Nightside the Long Sun

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And to report sufficient progress to prevent his being withdrawn.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,” Auk 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?”

Silk nodded again. “Or be drawn back to the coil, if it overshot.”

“Right. Only it don’t happen, because the last spark is through the coil before the needle ever gets there. Are you finished, Patera? I’ve told you just about everything I know.”

“Yes, and the entire meal was delightful. Superb, in fact. I’m extremely grateful to you, Auk. However, I do have one more question before we go, though no doubt it will seem a very silly one to you. Why is your needler so much bigger than this one? What advantages are secured by the increase in size?”

Auk weighed his weapon in his hand before thrusting it away. “Well, Patera, for one thing mine holds a lot more needles. Full up, there’s a hundred and twenty-five. I’d say your little one there most likely only holds fifty or sixty. Mine are longer, too, which is why I can’t give you some of mine to use in yours. Longer needles mean a wider cut when they slew around, and a wider cut takes your cull out of the fight quicker. My barrel’s longer, too, and the needles are a hair thicker. All that gives ’em half a dog’s cheek more speed, so they’ll go in deeper.”

“I understand.” Silk had drawn back the loading knob of Hyacinth’s needler and was peering at the rather simple-looking mechanism revealed by the open breech.

“A needler like yours is all right inside a house or a place like this, but outside you’d better be up close before you pull the trigger. If you’re not, your needle’s going to start slewing around in the air before it ever gets to your cull, and once it starts doing that, don’t even Pas’s sprats—your pardon, Patera—know where it’s going to end up.”

Looking thoughtful, Silk got out one of Blood’s cards. “If you would allow me, Auk. I’m heavily indebted to you.”

“I already paid, Patera.” Auk rose, pushing back his chair until it thumped the wall. “Some other time, maybe.” He grinned. “Now then. You remember I said don’t even the gods know where your needles are going?”

“Of course.” Silk rose as well, finding his ankle less painful than he had anticipated.

“Well, maybe they don’t. But I do, and I’ll tell you soon as we get outside. I know where you and me are going to go, too.”

“I should return to my manteion.” By an effort of will, Silk was able to walk almost normally.

“This won’t take more than a couple hours, and I got two or three surprises I want to show you.”

The first was a litter for one, with a pair of bearers. Silk climbed into it with some trepidation, wondering whether there would be any such conveyance to carry him to the manse when the business of the evening was done. The shade had risen until no sliver of gold remained, and a dulcet breeze whispered soothingly that the dust and heat of vanquished day had been but empty lies. It fanned Silk’s flushed cheeks, and the sensual pleasure it gave him told him he had drunk one goblet of wine too many. Sadly, he resolved to watch himself more strictly in the future.

Auk strode along beside the litter, his grin flashing in the semidarkness. Silk felt something small, squarish, and heavy thrust into his hand.

“What we was talking about, Patera. Put ’em in your pocket.”

By that time, Silk’s fingers had told him that it was a paper-wrapped packet, tightly tied with string. “How…?”

“The waiter. I had a word with him when I stepped out, see? They ought to fit, but don’t try them here.”

Silk dropped the packet of needles into the pocket of his robe. “I—Thank you again, Auk. I don’t know what to say.”

“I had him whistle out this trot-about for you, and he sent a pot boy off after those. If they don’t fit, tell me tomorrow. Only I think they will.”

The litter halted much sooner than Silk had expected, before a tall house whose lower and third stories were dark, though the windows between them blazed with light. When Auk knocked, the door was opened by a lean old man with a small, untidy beard and white hair more disordered even than Silk’s own.

“Aha! Good! Good!” The old man exclaimed. “Inside! Inside! Just shut the door. Shut the door, and follow me.” He went up the stair two steps at a time, with a speed that Silk would have found astonishing in someone half his age.

“His name’s Xiphias,” Auk told him when he had finished paying the bearers. “He’s going to be your teacher.”

“Teacher of what?”

“Hacking. Thirty years ago, he was best. The best in Viron, anyhow.” Turning, Auk led Silk inside and closed the door. “He says he’s better now, but the younger men won’t accept his challenges. They say they don’t want to show him up, but I don’t know.” Auk chuckled. “Think how they’d feel if the old goat beat them.”

Nodding and content to wonder for a few minutes longer what “hacking” might be, Silk seated himself on the second step and removed Crane’s wrapping; it was cold, and though he could not be certain in the dimness of the hallway, he thought that he could feel actual ice crystals in the nap of its cloth covering. He struck the floor with it “Do you know about these?”

