by Gene Wolfe
He brightened at once.
“However,” I continued, “I don’t want them to carry weapons. I’m going to the palace, and it would be insulting to our master the archon if I were to arrive with an armed guard.”
At that he began to stammer, and I turned on him as though I were furious, throwing down the splintered wood so that it crashed against the floor. “Out with it! You think I am threatened. What is it?”
“Nothing, Lictor. Nothing that concerns you, particularly. It is just…”
“Just what?” Knowing he was going to speak now, I went to the sideboard and poured us two cups of rosolio.
“There have been several murders in the city, Lictor. Three last night, two the night before. Thank you, Lictor. To your health.”
“To yours. But murders are nothing unusual, are they? The eclectics are forever stabbing one another.”
“These men were burned to death, Lictor. I really don’t know much about it — no one seems to. Possibly you know more yourself.” The sergeant’s face was as expressionless as a carving of coarse, brown stone; but I saw him look quickly at the cold fireplace as he spoke, and I knew he attributed my breaking of the sticks (the sticks that had been so hard and dry in my hands but that I had not felt there until long after he entered, just as Abdiesus had not, perhaps, realized he was contemplating his own death until long after I had come to watch him) to something, some dark secret, the archon had imparted to me, when in fact it was nothing more than the memory of Dorcas and her despair, and of the beggar girl, whom I confused with her. He said, “I have two good fellows waiting outside, Lictor. They’re ready to go whenever you are, and they will wait for you until you’re ready to come back.” I told him that was very good, and he turned away at once so I would not guess he knew, or believed he knew, more than he had reported to me; but his stiff shoulders and corded neck, and the quick steps he took toward the door, conveyed more information than his stony eyes ever could.
My escorts were beefy men chosen for their strength. Flourishing their big, iron claves, they accompanied me as I shouldered Terminus Est down the winding streets, walking to either side when the way was wide enough, before and behind me when it was not. At the edge of the Acis I dismissed them, making them the more eager to leave me by telling them they had my permission to spend the remainder of the evening as they saw fit, and hired a narrow little caique (with a gaily painted canopy I had no need of now that the day’s last watch was over) to carry me upriver to the palace.
It was the first time I had actually ridden on the Acis. As I sat in the stern, between the steersman-owner and his four oarsmen, with the clear, icy river rushing by so near that I could have trailed both hands in it if I wished, it seemed impossible that this frail wooden shell, which from the embrasure of our bartizan must have appeared no more than a dancing insect, could hope to gain a span against the current. Then the steersman spoke and we were off — hugging the bank to be sure, but seeming almost to skip over the river like a thrown stone, so rapid and perfectly timed were the strokes of our eight oars and so light and narrow and smooth were we, traveling more in the air above the water than in the water itself. A pentagonal lantern set with panes of amethyst glass hung from the sternpost; just at the moment when I, in my ignorance, thought we were at the point of being caught amidships by the current, capsized, and swept sinking down to the Capulus, the steersman let the tiller hang by its lashings while he lit the wick.
He was right, of course, and I wrong. As the little door of the lantern shut upon the butter-yellow flame within and the violet beams leaped forth, an eddy caught us, spun us about, whirled us upstream a hundred strides or more while the rowers shipped their oars, and left us in a miniature bay as quiet as a millpond and half-filled with gaudy pleasure boats. Water stairs, very similar to the steps from which I had swum in Gyoll as a boy though much cleaner, marched out of the depths of the river and up to the brilliant torches and elaborate gates of the palace grounds.
I had often seen this palace from the Vincula, and thus I knew that it was not the subterranean structure modeled on the House Absolute that I might otherwise have expected. No more was it any such grim fortress as our Citadel — apparently the archon and his predecessors had considered the strong-points of Acies Castle and the Capulus, doubly linked as they were by the walls and forts strung along the crests of the cliffs, sufficient security for the safety of the city. Here the ramparts were mere box hedges intended to exclude the gaze of the curious and perhaps to give a check to casual thieves. Buildings with gilded domes were scattered over a pleasance that seemed intimate and colorful; from my embrasure they had looked much like peridots broken from their string and dropped upon a figured carpet.
