by Gene Wolfe
“Possession? It’s really no one’s now. Perhaps there was a time when most augurs believed in devils, as Patera Pike certainly did. But I may be the only augur alive who believes in them now, and even now I’m not certain that I believe in them in the same sense he did—as spirits who crept into the whorl without Pas’s permission and seek to destroy it.”
“What about Orpine? Was she really Orchid’s daughter?”
“Yes,” Silk said. “I spoke to Orchid about her and she admitted it. Practically boasted of it, in fact. What was Orpine like?”
“Good-looking.” Auk hesitated. “I don’t feel right talking about this stuff to you, Patera. She could be a lot of fun, because she didn’t care what she did or what anybody thought about it. You know what I mean? She would’ve made more money if she’d been better at making people think she liked them.”
Silk chewed and swallowed. “I understand. I wanted to know because I’ve been wondering about personalities, and so on—whether there’s a particular type of person who’s more prone to be possessed than another—and I never saw Orpine alive. I had been talking to her mother; we heard a scream and hurried outside, and found her lying there on the stair. She had been stabbed. Someone suggested that she might have stabbed herself. Her face—Have you ever seen a possessed person?”
Auk shook his head.
“Neither had I until this morning, shortly before I saw Orpine’s body.” Silk patted his lips with his napkin. “At any rate, she was dead; but even in death it seemed that her face was not quite her own. I remember thinking that there was something horrible about it, and a good deal that was familiar, as well. At first, the familiar part seemed quite easy. After I’d thought about it for a moment—the eyes and the shape of her nose and lips and so on—I realized that she looked rather like Orchid, the woman I’d just been speaking to. I asked her about it afterward, and she told me that Orpine had been her daughter, as I said.”
“Maybe I should’ve known, too,” Auk said, “but I never guessed. Orpine was a lot younger.”
Silk shrugged. “You know a great deal more about women than I do, I’m sure. Perhaps I saw as much as I did mostly because I know so little about them. When one knows little about a subject, what one sees are apt to be the most basic things, if one sees anything at all. What I wanted to say, however, was that even the horrible element in her face was familiar.”
“Go on.” Auk refilled his wineglass. “Let’s hear it.”
“I’m hesitating because I’m fairly certain you won’t believe me. Orpine reminded me of someone else I had been talking with not long before—of Mucor, the mad girl in Blood’s villa.”
Auk laid aside his fork, the steaming beef on its tines still untasted. “You mean the same devil had taken ’em both over, Patera?”
Silk shook his head. “I don’t know, but I felt that I ought to tell you. I believe that Mucor has been following me in spirit. And I am coming to believe that she can, in some fashion, possess others, just as devils—and the gods, for that matter—are said to do at times. This morning I felt sure that I had glimpsed her in the face of an honest working man; and I think that she was possessing Orpine when Orpine died. Later I recognized her in another woman.
“If I’m correct, if she can really do such things and if she has been following me, you’re running a substantial risk just by sitting with me at this table. I’m very grateful for this truly remarkable dinner, and even more grateful for your help last night. Furthermore, I’m hoping to ask you a few questions before we separate; and all of that puts me heavily in debt to you. I was too tired—and too hungry, I suppose—to consider the danger to which I was subjecting you when we spoke in the manteion. Now that I have, I feel obliged to warn you that you too may suffer possession if you remain in my company.”
Auk grinned. “You’re an augur, Patera. If she was to grab hold of me while we’re sitting here, couldn’t you make her beat the hoof?”
“I could try; but I have only one threat to use against her, and I’ve used it. You’re not leaving?”
“Not me. I think I’ll have another dumpling instead, maybe with a little of this gravy on it.”
“Thank you. I hope you won’t regret it. You haven’t yet commented on my somewhat uneven performance last night. If you’re afraid I might be insulted, I assure you that you could not be more severe with me than I’ve already been with myself.”
