by Gene Wolfe
“But Blood could give you something, couldn’t he?”
“Yes, if he wished. No gift affects the nature of the ceremony. A gift is given freely—if one is given at all. The point upon which the efficacy of the ceremony turns is that there must be no bargain between us; and there is none. I would have no right to complaint if a promised gift were not forthcoming. Am I making this clear?”
Orchid nodded reluctantly.
“In point of fact, I expect no gift at all from Blood. I owe him several favors, as I said. When he asked me to do this, I was—as I remain—eager to oblige.”
Orchid leaned toward him, the peignoir yawning worse than ever. “Suppose this time it works, Patera. I could give you something, couldn’t I?”
“Of course, if you choose. However, you will owe me nothing.”
“All right.” She hesitated, considering. “Sphigxday’s our big night, like I said—that’s why Blood comes around, usually, today. To check up on us before we open up. We’re closed Hieraxday, so not then either. But come in any other day and I’ll give you a pass. How’s that?”
Silk was stunned.
“You know what I mean, right, Patera? Not me. I mean with any of the girls, whoever you want. If you’d like to give her a little something for herself, that’s all right. But you don’t have to, and there won’t be anything to the house.” Orchid considered again. “Well, a card in a cart, huh? All right, that’s a lay a month for a year.” Seeing his expression she added, “Or I can get you a boy if you’d rather have that, but let me know in advance.”
Silk shook his head.
“Because if you do, you don’t get to see the gods? Isn’t that what they say?”
“Yes.” Silk nodded. “Echidna forbids it. One may see the gods when they appear in our Sacred Windows. Or one may be blessed by children of the body. But not both.”
“Nobody’s talking about sprats, Patera.”
“I know what we’re talking about.”
“The gods don’t come any more anyhow. Not to Viron, so why not? That last time was when I was—wasn’t even born yet.”
Silk nodded. “Nor I.”
“Then what do you care? You’re never going to see one anyway.”
Silk smiled ruefully. “We’re getting very far from the subject, aren’t we?”
“I don’t know.” Orchid scratched her head and examined her nails. “Maybe. Or maybe not. Did you know that this place used to be a manteion?”
Stunned again, Silk shook his head.
“It did. Or anyhow, some of it did, the back part on Music Street. Only the gods didn’t come around very much any more, even if they still did it once in a while back then. So they closed it down, and the ones that owned this house then bought it and tore down the back wall and joined the two together. Maybe that’s why, huh? I’ll get Orpine to show you around. Some of the old stuff’s still back there, and you can have it if there’s anything you want.”
“That’s very kind of you,” Silk said.
“I’m a nice person. Ask anybody.” Orchid whistled shrilly. “Orpine’ll be along in a minute. Anything you want to know, just ask her.”
“Thank you, I will. May I leave my sacra here until I require them?” The prospect of separation from his triptych made Silk uneasy. “Will they be safe?”
“Your sack? Better than the fisc. You could leave that box thing, too. Only I’ve been wondering, you know about the old manteion in back. We call it the playhouse. Could that be why it’s happening?”
“I don’t know.”
“I asked one of the others and he said not. But I kind of wonder. Maybe the gods don’t like some of the stuff we do here.”
“They do not,” Silk told her.
“You haven’t even seen anything, Patera. We’re not as bad as you think.”
Silk shook his head. “I don’t think you bad at all, Orchid, and neither do the gods. If they thought you bad, nothing that you could do would dismay them. They detest all the evil that you do—and all that I do—because they see in us the potential to do good.”
“Well, I’ve been thinking maybe they sent this devil to get even with us.” Orchid whistled again. “What’s keeping that girl!”
“The gods do not send us devils,” Silk told her, “and indeed, they destroy them wherever they meet them, deleting them from Mainframe. That, at least, is the legend. It’s in the Writings, and I have them here in my bag. Would you like me to read the passage?” He reached for his glasses.
“No. Just tell me so I can understand it.”
“All right.” Silk squared his shoulders. “Pas made the whorl, as you know. When it was complete, he invited his queen, their five daughters and their two sons, and a few friends to share it with him. However—”
From the other side of the sun-bright doorway, someone screamed in terror.
