Darren Shan - City of the Snakes

“I’ll push ahead anyway. I’ve come too far to back out now. I can’t finish off the priests without Tasso and Davern, but I’ll do what I can to hurt them.”

Ama sighs. “We must be crazy to think we can pull this off.”

“Yeah,” I grin.

She mirrors my smile. “So I guess we’d better make the most of the good life while we can.” She tops up our glasses. “Cheers!”

We eat slowly, padding out the meal with lots of conversation. Some of it concerns the villacs and the troubles, but mostly it’s about ourselves, our pasts (what little Ama can remember of hers) and what we’d like to do if we had the freedom to choose our futures. Ama wants to stay here, help Cafran, take over when he retires, squeeze in some travel during her vacations. I remind her of her limitations as an Ayuamarcan — she can only exist for a few days at a time away from the city — but she dismisses that. “We’re talking about dreams, not reality. I’ll dream what I like, thank you very much.”

Cafran Reed returns. He looks much brisker than the last time I saw him. He kisses Ama’s cheeks, draws up a chair and tells us about his day. He hasn’t found anywhere he loves, but has heard about a dockside café that sounds promising. We discuss property and rental prices as the restaurant empties around us.

As we drain the final bottle of the night, I bid Cafran and Ama farewell. Ama rises to see me out, but I tell her not to. Win or lose, she might never again sit with the man who was once her father. These minutes are precious and shouldn’t be wasted on a bum like me. “See you later,” I mutter, and she echoes the adieu, slipping me a pointed look to confirm our arrangement while Cafran smiles and sips his wine.

On the street I stand by my bike, savoring the night, putting off the time when I have to shed the disguise and become Paucar Wami again. People rarely realize how well off they are. A fine meal, a good bottle of wine, charming company… who needs anything more? I’d happily trade the Snakes — hell, the whole city — for Cafran Reed’s restaurant and peace of mind.

Monday. Day of decisions. Day of destiny.

Sard and his dozen arrive precisely at midday. I greet them as their Sapa Inca in a tiny office — they only just squeeze in — and treat them to an abbreviated version of my plan. They’re confused and uneasy, but I impress on them the importance of their mission, how our future depends on it.

“It’s time to choose. Either you serve your people or you serve the villacs . You can’t have it both ways. I know they recruited and trained you, but they did so in order to use you. If you trust me, I’ll try to grant you the power you seek, as well as the freedom to enjoy it.”

Eventually I talk them around. The priests did too good a job of building me up. The Snakes think I’m infallible. They pledged their hearts and souls to Paucar Wami. They’ll do as I command, paradoxical as it seems to them.

I dismiss the Snakes with orders to carry on as usual if the day doesn’t go as planned, then return to my post at the burned-out police station where various Cobras await my instructions. It’s difficult to act as if this is a day like any other, but I focus on their reports and send them about their duties, marshaling them as they expect, taking a few minutes to “commend” the Snakes who carried out the attacks on the rest of the city.

It’s minutes shy of 16:00 when I learn of Ford Tasso’s decision. I’m in the van when a Snake on the border of our territory makes the call. “We’re under attack!” he shouts, the sound of heavy gunfire muffling his words. “It’s the Troops, repeat, the Troops! The bastards are invading!”

All eyes snap to me. I keep my face impassive, masking my emotions.

“Sapa Inca?” a Snake asks. “Should I tell the others in that area to move against the enemy?”

“No,” I sigh. “Sound a retreat. Tell them to back off slowly, to make the Troops fight for every block, but not to make a stand. And they’re to advise civilians to seek shelter. I don’t want innocents getting caught in the cross fire.”

The Snake nods obediently and sets about alerting the Cobras. I spend the time it takes to spread the word in silent contemplation, considering the attack, what it means, where it might lead.

As the afternoon progresses, it becomes evident that the Troops have divided into four platoons and are marching on us from the west and south. They haven’t been sighted in the north and east. My Cobras think they’re lying in wait there, in case we make a break for freedom.

As the four platoons of Troops advance on Cockerel Square — their target was apparent early on, but I haven’t withdrawn the Snakes who are there — word breaks that Eugene Davern’s Kluxers have smashed through in the north.

“Are you certain?” I bark at the scout who reports over the crackle of a cheap cell phone.

“Fuck yes!” he yells. “There’s maybe a hundred of the fuckers, shooting everything in their path, leaving a trail of burning buildings and cars behind them.”

“Get out,” I snap. “Head for Cockerel Square.”

“Don’t you want us to fight them?”

“Negative. Rendezvous with the others in the Square and await further orders.”

I meet the worried gazes of those in the van and muster a smile. “Heads up. We aren’t beaten yet. Bring me every Cobra that you can. And send a couple of runners to the villacs —I’d love to hear what they have to say about this.”

As I wait for the Cobras and priests, another band of Kluxers is reported, moving parallel to the first. They’re leaving a trail of fiery devastation, and right about now I’d imagine most people are more concerned about Davern’s forces than Tasso’s. But the Troops will be at Cockerel Square first. They can dig in and set themselves up as the leading force in the east. I assign two phalanxes the task of slowing the Troops, then break to meet with the first of the arriving Cobras.

It’s almost 20:00 before all the Cobras and three representatives of the villacs are sitting or standing in the room where Hyde Wornton and Frank Weld met their end. I cast a quick glance around as I enter. The seven Cobras are anxious, but regard me trustingly, banking on me to figure a way out of this mess.

“Seems to me we have three options,” I begin bluntly. “We focus on either the Troops or the Kluxers and throw everything we have against one of them, then worry about the other lot later. We divide our forces and fight a war on two fronts. Or we stick our heads down and get the fuck out of here.”

The Cobras chuckle — they think I’m joking — but the laughter dies when a priest who speaks English nods and says, “We would advise a retreat, Sapa Inca.”

“Are you crazy?” a Cobra called Peddar roars. “Give ground to those bastards? I’d rather kill myself!”

The others nod and agree, except Sard, who gazes darkly at me but holds his tongue. I let them express their feelings, then clear my throat for silence. “Let us hear him out. I want to know why he is so eager to fold.”

“A withdrawal is not surrender,” the villac says, smiling blindly. “The invaders come to fight. They won’t leave until they shed blood. If we are not here, they will clash with each other. We wait until that battle is over, then strike at the weary survivors.”

“And if they don’t pause?” I ask. “If they track us down the tunnels?”

“They will not find us,” the priest says confidently. “The tunnels are ours. We will repel them.”

“This is bullshit,” Peddar shouts, looking pleadingly to his fellow Cobras. “If we pull back now, they’ll massacre our people. I didn’t get into this to make promises to my friends and family, then leave them in the shit when—”