“All right, I’ll comment.” Auk sipped his wine. “In the first place, I think if you can raise even a thousand, you’d better make sure Blood signs the manteion over to you before you cough up your goldboys. You were going on about safeguards a minute ago. I don’t think you ought to trust in any safeguards except the deed, signed and witnessed by a couple dimber bucks who got nothing to do with Blood.”
“You’re right, I’m sure. I’ve been thinking much the same thing.”
“You better. Don’t trust him, even if something that he does makes you think you can.”
“I’ll be very careful.” Silk’s chops were bathed in a piquant, almost black sauce he found unspeakably delicious; he wiped some from his plate with another slice of bread.
“And I think you’ve probably found your true calling.” Auk grinned. “I don’t think I could’ve done much better, and I might not’ve done as good. This was your first time, too. By number ten I’ll be begging to come along, just to watch you work.”
Silk sighed. “I hope there won’t be a tenth, for both our sakes.”
“Sure there will. You’re a real son of Tartaros. You just don’t know it yet. Third or fourth, or whatever it is, I want to see what it is a dimber bucko like you needs a hand from me on. You want to go back to Blood’s tonight and get your hatchet?”
Silk shook his head ruefully. “I won’t be able to work on the roof until my ankle’s healed, and it’s more than half finished anyway. Do you recall what I said about Hyacinth’s needler?”
“Sure. And the azoth. A nice azoth ought to bring a couple thousand cards, Patera. Maybe more. If you want to sell it, I can steer you to somebody who’ll give you a lily price.”
“I can’t, because it isn’t mine. Hyacinth intended to lend it to me, I’m sure. As I told you, I had told her that I was borrowing those weapons, and I promised that I would return them when I no longer required them. I feel certain she would not have sent the azoth to me by Doctor Crane if I had not said that earlier.”
When Auk did not reply, Silk continued miserably, “Two thousand cards, if I actually received that much, would be an appreciable fraction of the twenty-six thousand that we require. More than five percent, in fact. You’ll laugh at me—”
“I ain’t laughing, Patera.”
“You should. A thief who can’t bring himself to steal! But Hyacinth trusted me. I cannot believe that the—that any god would wish me to betray a friendless woman’s trust.”
“If she lent it to you, I wouldn’t sell it either,” Auk told him. “Just to start out, she’s there in Blood’s house, and if you’ve got yourself a friend on the inside, that’s not anything you want to fight clear of. You got any notion why this doctor would take on something as risky as that for her?”
“Perhaps he’s in love with her.”
“Uh-huh. It could be, but I’ll bet he’s got some kind of lock. It’d be worth your while to find out what it is, and I’d like to hear about it when you do. I’d like to see this azoth you got from her, too. Suppose I come around tomorrow night. Would you let me see it?”
“You may look at it now, if you like.” Silk pulled the azoth from beneath his tunic and passed it across the table to Auk. “I brought it to Orchid’s today because I feared I might require some sort of weapon.”
Auk whistled softly, then held the azoth up, admiring the play of light along its gleaming grip. “Twenty-eight hundred easy. Might bring three thousand. Whoever gave it to her probably paid five or six for it.”
Silk nodded. “I believe I may have some idea who that was, although I
don’t know where he could have gotten that much money.” Auk regarded him quizzically, but Silk shook his head. “I’ll tell you later, if it appears that I may be correct.”
He held out his hand for the azoth, which Auk returned with a final grunt of admiration.
“I want to ask you about Hyacinth’s needier. Blood took out the needles before he gave it back to me. Can you tell me where I might buy more without a brevet?”
“Sure, Patera. No problem at all. Have you got that with you, too?”
Silk took Hyacinth’s engraved needier from his pocket and passed it to Auk.
“The smallest they make. I know ’em.” He returned the needier and rose. “Listen, can you get by without me for a minute? I got to—you know.”
“Of course.” Silk directed his attention to his chops; there had been three, and hungry though he was, he had thus far eaten only the first. He attacked the second without neglecting the tender dumplings, buttered squash with basil, and shallots in oil and vinegar that the eating house had provided (apparently at no additional charge) to accompany them.