Auk stooped to look more closely. “I don’t know. What you got?”

“A truly wonderful bandage for my ankle.” Silk lashed the floor again. “It winds itself around the broken bone almost like a serpent. Doctor Crane lent it to me. You’re supposed to kick it or something until it gets hot.”

“Can I see it for a minute? I can do that better, standing up.”

Silk handed him the wrapping.

“I heard of them, and I saw one once, only I didn’t get to touch it. Thirty cards they wanted for it.” Auk slapped the wall with the wrapping; when he squatted to help Silk replace it, it felt hot enough to smoke.

The stair was as steep and narrow as the house itself, covered with torn carpeting so threadbare as to be actually slick in spots; but helped manfully by Auk and urged forward by curiosity, jaw set and putting as much weight as possible on Blood’s lioness-headed stick, Silk climbed it almost as quickly as he might have with two sound legs.

The door at the top opened upon a single bare room that occupied the entire second story; its floor was covered with worn sailcloth mats, its walls decorated with swords, many of them of shapes that Silk had never seen or never noticed, and long cane foils with basketwork hilts.

“You’re lame!” Xiphias called. “Limping!” He danced toward them, thrusting and parrying.

“I injured my ankle,” Silk told him. “It should be better in a few weeks.”

Xiphias pushed his foil into Silk’s hands. “But you must start now! Begin your lessons this very evening! Do you know how to hold that? You’re left-handed? Good! Very good! I’ll teach you the right, too, eventually. Keep your stick in your right, eh? You may parry, but not thrust or cut with it. Is that understood? May I have a stick too? You agree that’s fair? No objection? Where—Over there!” An astonishing bound carried him to the nearest wall, from which he snatched two more foils and a yellow walking stick so slender that it was scarcely more than a wand; like the foils it was of varnished bamboo.

Silk told him, “I can’t engage you with this bad ankle, sir, and the Chapter frowns upon all such activities—not that I’d be an even match or anything like a match for you. Besides, I have no funds to pay for a lesson.”

“Aha! Auk’s your friend? Your word on his score, Auk? It’s not just to get him killed, is it?”

Auk shook his head.

“He’s my friend, and I’m his.” As soon as Silk spoke, he realized that it was no more than the truth. He added, “Because I am, I won’t let him pay.”

Xiphias’s voice dropped to a whisper. “You won’t fight, you say, with your cloth and gimp leg. But what if you were attacked? You’d have to. Have to … And since Auk’s your friend, he’d fight too, wouldn’t he? Fight for you? You say you don’t want him to pay. Don’t you think he feels the same way?”

He tossed Auk a foil. “Not made of money are you, Auk? A good thief but a poor man, isn’t that what they say about you? Wouldn’t you—wouldn’t you both like to save Auk all that money? Yes! Oh, yes! I know you would.”

Auk unbuckled his hanger and laid it against the wall. “If we beat him, he won’t charge me.”

“That’s right!” Xiphias sprang away. “Will you excuse me, Patera, while I remove my trousers?”

They fell as he spoke; one spindle-thin leg was black synthetic and gleaming steel. At the touch of the old man’s fingers, it too fell away, leaving him swaying on a single, natural, knotted, blue-veined leg. “What do you think of my secret? Five it took!” He hopped toward them, balancing himself precariously with his foil and the yellow walking stick. “Five I found!”

Almost too late, Silk blocked a wide, whistling cut at his head.

“Too many parts? Scarcely enough!” Another swinging slash. “Don’t cringe!”

Auk lunged at the old man. His parry was too swift for the eye to follow; the crack of his foil against Auk’s skull sounded louder than Auk’s shot in the Cock. Auk sprawled on the sailcloth mat.

“Now, Patera! Guard yourself!”

For the space of a brief prayer that seemed half the night, that was all Silk did, frantically fending off cut after cut, forehand, backhand, to the head, to the neck, to the arms, the shoulders, the waist. There was no time to think, no time to do anything but react. Almost in spite of himself, he began to sense a certain pattern, a rhythm that governed the old man’s slashing attack. Despite his ankle, he could move faster, turn faster, than the old man on his one leg.

“Good! Good! After me! Good!”

Xiphias was on the defensive now, parrying the murderous cuts Silk launched at his head and shoulders.

