by Gene Wolfe
“What are you talking about, Baldanders? Oh, you mean the optimate here. He’s not going to do you any hurt—he shared the bed with you, and now he’s going to join us at breakfast.”
“He slept here, Doctor?”
Dr. Tabs and I both nodded.
“Then I know whence my dreams rose.”
I was still saturated with the sight of the huge women beneath the monstered sea, and so I asked what his dreams had been, though I was somewhat in awe of him.
“Of caverns below, where stone teeth dripped blood… Of arms dismembered found on sanded paths, and things that shook chains in the dark.” He sat at the edge of the bed, cleaning sparse and surprisingly small teeth with one great finger.
Dr. Tabs said, “Come on, both of you. If we’re to eat and talk and get anything done today—why, we must be at it. Much to say and much to do.” Baldanders spat into the corner.
16. THE RAG SHOP
It was on that walk through the streets of still slumbering Nessus that my grief, which was to obsess me so often, first gripped me with all its force. When I had been imprisoned in our oubliette, the enormity of what I had done, and the enormity of the redress I felt sure I would make soon under Master Gurloes’s hands, had dulled it. The day before, when I had swung down the Water Way, the joy of freedom and the poignancy of exile had driven it away. Now it seemed to me that there was no fact in all the world beyond the fact of Thecla’s death. Each patch of darkness among the shadows reminded me of her hair; every glint of white recalled her skin. I could hardly restrain myself from rushing back to the Citadel to see if she might not still be sitting in her cell, reading by the light of the silver lamp.
We found a cafe whose tables were set along the margin of the street. It was still sufficiently early that there was very little traffic. A dead man (he had, I think, been suffocated with a lambrequin, there being those who practice that art) lay at the corner. Dr. Talos went through his pockets, but came back with empty hands.
“Now then,” he said. “We must think. We must contrive a plan.” A waitress brought mugs of mocha, and Baldanders pushed one toward him. He stirred it with his forefinger.
“Friend Severian, perhaps I should elucidate our situation. Baldanders—he is my only patient—and I hail from the region about Lake Diuturna. Our home burned, and needing a trifle of money to set it right again we decided to venture abroad. My friend is a man of amazing strength. I assemble a crowd, he breaks some timbers and lifts ten men at once, and I sell my cures. Little enough, you will say. But there’s more. I’ve a play, and we’ve assembled properties. When the situation is favorable, he and I enact certain scenes and even invite the participation of some of the audience. Now, friend, you say you are going north, and from your bed last night I take it you are not in funds. May I propose a joint venture?”
Baldanders, who appeared to have understood only the first part of his companion’s speech, said slowly, “It is not entirely destroyed. The walls are stone, very thick. Some of the vaults escaped.”
“Quite correct. We plan to restore the dear old place. But see our dilemma—we’re now halfway on the return leg of our tour, and our accumulated capital is still far from sufficient. What I propose—” The waitress, a thin young woman with straggling hair, came carrying a bowl of gruel for Baldanders, bread and fruit for me, and a pastry for Dr. Talos. “What an attractive girl!” he said.
She smiled at him.
“Can you sit down? We seem to be your only customers.” After glancing in the direction of the kitchen, she shrugged and pulled over a chair.
“You might enjoy a bit of this—I’ll be too busy talking to eat such a dry concoction. And a sip of mocha, if you don’t object to drinking after me.” She said, “You’d think he’d let us eat for nothing, wouldn’t you? But he won’t.
Charges everything at full price.”
“Ah! You’re not the owner’s daughter, then. I feared you were. Or his wife. How can he have allowed such a blossom to flourish unplucked?”
“I’ve only worked here about a month. The money they leave on the table’s all I get. Take you three, now. If you don’t give me anything, I will have served you for nothing.”