Mere worry, mere concern, would not save the manteion. It would be necessary to devise a plan, and that plan need not necessarily involve stealing twenty-six thousand cards. Enlisting the sympathy of some magnate might do as well, for example, or …
Silk was discovering that he had devoured his third and final chop without realizing he had finished the second when Auk returned.
SILK FOR CALDÉ
Doctor Crane shut and bolted the door of his infirmary. It had been a hard day; he was glad to be back again, very glad that Blood (who had put in a grueling day as well) would not entertain tonight. With luck, Crane thought, he might get a good night’s sleep, an uninterrupted night’s sleep, a night in which the cats clawed no one, Musk’s hawks refrained from footing Musk and his helper—most of all, a night in which none of the fools that Viron called women decided that some previously unnoticed mole was in fact the first symptom of a fatal disease.
Shuffling into his bedroom, which had no door to the hall, he closed the door to the infirmary and bolted it as well. Let them call him through the glass, if they wanted him. He removed his shoes and flung his stockings onto the pile of soiled clothing in a corner, reminding himself again that he must take those clothes to the laundry in the other wing.
Had he put the black stocking he’d cut off that fellow Silk in there? No, he’d thrown it away.
In bare feet, he padded to the window and stood staring out through the grille at the shadowy grounds. The weather had been fine all summer, glowing with the hot, dry heat of home; but it would be autumn soon. The sun would dim, and the winds bring chill, drenching rains. The calendar called it autumn already. He hated rain and cold, snow, and coughs and runny noses. For a month or more, the thermometer would fluctuate between ten and ten below, as if chained to the freezing point. Human beings were never intended for such a climate.
When he had pulled down the shade, he glanced at the calendar, his eyes following his thought. Tomorrow would be Scylsday; the market would be closed, officially at least, and nearly empty. That was the best time for turning in a report, and the trader would be leaving on Hieraxday. There were still five of the little carved Sphigxes left.
He squared his shoulders, reminding himself that he too was a trooper of a sort, brought out his pen case, the black ink, and several sheets of very thin paper. As always, it would be necessary to write in a way that would not reveal his identity, should his report be intercepted.
And to report sufficient progress to prevent his being withdrawn. Tonight that would not be difficult.
Not that he would not like to go home, he told himself, and particularly to go home before the rains arrived, though they said that home had once been as wet as this place. Or rather, as wet as this place normally was.
He chose a crow quill and meticulously touched up its point. “There is a movement to restore the Charter. It is centered upon one Silk, a young augur of no family. He is said to have been the object of miracles, attributed to Pas or Scylla. Thus far it seems confined to the lower orders. The watchword ‘Silk for caldé’ is written on walls, although not” (it was a guess, but Crane felt confident of his ground) “on the Palatine. I am in contact with him and am gaining his trust. I have seen to it that he has an azoth. This can be reported if it proves necessary to destroy him.”
Crane grinned to himself; that had been pure luck, but it would open their eyes.
“The Civil Guard is being expanded again. All units are at or over full strength. There is talk of forming a reserve brigade, officered by veterans.”
For nearly half a minute, he sat staring at what he had written; better to say too little than too much. He dipped the crow quill for the twentieth time. “The bird has been freed. Its trainer says this is necessary. He will try to lure it back within the next few days. Lemur and Loris are reported to have observed its release.”
And to have emerged from the subcellar, as upon several previous occasions, Crane reminded himself. Unquestionably the Ayuntamiento was making extensive use of the half-flooded construction tunnels, though its headquarters was not there.
Or could not be located if it was, although so many had perished there searching for it. Besides Viron’s dormant army, there were Vironese soldiers in those tunnels, as well as several taluses.
Crane shook his head, then smiled at the thought of the Rani’s reward. Turning to his glass, he clapped his hands. “Monitor!”
The floating face appeared.
“Code. Snakeroot. What have you got for me?”
Blood’s fleshy features filled the glass. “Councillor Lemur ought to hear this.”
Blood’s face was replaced by the deceptively cheerful-looking visage of Potto. “You can give me the message.”