There were sentries at the filigree gates, dismounted troopers in steel corselets and helmets, with blazing lances and long-bladed cavalry spathae; but they had the air of minor and amateur actors, good-natured, hard-bitten men enjoying a respite from running fights and wind-swept patrols. The pair to whom I showed my circle of painted paper no more than glanced at it before waving me inside.
V
Cyriaca
I WAS ONE of the first guests to arrive. There were more bustling servants still than masquers, servants who seemed to have begun their work only a moment before, and to be determined to complete it at once. They lit candelabra with crystal lenses and coronas lucis suspended from the upper limbs of the trees, carried out trays of food and drink, positioned them, shifted them, then carried them back to one of the domed buildings again — the three acts being performed by three servants, but occasionally (no doubt because the others were busy elsewhere) by one.
For a time I wandered about the grounds, admiring the flowers by the fast fading twilight. Then, glimpsing people in costume between the pillars of a pavilion, I strolled inside to join them.
What such a gathering could be in the House Absolute, I have already described. Here, where the society was entirely provincial, it had, rather, the atmosphere of children playing dress-up in their parents’ old clothing; I saw men and women costumed as autochthons, with their faces stained russet and dabbed with white, and even one man who was an autochthon and yet was dressed like one, in a costume no more and no less authentic than the others, so that I was inclined to laugh at him until I realized that though he and I might be the only ones who knew it, he was in fact costumed more originally than any of the rest, as a citizen of Thrax in costume. Around all these autochthons, real and self-imagined, were a score of other figures not less absurd — officers dressed as women and women dressed as soldiers, eclectics as fraudulent as the autochthons, gymnosophists, ablegates and their acolytes, eremites, eidolons, zoanthrops half beast and half human, and deodands and remontados in picturesque rags, with eyes painted wild.
I found myself thinking how strange it would be if the New Sun, the Daystar himself, were to appear now as suddenly as he had appeared so long ago when he was called the Conciliator, appearing here because it was an inappropriate place and he had always preferred the least appropriate places, seeing these people through fresher eyes than we ever could; and if he, thus appearing here, were to decree by theurgy that all of them (none of whom I knew and none of whom knew me) should forever after live the roles they had taken up tonight, the autochthons hunching over smoky fires in mountain huts of stone, the real autochthon forever a townsman at a ridotto, the women spurring toward the enemies of the Commonwealth with sword in hand, the officers doing needlepoint at north windows and looking up to sigh over empty roads, the deodands mourning their unspeakable abominations in the wilderness, the remontados burning their own homes and setting their eyes upon the mountains; and only I unchanged, as it is said the velocity of light is unchanged by mathematical transformations.
Then, while I was grinning to myself behind my mask, it seemed that the Claw, in its soft leathern sack, drove against my breastbone to remind me that the Conciliator had been no jest, and that I bore some fragment of his power with me. At that
moment, as I looked across the room over all the feathered and helmeted and wild-haired heads, I saw a Pelerine.
I made my way across to her as quickly as I could, pushing aside those who did not stand aside for me. (They were but few, for though not one of them thought I was what I seemed, my height made them take me for an exultant, with no true exultants near.)
The Pelerine was neither young nor old; beneath her narrow domino her face seemed a smooth oval, refined and remote like the face of the chief priestess who had permitted me to pass in the tent cathedral after Agia and I had destroyed the altar. She held a little glass of wine as if to toy with it, and when I knelt at her feet she set it on a table so she could give me her fingers to kiss.
“Shrive me, Domnicellae,” I begged her. “I have done you and all your sisters the greatest harm.”
