Heroes Die by Matthew Woodring Stover

Author:Matthew Woodring Stover
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9780345516404
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2008-12-08T16:00:00+00:00

DAY FIVE

“What’s so wrong with wanting to help people?”

“Nothing’s wrong with it; there’s just no point. You risk your life for a wet-eyed thank-you and a hug. It’s stupid.”

“It’s my life.”

“No, Shanna. It’s our life, remember? That’s why we got married.”

“Oh, right—I knew there was a reason, I just forgot what it was.”

“Shanna, dammit—”

“No, Hari. No. Marriage is supposed to make you more than you are. It’s supposed to add something to your life, not take it away. You want me to be less, you want me to be more like . . .”

“Go on, say it. Go on.”

“All right, I will: more like you.”

“That shit flows both ways, Shanna.”

“Maybe it does. Maybe that was my mistake from the very beginning. I should have known better.”

1

AS DAWN LAYERED the Ankhanan sky with crimson and pale rose, the low-lying mist that rises from the Great Chambaygen every morning began slowly to recede, traces dissolving in the warming air.

Most of the workmen, the stablehands and the copy clerks, all those who were employed in Old Town but could not afford to live there, walked through the swirling mist toward Fools’ Bridge with breeches tied tight at the calf and trouser legs laced closed at the ankle.

This was a fashion dictated by necessity, for also through that 319 swirling mist scampered other inhabitants of the capital city, nocturnal citizens returning to their dens for the day, far more numerous than the human inhabitants. And anyone who’d done the Rat Dance as a panicked rodent clawed and bit its way up the inside of one’s pants leg had no desire to repeat the experience.

One particularly large and lean rat with patches of grey at the sides of its muzzle crouched by the notch where the single-leaf bascule of Fools’ Bridge would descend. It watched the dawn ceremonies with glittering eyes that held more than rodent intelligence.

This was far out on the arc of the span over the river, over the slow-rolling oily water, glossy black in the growing light. The rat watched the bridge captain stride out alone behind the reinforced crenels atop the Old Town gatehouse, diaphanous robes of translucent aqua flowing over his uniform.

The bridge captain wore these robes twice a day, at dawn and sunset, when he made ritual obsequies to the legendary river god Chambaraya. At dawn, he poured out oil from a golden cup to ask the river god’s permission to lower the bridge; at dusk, the cup held wine, in thanks for permitting the day’s traffic.

The bridge came down; the rat twitched back from its path, but as soon as the bridge settled into place, the rat streaked for Old Town. Its movements were somewhat hampered by two thin leather thongs like bootlaces that strapped a small packet of oiled paper to its back; the rat nearly perished beneath the boot of a startled soldier who stomped at it as it passed, but it escaped and vanished into the alley behind a nearby stable.

There it paused, as though

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