Orchid lunged out of her chair with praiseworthy speed. Limping a little and repeating to himself Crane’s injunction against running, Silk trailed after her, walking as quickly as he could.
The courtyard was lined with doorways on both floors. As he searched for the source of the disturbance, it seemed to him that whole companies of young women in every possible stage of undress were popping in and out of them, though he paid them little attention.
The dead woman lay halfway up a flight of rickety steps thrown down like a ladder by the sagging gallery above; she was naked, and the fingers of her left hand curled about the hilt of a dagger jutting from her ribs below her left breast. Her head was angled so sharply in Silk’s direction that it almost appeared that her neck was broken. He found her oddly contorted face at once horrible and familiar.
Against all his training, he covered that face with his handkerchief before beginning to swing his beads.
It quieted the women somewhat, although the dagger, the wound it had made, and the blood that had so briefly spurted from that wound were still visible.
Orchid shouted, “Who did this? Who stabbed her?” and a puffy-eyed brunette, nearly as naked as the woman sprawled on the steps, drawled, “She did, Orchid—she killed herself. Use your head. Or if you won’t, use your eyes.”
Kneeling on a blood-spattered step just below the dead woman’s head, Silk swung his beads, first forward-and-back, then side-to-side, thus describing the sign of addition. “I convey to you, my daughter, the forgiveness of all the gods. Recall now the words of Pas, who said, ‘Do my will, live in peace, multiply, and do not disturb my seal. Thus you shall escape my wrath. Go willingly, and any wrong that you have ever done shall be forgiven.’ O my daughter, know that this Pas and all the lesser gods have empowered me to forgive you in their names. And I do forgive you, remitting every crime and wrong. They are expunged.” With his beads, Silk traced the sign of subtraction. “You are blessed.” Bobbing his head nine times, as the ritual demanded, he traced the sign of addition.
A female voice breathed curses somewhere to his right, blasphemy following obscenity. “Hornbuss Pas shag you Pas whoremaster Pas hornswallow ‘Chidna sick-licker Pas…” It sounded to Silk as though the speaker did not know what she was saying, and might well be unaware that she was speaking at all.
“I pray you to forgive us, the living,” he continued, and once again formed the sign of addition with his beads above the dead woman’s handkerchief-shrouded head. “I and many another have wronged you often, my daughter, committing terrible crimes and numerous offences against you. Do not hold them in your heart, but begin the life that follows life in innocence, all these wrongs forgiven.” He made the sign of subtraction again.
A statuesque girl spat; her tightly curled hair was the color of ripe raspberries. “What are you doing that for? Can’t you see she’s stiff? She’s dead, and she can’t hear a shaggy word you’re saying.” At the final phrase her voice cracked, and Silk realized that it was she whom he had heard swearing.
He gripped his beads more tightly and bent lower as he reached the effectual point in the liturgy of pardon. The sun bea
ting down upon his neck might have been the burning iron hand of Twice-Headed Pas himself, crushing him to earth while ceaselessly demanding that he perfectly enunciate each hallowed word and execute every sacred rubric faultlessly. “In the name of all the gods, you are forgiven forever, my daughter. I speak here for Great Pas, for Divine Echidna, for Scalding Scylla…” Here it was allowable to halt and take a fresh breath, and Silk did so. “For Marvelous Molpe, for Tenebrous Tartaros, for Highest Hierax, for Thoughtful Thelxiepeia, for Fierce Phaea, and for Strong Sphigx. Also for all lesser gods.”
Briefly and inexplicably, the glaring sun might almost have been the swinging, smoking lampion in the Cock. Silk whispered, “The Outsider likewise forgives you, my daughter, for I speak here for him, too.”
After tracing one final sign of addition, he stood and turned toward the statuesque young woman with the raspberry hair; to his considerable relief, she was clothed. “Bring me something to cover her with, please. Her time in this place is over.”
Orchid was questioning the puffy-eyed brunette. “Is this her knife?”