“Quite so, quite so! But what about this? What if we attempt to render you a rich gift, and you refuse it?” Dr. Talos leaned toward her as he said this, and it struck me that his face was not only that of a fox (a comparison that was perhaps too easy to make because his bristling reddish eyebrows and sharp nose suggested it at once) but that of a stuffed fox. I have heard those who dig for their livelihood say there is no land anywhere in which they can trench without turning up the shards of the past. No matter where the spade turns the soil, it uncovers broken pavements and corroding metal; and scholars write that the kind of sand that artists call polychrome (because flecks of every color are mixed with its whiteness) is actually not sand at all, but the glass of the past, now pounded to powder by aeons of tumbling in the clamorous sea. If there are layers of reality beneath the reality we see, even as there are layers of history beneath the ground we walk upon, then in one of those more profound realities, Dr. Tabs’s face was a fox’s mask on a wall, and I marveled to see it turn and bend now toward the woman, achieving by those motions, which made expression and thought appear to play across it with the shadows of the nose and brows, an amazing and realistic appearance of vivacity. “Would you refuse it?” he asked again, and I shook myself as though waking.
“What do you mean?” the woman wanted to know. “One of you is a carnifex. Are you talking about the gift of death? The Autarch, whose pores outshine the stars themselves, protects the lives of his subjects.”
“The gift of death? Oh, no!” Dr. Talos laughed. “No, my dear, you’ve had that all your life. So has he. We wouldn’t pretend to give you what is already yours. The gift we offer is beauty, with the fame and wealth that derive from it.”
“If you’re selling something, I haven’t got any money.”
“Selling? Not at all! Quite the contrary, we are offering you new employment. I am a thaumaturge, and these optimates are actors. Have you never wanted to go on the stage?”
“I thought you looked funny, the three of you.”
“We stand in need of an ingenue. You may claim the position, if you wish. But you must come with us now—we’ve no time to waste, and we won’t come this way again.”
“Becoming an actress won’t make me beautiful.”
“I will make you beautiful because we require you as an actress. It is one of my powers.” He stood up. “Now or not at all. Will you come?” The waitress rose too, still looking at his face. “I have to go to my room . .
.”
“What do you own but dross? I must cast the glamour and teach you your lines, all in a day. I will not wait.”
“Give me the money for your breakfasts, and I’ll tell him I’m leaving.”
“Nonsense! As a member of our company, you must assist in conserving the funds we will require for your costumes. Not to mention that you ate my pastry. Pay for it yourself.”
For an instant she hesitated. Baldanders said, “You may trust him. The doctor has his own way of looking at the world, but he lies less than people believe.” The deep, slow voice seemed to reassure her. “All right,” she said, “I’ll go.” In a few moments, the four of us were several streets away, walking past shops that were still for the most part shuttered. When we had gone some distance, Dr. Talos announced, “And now, my dear friends, we must separate. I will devote my time to the enhancement of this sylph. Baldanders, you must get our collapsing proscenium and the other properties from the inn where you and Severian spent the night—I trust that will present no difficulties. Severian, we will perform, I think, at Ctesiphon’s Cross. Do you know the spot?” I nodded, though I had no notion of where it might be. The truth was that I had no intention of rejoining them.
Now, as Dr. Talos quick-stepped away with the waitress trotting behind him, I found myself alone with Baldander
s on the deserted street. Anxious that he leave too, I asked him where he meant to go. It was more like talking to a monument than speaking with a man.
“There is a park near the river where one may sleep by day, though not by night.
When it is nearly dark, I will awaken and collect our belongings.”
“I’m afraid I’m not sleepy. I’m going to look around the city.”
“I will see you then, at Ctesiphon’s Cross.”
For some reason I felt he knew what was in my mind. “Yes,” I said. “Of course.” His eyes were dull as an ox’s as he turned away to lumber with long steps toward Gyoll. Since Baldanders’s park lay east and Dr. Talos had taken the waitress west, I resolved to walk north and so continue my journey toward Thrax, the City of Windowless Rooms.