“Death does us all harm,” she answered. “I am not he.” I looked up at her then, and the first doubt struck me.
Over the chatter of the crowd I heard the hiss of her indrawn breath. “You are not?”
“No, Domnicellae.” And though I doubted her already, I feared she would flee from me, and I reached out to catch the cincture that dangled from her waist. “Domnicellae, forgive me, but are you a true member of the order?” Without speaking she shook her head, then fell to the floor. It is not uncommon for a client in our oubliette to feign unconsciousness, but the imposture is easily detected. The false fainter deliberately closes his eyes and keeps them closed. In a true faint, the victim, who is almost as likely to be a man as a woman, first loses control of his eyes, so that for an instant they no longer look in precisely the same direction; sometimes they tend to roll up under their lids. These lids, in turn, seldom entirely close, since their closing is not a deliberate action but a mere relaxation of their muscles. One can usually see a slender crescent of the sclera between the upper and lower lids, as I did when this woman fell.
Several men helped me carry her to an alcove, and there was a good deal of foolish talk about heat and excitement, neither of which had been present. For a time it was impossible to drive the onlookers away — then the novelty was gone, and it would have been almost equally impossible for me to have kept them there had I desired to do so. By then the woman in scarlet was beginning to stir, and I had learned from a woman of about the same age who was dressed as a child that she was the wife of an armiger whose villa stood at no great distance from Thrax, but who had gone to Nessus on some business or other. I went back to the table then and fetched her little glass and touched her lips with the red liquid it contained.
“No,” she said weakly. “I don’t want it… It’s sangaree and I hate it — I — I only chose it because the color matches my costume.”
“Why did you faint? Was it because I thought you were a real conventual?”
“No, because I guessed who you are,” she said, and we were silent for a moment, she still half-reclining on the divan to which I had helped carry her, I sitting at her feet.
I brought the moment when I had knelt before her to life again in my mind; I have, as I have said, the power to so reconstruct every instant of my life. And at last I had to say, “How did you know?”
“Anyone else in those clothes, asked if he were Death, would have said he was… because he would be in costume. I sat in the archon’s court a week ago, when my husband charged one of our peons with theft. That day I saw you standing to one side, with your arms folded on the guard of the sword you carry now, and when I heard you say what you did, when you had just kissed my fingers, I recognized you, and I thought… Oh, I don’t know what I thought! I suppose I thought you had knelt to me because you intended to kill me. Just from the way you stood, you always looked, when I saw you in court, like someone who would be gallant to the poor people whose heads he was going to lop off, and particularly to women.”
“I only knelt to you because I am anxious to locate the Pelerines, and your costume, like my own, did not seem to be a costume.”
“It isn’t. That is to say, I’m not entitled to wear it, but it isn’t just something I had my maids run up for me. It’s a real investiture.” She paused. “Do you know I don’t even know your name?”
“Severian. Yours is Cyriaca — one of the women mentioned it while we were taking care of you. May I ask how you came to have those clothes, and if you know where the Pelerines are now?”
“This isn’t a part of your duty, is it?” For a moment she stared into my eyes, then she shook her head. “Something private. I was nurtured by them. I was a postulant, you know. We traveled up and down the continent, and I used to have wonderful botany lessons just looking at the trees and flowers as we passed. Sometimes when I think back on it, it feels as if we went from palms to pines in a week, though I know that can’t be true.
“I was going to take final vows, and the year before you’re to be invested they make the investiture so you can try it on and get the fit right, and then so that you’ll see it among your ordinary clothes each time you unpack. It’s like a girl’s looking at her mother’s wedding dress, when it was her grandmother’s too and she knows she’ll be married in it, if she is ever married. Only I never wore my investiture, and when I went home, after a long time of waiting until we passed close by since there would be no one to escort me, I took it with me.