“You ought to know.” Fearlessly, the brunette reached beneath the railing to pull the long dagger from the wound. “I don’t think so. She’d have showed it to me, most likely, and I’ve never seen it before.”
Crane came down the steps, stooped over the dead woman, and pressed his fingers to her wrist. After a second or two, he squatted and laid an ausculator to her side.
(We acknowledge this state we call death with so much reluctance, Silk thought, not for the first time. Surely it can’t be natural to us.)
Withdrawing the dagger had increased the seepage from the wound; under all the shrill hubbub, Silk could hear the dead woman’s blood dripping from the steps to the crumbling brick pavement of the courtyard, like the unsteady ticking of a broken clock.
Orchid was peering nearsightedly at the dagger. “It’s a man’s. A man called Cat.” Turning to face the courtyard, she shouted, “Shut up, all of you! Listen to me! Do any of you know a cull named Cat?”
A small, dark girl in a torn chemise edged closer. “I do. He comes here sometimes.”
“Was he here last night? How long since you’ve seen him?”
The girl shook her head. “I’m not sure, Orchid. A month, maybe.”
The corpulent woman waddled toward her, holding out the dagger, the younger women parting before her like so many ducklings before a duck. “You know where he lives? Who’s he get, usually?”
“No. Me. Orpine sometimes, if I’m busy.”
Crane stood up, glanced at Silk and shook his head, and put away his ausculator.
Blood’s bellow surprised them all. “What’s going on here?” Thick-bodied and a full head taller than most of the women, he strode into the courtyard with something of the air of a general coming onto a battlefield.
When Orchid did not answer, the raspberry-haired girl said wearily, “Orpine’s dead. She just killed herself.” She had a clean sheet under her arm, neatly folded.
“What for?” Blood demanded.
No one replied. The raspberry-haired girl shook out her sheet and passed a corner up to Crane. Together, they spread the sheet over the dead woman.
Silk put away his beads and went down the steps to the courtyard. Half to himself he muttered, “She didn’t—not forever. Not even as long as I.”
Orchid turned to look at him. “No, she didn’t. Now shut up.”
Musk had taken the dagger from her. After scrutinizing it himself, he held it out for Blood’s inspection. Orchid explained, “A cully they call Cat comes here sometimes. He must’ve given it to her, or left it behind in her room.”
Blood sneered. “Or she stole it from him.”
“My girls don’t steal!” As a tower long subverted by a hidden spring collapses, Orchid burst into tears; there was something terrible, Silk felt, in seeing that fat, indurated face contorted like a heartsick child’s. Blood slapped her twice, forehand and backhand, without effect, though both blows echoed from the walls of the courtyard.
“Don’t do that again,” Silk told him. “It won’t help her, and it may harm you.”
Ignoring him, Blood pointed to the still form beneath the sheet. “Somebody get that out of sight. You there. Chenille. You’re plenty big enough. Pick her up and carry her to her room.”
The raspberry-haired woman backed away, trembling, the roughed spots on each high cheekbone glaring and unreal.
“May I see that, please?” Deftly, Silk took the dagger from Musk. Its hilt was bleached bone; burned into the bone with a needle and hand-dyed, a scarlet cat strutted with a tiny black mouse in its jaws. The cat’s fiery tail circled the hilt. Following the puffy-eyed brunette’s example, Silk reached under the railing and retrieved his handkerchief from beneath the sheet. The slender, tapering blade was highly polished, but not engraved. “Nearly new,” he muttered. “Not terribly expensive, but not cheap either.”
Musk said, “Any fool can see that,” and took back the dagger.
“Patera.” Blood cleared his throat. “You were here. Probably you saw her do it.”
Silk’s mind was still on the dagger. “Do what?” he asked.
“Kill herself. Let’s get out of this sun.” With a hand on Silk’s elbow, Blood guided him into the spotted shade of the gallery, displacing a chattering circle of nearly naked women.
“No, I didn’t see it,” Silk said slowly. “I was inside, talking to Orchid.”
“That’s too bad. Maybe you want to think about it a little more. Maybe you saw it after all, through a window or something.”