Meanwhile, Nessus, the City Imperishable (the city in which I had lived all my life, though I had seen so little of it), lay all about me. Along a wide, flint-paved avenue I walked, not knowing or caring whether it was a side street or the principal one of the quarter. There were raised paths for pedestrians at either side, and a third in the center, where it served to divide the northbound traffic from the southbound.
To the left and right, buildings seemed to spring from the ground like grain too closely planted, shouldering one another for a place; and what buildings they were—nothing so large as the Great Keep and nothing so old; none, I think, with walls like the metal walls of our tower, five paces through; yet the Citadel had nothing to compare with them in color or originality of conception, nothing so novel and fantastic as each of these structures was, though each stood among a hundred others. As is the fashion in some parts of the city, most of these buildings had shops in their lower levels, though they had not been built for the shops but as guildhalls, basilicas, arenas, conservatories, treasuries, oratories, artellos, asylums, manufacturies, conventicles, hospices, lazarets, mills, refectories, deadhouses, abattoirs, and playhouses. Their architecture reflected these functions, and a thousand conflicting tastes. Turrets and minarets bristled; lanterns, domes, and rotundas soothed; flights of steps as steep as ladders ascended sheer walls; and balconies wrapped facades and sheltered them in the par-terre privacies of citrons and pomegranates. I was wondering at these hanging gardens amid the forest of pink and white marble, red sardonyx, blue-gray, and cream, and black bricks, and green and yellow and tyrian tiles, when the sight of a lansquenet guarding the entrance to a casern reminded me of the promise I had made the officer of the peltasts the night before. Since I had little money and was well aware that I would require the warmth of my guild cloak by night, the best plan seemed to be to buy a voluminous mantle of some cheap stuff that could be worn over it. Shops were opening, but those that sold clothing all appeared to sell what would not fit my purpose, and at prices greater than I could afford.
The idea of working at my profession before I reached Thrax had not yet occurred to me; if it had, I would have dismissed it, supposing that there would be so little call for a torturer’s services that it would be impractical for me to seek out those who required them. I believed, in short, that the three asimis, and the orichalks and aes in my pocket would have to carry me all the way to Thrax; and I had no idea of the size of the rewards that would be proffered me. Thus I stared at balmacaans and surtouts, dolmans and jerkins of paduasoy, matelasse, and a hundred other costly fabrics without ever going into the places that displayed them, or even stopping to examine them. Soon my attention was seduced by other goods. Though I knew nothing of it at the time, thousands of mercenanes were outfitting themselves for the summer campaign. There were bright military capes and saddle blankets, saddles with armored pommels to protect the loins, red forage caps, long-shafted khetens, fans of silver foil for signaling, bows curved and recurved for use by cavalry, arrows in matched sets of ten and twenty, bow cases of boiled leather decorated with gilt studs and mother-of-pearl, and archers’ guards to protect the left wrist from the bowstring. When I saw all these, I remembered what Master Palaemon had said before my masking about following the drum; and although I had held the matrosses of the Citadel in some contempt, I seemed to hear the long rattle of the call to parade, and the bright challenge the trumpets sent from the battlements.
Just when I had been wholly distracted from my search, a slender woman of twenty or a little more came out of one of the dark shops to unfasten the gratings. She wore a pavonine brocade gown of amazing richness and raggedness, and as I watched her, the sun touched a rent just below her waist, turning the skin there to palest gold.
I cannot explain the desire I felt for her, then and afterward. Of the many women I have known, she was, perhaps, the least beautiful—less graceful than her I have loved most, less voluptuous than another, less reginal far than Thecla. She was of average height, with a short nose, wide cheekbones, and the elongated brown eyes that often accompany them. I saw her lift the grating, and I loved her with a love that was deadly and yet not serious. Of course I went to her. I could no more have resisted her than I could have resisted the blind greed of Urth if I had tumbled over a cliff. I did not know what to say to her, and I was terrified that she would recoil in horror at the sight of my sword and fuligin cloak. But she smiled and actually seemed to admire my appearance. After a moment, when I said nothing, she asked what I wanted; and I asked if she knew where I might buy a mantle. “Are you sure you need one?” Her voice was deeper than I had expected. “You’ve such a beautiful cloak now. May I touch it?”
