"This swamp maze," said Nori, gesturing to the scene in front of them. They stood on a dirt road, here and there dotted with flat stones. It looks like it might once have been a street, thought Fidget. The stoat confirmed this by continuing, "This once city, big city! But rains come and wash away, destroy. You walk on once-streets. They in many design-old city very tricky to get around in." - Fidget Alytirp, Questors Bold III
Ellen perched on a weathervane. The crow surveyed the city from the Chief Architect's tower, which stood on the most prominent of the sloping hills. The air was heavy with smog in the morning, after a night's downpour. The forest of chimneys and air shafts belched black haze into the sky– the city's fires never quenched for long. A sonorous brass tone echoed from the harbour to the South, a bellows operated foghorn.
The weathervane creaked as it turned in the breeze, pointing Ellen west. The sun was rising behind her, lighting the Great South Stream orange. The crow could see the flat surface of the water snaking around Dirgo District, the dumping ground of the city's poorest vermin. The river had permanently burst its banks and inundated the whole suburb. Ellen could make out the ant-like figures of vermin crossing makeshift rope bridges across their roofs to work.
A flick of the head, and the crow could see a hellish glow like a second sun being born in the North. Ferahgo Foundries. The giant caster and forger of steel. The conical twin smoke stacks had the letter 'F' proudly emblazed on both of them. The foundries burned day and night, driving Mossflower's competing smelters and casters into the dust. Every sword, spear and helmet, from Salamandastron's Long Patrol to the guards of Castle Floret, had the double F symbol engraved on it.
The crow shuffled across the weathervane as a screeching clamour was borne on the wind. The painful racket came from the Coops, the city's supply of eggs and bird meat. They had only named Little Redd River after the offal drainage had been installed. The crow spread its wings and floated down on the warm breeze. It was only warm from the city's heat, but it comforted her nonetheless. There was one building where she could rest. She could hide amongst the spires of her red-coloured oasis.
The Woodlands Embassy was an eyesore. Chief Architect Ratio thought so and because the pine marten thought so, that meant everybeast else must have thought so too. It was asymmetrical, wasted entirely too much space on a garden which was quickly dying, and most perplexing of all, it was red. Bright, garish, hideous red. Not naturally either. Ratio would have been fine with an ochre-red stone, a colour of nature. But no, the woodlanders had painted it. To remind them of home, they said. Like the suffering oak tree and the stagnant pond were supposed to make the squirrels and otters feel more comfortable.
The Embassy was squeezed between a pump station and a set of ventilation chimneys. Though the Embassy was hideous, and the pumping station was an ugly reminder of the floods, Ratio's chimneys were a work of genius. All it took was a fire under one chimney. The noxious air would be drawn out of the tunnel below as it rose with the smoke. The second chimney would balance this by sucking in fresh– well, not so stagnant –air from outside and letting it flow into the tunnel.
Simple and efficient. Ratio at his best.
The marten brushed open the Embassy's door, flanked by two hefty ferrets. The entrance hall had another useless pond in it, in which sat the marble statue of a mouse.
Ratio's sore eyes fell upon a familiar squirrel, dressed in a doublet adorned with far too many ruffles for the occasion, who jumped in alarm. Furiously smoothing his garish attire, the woodlander hesitated, before he held out his paw. "M-my Lord, if I might invite you to the parlour?" The male's voice was a tremulous tenor. Ratio sighed.
"I'm not a lord. Your badger friend in the mountain is a lord. I'm an architect. Address me as Chief Architect the first time, then sire after that." Ratio stumped through the doors to the parlour, determined to take the weight off his paws. The room was too neat, the furniture too untouched. The only real comfort was the lit fireplace. The woodlanders really lived in the upper storeys of the building. This was a show room for guests.
"Surely you remember Ambassador Lyndon? Chief Architect," a scornful voice rose from one of the overstuffed armchairs. It belonged to an otter, disgracefully bare-chested and seated in defiance.
"Ah! Oh, er, Sire! This is my associate, Ambassador Kelp." Lyndon darted between the two mustelids. "We've only just been promoted from being assistant diplomats, forgive our lapse in protocol!"
"Forgiven. Great thinkers are often scorned by… others," Ratio replied, wincing as he sank into his chair. Where had his mind been? Oh yes, the pumping station. Perhaps if there was some kind of aqueduct from Zigu Square to the Fisheries…
"Oh, great thinker! I can see that. So great ye designed a city that moves," Kelp scoffed. As if to punctuate his point, a dull thump sounded in the distance. Ratio's mind was jolted out of planning as he gauged the echoing resonance of the thump, the subsequent crack of split timber beams, and then the drunken swearing. A water tower must have slid into Old Sooty's Pub and Tavern, judging from the Southsward lilt of the cursing barkeep.
Lyndon wrung his paws, embarrassed. "Sire, ordinarily we would not demand any of your valuable time, of course, but this is a matter of the safety of our household. You see, it's the cellar."
"It's flooded," Ratio guessed, rubbing his forehead. Lyndon's paws gripped at a frilled cushion.
"Er, yes. That, and there's a group of ferrets that have dug a bypass through it. Something about collapsing tunnels," Lyndon explained.
"Yes, they're rerouting tunnels everywhere. It shouldn't be a problem," Ratio muttered, his mind crammed with thoughts of floor plans and tunnel maps. The otter leapt out of his seat, his paws raised to punctuate each syllable.
"A problem? There's vermin makin' our cellar a highway! Give it a few more days o' rain and they'll turn it into a harbour!"
"Your cellar was not an efficient use of space anyway. There's nothing important down there. At least now it's serving the city," Ratio retorted snappily. He instantly regretted raising his voice.
"Right, ye poncy git." Kelp started forward. Ratio's guards were stilled by one flick of his paw. "Yer city is becoming a lake. I can't walk down a road without sinkin' or gettin' a face full o' muck!"
"If you are referring to the excessive wind, it is a simple phenomenon. The result of tall buildings in straight lines which causes a sort of... tunnel effect," Ratio mused. "Unfortunately this has the consequence of eroding the earth. Combined with the water runoff, we lose quite a lot of soil to the Great South Stream."
"Sire, something must be done. What if the Embassy's foundations collapse? We'll have nowhere to live!" Lyndon fretted.
Ratio pawed at his temples. All this shouting was doing his head in. He had not slept since yesterday and there were still five major tunnel inundations he wanted to reroute today. "There is no need to panic, Ambassador. I have control of everything. I promise."
The thunderous toll of the city's bell rattled the embassy's windows. Braggio, it was called. Ratio had named it when the enormous steel tube had first been cast. It rang every four hours precisely, as the giant hourglass beside it was turned to mark the time. Efficient, the way the marten liked it. Ratio nodded to the woodlanders.
"This meeting is over."