“I hadn’t thought of it for a long time. Then when I got the archon’s invitation I got it out again and decided to wear it tonight. I’m proud of my figure, and we only had to let it out a little here and there. It becomes me, I think, and I have the face for a Pelerine, though I don’t have their eyes. Actually I never had the eyes, though I used to think I’d get them when I took my vows, or afterward. Our director of postulants had that look. She could sit sewing, and to look at her eyes you would believe they were seeing to the ends of Urth where the perischü live, staring right through the old, torn skirt and the walls of the tent, staring through everything. No, I don’t know where the Pelerines are now — I doubt if they do themselves, though perhaps the Mother does.”
I said, “You must have had some friends among them. Didn’t some of your fellow postulants stay?”
Cyriaca shrugged. “None of them ever wrote to me. I really don’t know.”
“Do you feel well enough to go back to the dance?” Music was beginning to filter into our alcove.
Her head did not move, but I saw her eyes, which had been tracing the corridors of the years when she talked of the Pelerines, swing around to look at me sidelong. “Is that what you want to do?”
“I suppose not. I’m never completely at ease among crowds, unless the people are my friends.”
“You have some, then?” She seemed genuinely astonished.
“Not here — well, one friend here. In Nessus I used to have the brothers of our guild.”
“I understand.” She hesitated. “There’s no reason we have to go. This affair will wear out the night, and at dawn, if the archon is still enjoying himself, they’ll let down the curtains to exclude the light, and perhaps even raise the celure over the garden. We can sit here as long as we wish, and every time one of the servers comes around we’ll get what we like to eat and drink. When someone we want to talk with goes by, we’ll make him stop and entertain us.”
“I’m afraid I would begin to bore you before the night was much worn,” I said.
“Not at all, because I have no intention of allowing you to talk much. I’m going to talk myself, and make you listen to me. To begin — do you know you are very handsome?”
“I know that I am not. But since you’ve never seen me without this mask, you can’t possibly know what I look like.”
“On the contrary.”
She leaned forward as though to examine my face through the eyeholes. Her own mask, which was the color of her gown, was so small that it was hardly more than a convention, two almond-shaped loops of fabric about her eyes; yet it lent her an exotic air she would not otherwise have possessed, and lent her too, I think, a feeling of myst
ery, of a concealment that lifted from her the weight of responsibility.
“You are a very intelligent man I am sure, but you haven’t been to as many of these things as I have, or you would have learned the art of judging faces without seeing them. It’s hardest, of course, when the person you’re looking at has on a wooden vizard that doesn’t conform to the face, but even then you can tell a great deal. You have a sharp chin, don’t you? With a little cleft.”
“Yes to the sharp chin,” I said. “No to the cleft.”
“You’re lying to throw me off, or else you’ve never noticed it. I can judge chins by looking at waists, particularly in men, which is where my chief interest lies. A narrow waist means a sharp chin, and that leather mask leaves just enough showing to confirm it. Even though your eyes are deeply set, they’re large and mobile, and that means a cleft chin in a man, particularly when the face is thin. You have high cheekbones — their outlines show a trifle through the mask, and your flat cheeks will make them look higher. Black hair, because I can see it on the backs of your hands, and thin lips that show through the mouth of the mask. Since I can’t see all of them, they curve and curl about, which is a most desirable thing in a man’s lips.”
I did not know what to say, and to tell the truth I would have given a great deal to leave her just then; at last I asked, “Do you want me to take my mask off so you can check the accuracy of your assessments?”
“Oh, no, you mustn’t. Not until they play the aubade. Besides, you should consider my feelings. If you did and I found you weren’t handsome after all, I should be deprived of an interesting night.” She had been sitting up. Now she smiled and leaned back on the divan again, her hair spreading about her in a dark aureole. “No, Severian, instead of unmasking your face, you must unmask your spirit. Later you will do that by showing me everything you would do were you free to do whatever you wished, and now by telling me everything I want to know about you. You come from Nessus — I’ve learned that much. Why are you so eager to find the Pelerines?”