“I’d rather—”
Crane smiled at Blood’s reluctance.
“That doesn’t matter. What is it?”
Crane edged nearer the glass.
When Blood had faded and the monitor reappeared to tell him there were no further exchanges of interest, Crane dipped his quill again. “Later. The bird has come back of its own volition. It is said to be in good condition.”
He wiped the quill carefully and returned it to his pen case, blew on the paper, and folded and refolded it until it was scarcely larger than his thumbnail. When he pressed it into Sphigx’s swordless left hand, the hand closed upon it.
Crane smiled, put away his pen case and the remaining paper, and considered the advisability of a long soak in the tub before bed. There was a good light in the bathroom—he had installed it himself—and if he read for an hour, the tightly folded sheet would have taken on the brown hue of the elaborately carved wood before he retired. He always liked seeing that, enjoyed making sure. He was, as he had to be, a very careful man.
* * *
“Thanks,” Auk said as he resumed his seat. “I feel better now. Listen, Patera, do you know how to use that thing?”
“The needler?” Silk shrugged. “I fired it, as I told you. Not other than that.”
Auk refilled his goblet. “I meant the azoth. No, naturally you don’t, but I’ll tell you about the needler anyhow.”
He drew his own needler, twice the size of the engraved and gold-plated weapon in Silk’s pocket. “Notice I got the safety on? There’s a lever like this on both sides.”
“Yes,” Silk said. “So it won’t shoot. I know about that.”
“Fine.” Auk pointed with his table knife. “This pin here, sticking out? You call this the status pin. If it’s pushed out like that, you’ve got needles left.”
Silk took Hyacinth’s needler from his pocket again. “You’re right, it’s flush with the side.”
“Now watch. I can empty mine by pulling this loading knob back.”
A silver fountain of needles sprang from the breach of Auk’s needler and scattered over the table. Silk picked one up.
“There’s not much to see,” Au
k said. “Just little rods of solid alloy—some kind of stuff that a lodestone pulls a lot better than steel.”
Silk tested the tip with his finger. “I thought they’d be sharper.”
“Huh-uh. They wouldn’t work as good. If a thing as little as that went straight through somebody, it probably wouldn’t do much damage. You want it to slew around so it cuts sidewise. The point’s rounded just a shade to make it feed into the barrel, but not much.”
Silk put down the needle. “What makes the noise?”
“The air.” Auk smiled at Silk’s surprise. “When you were a sprat, didn’t some other sprat ever sling a rock at you and almost hit you? So you heard the rock go past your ear?”
Silk nodded.
“All right, there wasn’t a bang like with a slug gun, was there? It was just a rock, and the other sprat threw it with his sling. What you heard was the rock going through the air, just like you might hear the wind in the chimney. The bigger the rock was, and the faster it was going, the more noise it would make.”
“I see,” Silk murmured, and with the words the entire scene returned, glowing with the vivid colors and hot shame of youth: the whizzing stones, his futile defense and final flight, the blood that had streamed from his face down his best white tunic to dye its embroidered flowers.
“All right, a needle’s just a tiny little thing, but when it’s shot out it goes so fast that the rock might just as well be traveling backwards. So it makes that noise you heard. If it had got slewed around before it hit that jug you shot, it would have screeched like a tomcat.” Auk swept his needles into a pile with his hands. “They drop down inside the handle. See? All right. Right under my finger is a little washer with a hole in the middle and a lot of sparks in it.”
Silk raised his eyebrows, more than ready to grasp at any distraction. “Sparks?”
“Just like you see if you pet a cat in the dark. They got put into the washer when this needler was made, and they chase each other around and around the hole in that washer till you need them. When I close the breech, that’ll stick the first needle into the barrel, see?” Auk flicked on the safety. “If I’d have pulled the trigger, that would tap off some sparks for the coil. And as long as it’s got sparks, that coil works like a big lodestone. It’s up front here looped around the barrel, and it sucks the needle to it real fast. You’d think it would stay right there after it gets there, wouldn’t you?”
