joy, hatred, as if by encompassing a map of the world he had somehow encompassed all of worldly experience, and that it had driven him mad. In Dvorak’s eyes, Dradin saw the dwarf’s true detachment from the world and on Dvorak’s face he saw the beatific smile of the truly damned, for the face, the flesh, still held the memory of emotion, even if the mind behind the flesh had forgotten.

“In the name of God, Dvorak,” Dradin said.

Dvorak’s mouth opened and the tongue clacked down and the voice came, distant and thin as memory,

“You are coming with me, sir. On your feet.”

Dvorak pulled savagely on the rope. Dradin gurgled and forced his fingers between the rope and his neck.

“On your feet, I said.”

Dradin groaned and rolled over. “I can’t.”

The knife jabbed into the back of his neck. “Soft! Get up, or I’ll kill you here.”

Dradin forced himself up, though his head was woozy and his stomach felt punctured beyond repair. He avoided looking down into Dvorak’s eyes. To look would only confirm that he was dealing with a monster.

“I am a priest.”

“I know you are a priest,” Dvorak said.

“Your soul will burn in Hell,” Dradin said.

A burst of laughter. “I was born there, sir. My face reflects its flames. Now, you will walk ahead of me.

You will not run. You will not raise your voice. If you do, I shall choke you and gut you where you stand.”

“I have money,” Dradin said heavily, still trying to let air into his lungs. “I have gold.”

“And we will take it. Walk! There is not much time.”

“Where are we going?”

“You will know when we get there.”

When Dradin still did not move, Dvorak shoved him forward. Dradin began to walk, Dvorak so close behind he imagined he could feel the point of the blade against the small of his back.

The green light of the moon stained everything except the bonfires the color of toads and dead grass.

The bonfires called with their siren song of flame until crowds gathered at each one to dance, shout, and fight. Dradin soon saw that Dvorak’s route — through alley after alley, over barricades — was intended to avoid the bonfires. There was now no cool wind in all the city, for around every corner they turned, the harsh rasp of the bonfires met them. To all sides, buildings sprang up out of the fog— dark, silent, menacing.

As they crossed a bridge, over murky water thick with sewage and the flotsam of the festivities, a man hobbled toward them. His left ear had been severed from his head. He cradled part of someone’s leg in his arms. He moaned and when he saw Dradin, Dvorak masked by shadow, he shouted, “Stop them!

Stop them!” only to continue on into the darkness, and Dradin helpless anyway. Soon after, following the trail of blood, a hooting mob of ten or twelve youths came a-hunting, tawny-limbed and fresh for the kill.

They yelled catcalls and taunted Dradin, but when they saw that he was a prisoner they turned their attentions back to their own prey.

The buildings became black shadows tinged green, the street underfoot rough and ill hewn. A wall stood to either side.

A deep sliver of fear pulled Dradin’s nerves taut. “How much further?” he asked.

“Not far. Not far at all.”

The mist deepened until Dradin could not tell the difference between the world with his eyes shut and the