“Please. If you wish to.”
She took up the edge and rubbed the fabric gently between her palms. “I’ve never seen such a black—so dark you can’t see folds in it. It makes my hand look as though it’s disappeared. And that sword. Is that an opal?”
“Would you like to examine that too?”
“No, no. Not at all. But if you really want a mantle…” She gestured toward the window, and I saw that it was filled with articles of worn clothing of every kind, jelabs, capotes, smocks, cymars, and so on. “Very inexpensive. Really reasonable. If you’ll just go in, I’m sure you’ll find what you want.” I entered through a jingling door, but the young woman did not (as I had so much hoped she would) follow me inside.
The interior was dim, yet as soon as I looked about I thought I understood why the woman had not been disturbed by my appearance. The man behind the counter was more frightening than any torturer. His face was a skeleton’s or nearly so, a face with dark pits for eyes, shrunken cheeks, and a lipless mouth. If it had not moved and spoken, I would not have believed he was a living man at all, but a corpse left erect behind the counter in fulfilment of the morbid wish of some past owner.
17. THE CHALLENGE
Yet it did move, turning to look at me as I came in; and it did speak. “Wery fine. Yes, very fine. Your cloak, optimate—may I see it?” I walked across a floor of worn and uneven tiles to him. A slash of red sunshine alive with swarming dust stood stiff as a blade between us. “Your garment, optimate.” I caught up my cloak and extended my left hand, and he touched the fabric much as the young woman had outside. “Yes, very fine. Soft. Wool-like, yet softer, much softer. A blend of linen and vicuna? And wonderful color. A torturer’s vesture. One doubts the real ones were half so fine, but who can argue with a textile like that?” He ducked beneath his counter and emerged with a handful of rags. “Might I examine the sword? I’ll be extremely careful, I promise you.”
I unsheathed Ternunus Est and laid her on the rags. He bent over her, neither touching her nor speaking. By that time my eyes had become accustomed to the dimness of the shop, and I noticed a narrow black ribbon that stretched forward a finger’s width from the hair above his ears. “You are wearing a mask,” I said. “Three chrisos. For the sword. Another for the cloak.”
“I didn’t come here to sell,” I told him. “Take it off.”
“If you like. All right, four chrisos for the sword.” He lifted his hands and the death’s-head fell into them. His real face, flatcheeked and tanned, was remarkably l
ike that of the young woman I had seen outside. “I want to buy a mantle.”
“Five chrisos for it. That’s positively my last offer. You’ll have to give me a day to raise the money.”
“I told you, this sword is not for sale.” I picked up Terminus Est and resheathed her.
“Six.” Reaching across the counter, he took me by the arm. ‘That’s more than it’s worth. Listen, it’s your last chance. I mean it. Six.”
“I came in to buy a mantle. Your sister, as I would assume she was, said you would have one at a reasonable price.”
He sighed. “All right, I’ll sell you a mantle. Will you tell me first where you got that sword?”
“It was given me by a master of our guild.” I saw an expression I could not quite identify flicker across his face, and I asked, “You don’t believe me?”
“I do believe you, that’s the trouble. Just what are you?”
“A journeyman of the torturers. We don’t often get to this side of the river, or come this far north. But are you really so surprised?” He nodded. “It’s like encountering a psychopomp. Can I ask why you’re in this quarter of the city?”
“You may, but it’s the last question I’m going to answer. I’m on my way to Thrax, to take up an assignment there.”
“Thank you,” he said. “I won’t pry any more. I don’t have to, really. Now since you’ll want to surprise your friends when you take off your mantle—am I right?