“Use the point! Watch this!” The old man lunged, his slender stick the leg he lacked, the end of his foil between Silk’s legs, then under his left arm. Silk himself thrust desperately. Xiphias’s parry sent his point awry. Silk cut at his head and lunged when he backed away.

“Where’d you study, lad?”

Auk was on his feet once more, grinning and rubbing his head. Feeling that he had been betrayed, Silk thrust and parried, cut, and parried the old man’s cuts. There was no time to speak, no time to think, no time to do anything but fight. He had dropped the lioness-headed stick, but it did not matter—the pain in his ankle was remote, the pain of somebody else far off, of some body that he hardly knew.

“Good! Oh, very nice!”

The clack, clack, clack of the foils was the beating of the Sphigxdrum that called men to war, the rattle of crotala that led the dance, a dance in which every movement had to be as quick as possible.

“I’ll take him, Auk! I’ll teach him! He’s mine!”

Hopping and half falling, propped by his slender stick, the old man met each attack with careless ease, his mad eyes burning with joy.

Maddened too, Silk thrust at them. His bamboo blade flew wide, and the slender walking stick struck a single, paralyzing blow to his wrist. His foil dropped to the mat, and Xiphias’s point thumped his breastbone. “You’re dead, Patera!”

Silk stared at him, rubbed his wrist, and at last spat at the old man’s feet. “You cheated. You said I couldn’t hit with my stick, but you hit me with yours.”

“I did! Oh, yes!” The old man flung it into the air and parried it as it fell. “But aren’t I sorry? Isn’t my heart torn? Overflowing with remorse? Oh, it is, it is! I weep! Where would you like to be buried?”

Auk said quietly, “There ain’t any rules, Patera, not when we fight. Somebody lives, somebody dies. That’s all there is.”

Silk started to speak, thought better of it, swallowed, and said, “I understand. If I’d considered something that happened this afternoon more seriously—as I should have before now—I would have understood sooner. You’re right, of course, sir. You’re both right.”

“Where did you study?” Xiphias asked. “Who’s your old master?”

“No one,” Silk told him truthfully. “We used to fence with laths when I was a boy, sometimes; but I’d never held a real foil before.”

Xiphias cocked a bushy eyebrow at him. “Like that, eh? Or perhaps you’re still angry because I tricked you?” He hopped over to Blood’s fallen walking stick, snatched it up (practically falling himself) and tossed it to Silk. “Want to hit me back? Punish me for trying to save you? Do your worst!”

“Of course not. I’d rather thank you, Xiphias, and I do.” Silk rubbed the crusted bruise Musk had left on his ribs. “It was a lesson I needed. When may I come for my next?”

While the old man was considering, Auk said, “He’ll be a good contact for you, Patera. He’s a master-of-arms, not just of the sword. He was the one that sold the boy your needles, see?”

“Mornings, afternoons, or evenings?” Xiphias inquired. “Would evenings be all right? Good! Can we say Hieraxday, then?”

Silk nodded again. “Hieraxday after shadelow, Master Xiphias.”

Auk brought the old man his prosthetic leg and helped him keep his balance while he closed its socket about his stump.

“You see,” Xiphias asked, tapping it with his foil, “that I’ve earned the right to do what I did? That I was cheated once myself? That I paid the price when I was as young and strong as you are today?”

Outside, in the hot, silent street, Auk said, “We’ll find you a litter before long, Patera. I’ll pay ’em, but then I’ll have to get going.”

Silk smiled. “If I can fight with that marvelous old madman on this ankle, I can certainly walk home on it. You may leave me now, Auk, and Pas’s peace go with you. I won’t try to thank you for everything you’ve done for me tonight. I couldn’t, even if I talked until morning. But I’ll repay you whenever I get the chance.”

Auk grinned and clapped him on the back. “No hurry, Patera.”

“Down this little street—it’s String Street, I know it—and I’ll be on Sun Street. A few steps east, and I’ll be at the manteion. You have business of your own to attend to, I’m certain. And so good night.”

He took care to stride along normally until Auk was out of sight, then permitted himself to limp, leaning on Blood’s stick. His bout with Master Xiphias had left him drenched with sweat; fortunately the night wind had no edge to it.

Autumn was nearly over. Was it only yesterday that it had rained? Silk assured himself that it was. Winter was almost upon them, though there was only that shower to prove it. The crops were in—meager crops, most peasants said, hardly worth the work of harvest; the parched dead of summer seemed to last longer each year, and this year the heat had been terrible. As it still was, for that matter.