Silk shook his head.
“You agree that this was a suicide, though, don’t you, Patera? Even if you didn’t see it yourself?” Blood’s tone made his threat obvious.
Silk leaned back against the spalled shiprock, sparing his broken ankle. “Her hand was still on the knife when I first saw her body.”
Blood smiled. “I like that. In that case, Patera, you agree that there’s no reason to report this.”
“I certainly wouldn’t want to if I were in your place.” To himself, Silk reluctantly admitted that he felt sure the dead woman had been no suicide, that the law required that her death by violence be reported to the authorities (though he had no illusions about the effort they would expend upon the death of such a woman), and that if he were somehow to find himself in Blood’s place he would leave it as rapidly as possible—though neither honor nor morality required him to say any of these things, since saying them would be futile and would unquestionably endanger the manteion. It was all perfectly reasonable and nicely reasoned; but as he surveyed it, he felt a surge of self-contempt.
“I think we understand each other, Patera. There are three or four witnesses I could produce if I needed them—people who saw her do it. But you know how that is.”
Silk forced himself to nod his agreement; he had never realized that even passive assent to crime required so much resolution. “I believe so. Three or four of these unhappy young women, you mean. Their testimony would not carry much weight, however; and they would be apt to presume upon your obligation afterward.”
Under Musk’s direction, a burly man with less hair even than Blood had picked up the dead woman’s body, wrapping it in the sheet. Silk saw him carry it to the door beyond the entrance to Orchid’s office, which Musk opened for him.
“That’s right. I couldn’t have put it better myself.” Blood lowered his voice. “We’ve been having way too much trouble here as it is. The Guards have been in here three times in the past month, and they’re starting to talk about closing us down. Tonight I’ll have to come up with some way to get rid of it.”
“To dispose of that poor woman’s body, you mean. You know, I’ve been terribly slow about this, I suppose because these aren’t the sort of people I’m accustomed to. She was Orpine, wasn’t she? One of these women mentioned it. She must have had the room next to Orchid’s office. Musk and another man have taken her body there, at any rate.”<
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“Yeah, that was Orpine. She used to help out Orchid now and then, running the place.” Blood turned away.
Silk watched him stride across the courtyard. Blood had called himself a thief the night before; it struck Silk now that he had been wrong—had been lying, in fact, in order to romanticize what he really did, though he would steal, no doubt, if given an opportunity to do so without risk; he was the sort of person who would consider theft clever, and would be inclined to boast of it.
But the fact was that Blood was simply a tradesman—a tradesman whose trades happened to be forbidden by law, and were inescapably colored by that. That he himself, Patera Silk, did not like such men probably meant only that he did not understand them as well as his own vocation required.
He strove to reorder his thoughts, shifting Blood (and himself as well) out of the criminal category. Blood was a tradesman, or a merchant of sorts; and one of his employees had been killed, almost certainly not by him or even under his direction. Silk recalled the pictured cat on the dagger; it reminded him of the engraving on the little needler, and he took it out to re-examine. There were golden hyacinths on each ivory grip because it had been made for a woman called Hyacinth.
He dropped it back into his pocket.
Blood’s name … If the dagger had been made for him, the picture on its hilt would have shown blood, presumably: a bloody dagger of the same design, perhaps, or something of that sort. The cat had held a mouse in its jaws, and mice thus caught by cats bled, of course; but he could recall no blood in the picture, and the captive mouse had been quite small. He was no artist, but after putting himself in the place of the one who had drawn and tinted that picture, he decided that the mouse had been included mostly to indicate that the cat was in fact a cat, and not some other cat-like animal, a panther for example. The mouse had been a kind of badge, in other words.
The cat itself had been scarlet, but hardly with blood; even a large mouse would not have bled as much as that, and the cat had presumably been tinted to indicate that it was somehow burning. Its upright tail had actually been tipped with fire.
He took a step away from the wall and was punished by a flash of pain. On one knee, he pulled down his stocking and unwound Crane’s wrapping, then flogged the guiltless wall he had just deserted.
