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.
The red monk nodded again. The monks all threw back their robes. Beneath they were dressed in clinging black, with swords, daggers and tasers strapped to their bodies. Additional monks brandishing crossbows appeared in the booths along the walls.
‘You have been warned,’ called the red monk.
‘Gots it,’ said Zyra, grabbing the keys from the altar. The map disappeared, and the light within the altar was gone.
Vera backhanded another monk. Pandemonium broke out as the monks attacked.
‘Don'ts suppose there's a back way?’ Tark asked the red monk hopefully.
The red monk flung back his robes. Dressed like the others, he had but one weapon. As he drew the scimitar o’ light, he inclined his head to the drapes at the back of the Temple.
‘The crypt has an entry to the sewers.’
‘Thanks,’ said Tark.
‘Praise be to the Designers,’ added Zyra.
‘Praise be to the Designers!’ boomed the monk, as he walked purposefully towards the fight.
‘Comes on,’ said Zyra, as she dashed for the drapes. Tark followed, pulling the cart and glancing over his shoulder. Vera, crossbow arrows sticking out of her fleshy arms and torso, looking like an enraged bull, was flinging monks in all directions as her dress and apron swished about her bulk. But she was outnumbered. The monks swarmed over her like ants.
Zyra pulled back the drapes to reveal steps disappearing down into darkness. Between them, she and Tark carried the shopping cart down into the crypt.
It was a long narrow cellar. Cubicles lined the stone walls on either side from floor to ceiling. In front of each opening hung a small television screen with an image of a solemn monk with a haze of static behind him. In the darkness beyond each of the screens, Tark glimpsed brown robes. In the floor at the end of the crypt was a rough hole, which looked as if it had been hand-carved in a hurry by an inexperienced stonemason with a hammer and broken chisel.
‘This musts be it,’ said Zyra.
‘Pew!’ Tark sniffed the air. ‘Smells likes a toilet, nots a crypt.’
‘Maybes it's both,’ suggested Zyra. ‘The ’ole does lead to the sewers.’
‘Oh great,’ said Tark. ‘This just gets betta and betta.’
From above, they heard an almighty crash. Without further hesitation, Zyra jumped into the hole.
There was a splash, then Zyra's voice echoed up:
‘Throws down the stash.’
Tark pushed the cart into the hole, waited for the splash and Zyra's voice calling ‘Gots it’, then, holding his nose, he followed.