Here was Sun Street; wide though it was, he had almost missed the turning. The funeral tomorrow—Orpine’s final rites, and very likely her first as well. He recalled what Auk had said about her and wished that he had known her, as perhaps Hyacinth had. Had Maytera been able to cash Orchid’s draft? He would have to find out—perhaps she had left him a note. He wouldn’t have to tell her to sweep the manteion. Could rue still be had cheaply in the market? No, could rue be had at any price? Almost certainly, yes. And …

And there was the manse, with the manteion beyond it; but he had barred the Sun Street door.

He hobbled diagonally across Sun Street to the garden gate, unlocked and opened it, and locked it again carefully behind him. As he went along the narrow path to the manse, where no one slept or ate or lived except himself, voices floated into the garden through the open window. One was harsh, rising almost to a shout, then sinking to a mutter. The other, speaking of Pas and Echidna, of Hierax and Molpe and all the gods, was in some odd fashion familiar.

He paused for a moment to listen, then sat down on the old worn step. It was—surely it was—his own.

“… who makes the crops to shoot forth from dirt,” said this second voice. “You sprats have all seen it, and you’d think it wonderfully wonderful if you hadn’t.”

It was his talk at manteion from Molpsday, or rather a parody of it. But perhaps he had really sounded like that, had sounded that foolish. No doubt he sounded that foolish still.

“Thus when we see the trees dancing in the breeze we are to think of her, but not only of her, of her mother, too, for we would not have her without her mother, or the trees, or even the dance.”

He had said that, surely. Those had been his precise words—that babble. The Outsider had not only spoken to him, but had somehow split him in two: the Patera Silk who lived here and was speaking now in the musty sellaria, and he himself, Silk the failed thief—Silk the foe and tool of Blood, Silk who was Auk’s friend, who had in his waistband an azoth lent him by a whore and her trumpery needler in his pocket.

Silk who longed to see her again.

The harsh voice: “Silk good!”

Perhaps. But was it that Silk or this one, himself? Was it this one, with Hyacinth’s azoth in its hand, drawn unconsciously? This Silk who feared and hated Musk, and ached to kill him?

Of whom was he afraid? That other Silk would not have harmed a mouse, had postponed getting the ratsnake he needed again and again, visualizing the suffering of—rats. And yet it would be a fearful thing to meet that Silk whom he had been, and was a fearful thing to meet him now, in voice and memory. Had he truly become someone else?

He tore open the heavy, paper-wrapped packet Auk had put into his hand, dropping several needles. More filled the open breech of the needler like water, he released the loading knob and the breech closed. The needler would fire now if he needed it.

Or perhaps would not.

Patera Silk, and Silk nightside. He found that he, the latter, was contemptuous of the former, though envious, too.

His own voice echoed from the manse. “In the names of all the immortal gods, who give us all we have.”

Strange gifts, at times. He had saved this manteion, or had at least postponed its destruction; now, hearing the voice of its augur, he knew that it had never really been worth saving—though he had been sent to save it. Grim-faced, he rose, thrust the azoth back into his waistband and dropped the needler into his pocket again with what remained of the packet of needles, and dusted the back of his robe.

Everything had changed because he himself was changed. How had it happened? When he climbed Blood’s wall? When he had entered the manteion to get the hatchet? Long ago, when he had helped force the window, with the other boys? Or had Mucor laid some spell on him, there in her filthy, lightless room? Mucor was one who might lay spells, if any did; Mucor was a devil, in so far as devils were. Was it she who had drunk poor Teasel’s blood?

“Mucor,” Silk whispered. “Are you here? Are you still following me?” For a moment he seemed to hear an answering whisper, as the night wind stirred the dry leaves of the fig tree.

Gabbling now, his voice from the window: “Here hear what the Writings here have to Say-ilk. Here hear the high hopes of Horrible Hierax.”

“Here axe,” repeated the harsh voice, as though mocking his finding the hatchet, and Silk recognized it.

No, it had not been Mucor, or his deciding to take the hatchet or any such thing. All gods were good, but might not the unfathomable Outsider be good in a dark way? As Auk was, or as Auk might be? Suddenly Silk remembered the whorl outside the whorl, the Outsider’s immeasurable whorl beneath his feet. So dark.

Yet lit by scattered motes.

With one hand on the needler in his pocket, he opened the door of the manse and stepped inside.