Nightside the Long Sun

NIGHTSIDE

It had been late already when they had left the city. Beyond the black streak of the shade, the skylands had been as clear and as bright as Silk (who normally retired early and rose at shadeup) had ever seen them; he stared at them as he rode, his thoughts drowned in wonder. Here were nameless mountains filling inviolate valleys to the rim with their vast, black shadows. Here were savannah and steppe, and a coastal plain ringing a lake that he judged must certainly be larger than Lake Limna—all these doming the gloomy sky of night while they themselves were bathed in sunlight.

As they had walked the dirty and dangerous streets of the Orilla, Auk had remarked, “There’s strange things happen nightside, Patera. I don’t suppose you know it, but that’s the lily word anyhow.”

“I do know,” Silk had assured him. “I shrive, don’t forget, so I hear about them. Or at least I’ve heard a few very strange stories that I can’t relate. You must have seen the things as they occurred, and that must be stranger still.”

“What I was going to say,” Auk had continued, “was that I never heard about any that was any stranger than this, what you’re going to do, or try to do. Or seen anything stranger, either.”

Silk had sighed. “May I speak as an augur, Auk? I realize that a great many people are offended by that, and Our Gracious Phaea knows I don’t want to offend you. But this once may I speak?”

“If you’re going to say something you wouldn’t want anybody to hear, why, I wouldn’t.”

“Quite the contrary,” Silk had declared, perhaps a bit too fervently. “It’s something that I wish I could tell the whole city.”

“Keep your voice down, Patera, or you will.”

“I told you a god had spoken to me. Do you remember that?”

Auk had nodded.

“I’ve been thinking about it as we walked along. To tell the truth, it’s not easy to think about anything else. Before I spoke to—to that unfortunate Musk. Well, before I spoke to him, for example, I ought to have been thinking over everything that I wanted to say to him. But I wasn’t, or not very much. Mostly I was thinking about the Outsider; not so much what he had said to me as what it had been like to have him speaking to me at all, and how it had felt.”

“You did fine, Patera.” Auk had, to Silk’s surprise, laid a hand on his shoulder. “You did all right.”

“I don’t agree, though I won’t argue with you now. What I wanted to say was that there is really nothing strange at all about what I’m doing, or about your helping me to do it. Does the sun ever go out, Auk? Does it ever wink out as you or I might snuff out a lamp?”

“I don’t know, Patera. I never thought about it. Does it?”

Silk had not replied, continuing in silence down the muddy street, matching Auk stride for stride.

“I guess it don’t. You couldn’t see them skylands up there nightside, if it did.”

“So it is with the gods, Auk. They speak to us all the time, exactly as the sun shines all the time. When the dark cloud that we call the shade gets between us and the sun, we say it’s night, or nightside, a term I never heard until I came to Sun Street.”

“It don’t really mean night, Patera. Not exactly. It means … All right, look at it like this. There’s a day way of doing, see? That’s the regular way. And then there’s the other way, and nightside’s when you do this other way—when everything’s on the night side of the shade.”

“We’re on the night side of the shade for only half the day,” Silk had told him. “But we are on the night side of whatever it is that bars us from the gods almost constantly, throughout our whole lives. And we really shouldn’t be. We weren’t meant to be. I got that one small ray of sunshine, you see, and it shouldn’t be strange at all. It should be the most ordinary thing in the whorl.”

He had expected Auk to laugh, and was surprised and pleased when he did not.

They had rented donkeys from a man Auk knew, a big gray for Auk and a smaller black for Silk. “Because I’ll have to lead him back,” Auk had said. “We got to get that straight right now. He don’t stay with you.”

Silk had nodded.

“You’re going to get caught, like I told you, Patera. You’ll talk to Blood, maybe, like you want. But it’ll be after they get you. I don’t like it, but there it is. So you’re not going to need him to ride back on, and I’m not going to lose what I’m giving this donkey man to hold, which is double what he’d cost in the market.”

“I understand,” Silk had assured him.

Now, as they trotted along a narrow track that to him at least was largely invisible, with the toes of his only decent shoes intermittently intimidated by the stony soil, Auk’s words returned to trouble him. Tearing his eyes from the skylands, he called, “You warned me that Blood was going to catch me, back there in the city while you were renting these donkeys for us. What do you think he’ll do to me if he does?”

Auk twisted about to look at him, his face a pale blur in the shadow of the crowding trees. “I don’t know, Patera. But you’re not going to like it.”

“You may not know,” Silk said, “but you can guess much better than I can. You know Blood better than I do. You’ve been in his house, and I’m sure you must know several people who know him well. You’ve done business with him.”

“Tried to, Patera.”

“All right, tried to. Still you know what kind of man he is. Would he kill me, for breaking into his house? Or for threatening him? I fully intend to threaten his life if he won’t return our manteion to the Chapter, assuming that I get that far.”

“I hope not, Patera.”

Unbidden and unwanted, Musk’s features rose from Silk’s memory, perfect—yet corrupt, like the face of a devil. So softly that he was surprised that Auk heard it, Silk said, “I have been wondering whether I shouldn’t take my own life if I am caught. If I am, I say, although I hope not to be, and am determined not to be. It’s seriously wrong to take one’s own life, and yet—”

A chain or more ahead, Auk chuckled. “Kill yourself, Patera? Yeah, it could be a good idea. Keep it in mind, depending. You won’t tell Blood about me?”

“I’ve sworn,” Silk reminded him. “I would never break that oath.”

“Good.” Auk turned away again, his posture intent as his eyes sought to penetrate the shadows.

Clearly Auk had been less than impressed by his mention of suicide, and for a moment Silk resented it. But Auk was right. How could he serve any god if he set out determined to resign his task if it became too difficult? Auk had been correct to laugh; he was no better than a child, sallying forth with a wooden sword to conquor the whorl—something that he had in fact done not too many years ago.

Yet it was easy for Auk to remain calm, easy for Auk to mock his fears. Auk, who had no doubt broken into scores of these country villas, was not going to break into this one, or even to assist him in doing it. And yet, Silk reminded himself, Auk’s own position was by no means impregnable.

“I would never violate my solemn oath, sworn to all the gods,” Silk said aloud. “And besides, if Blood were to find out about you and have you killed—he didn’t strike me as the type who kill men themselves—there would be no one to help me escape him.”

Auk cleared his throat and spat, the sound unnaturally loud in the airless stillness of the forest. “I’m not going to do a shaggy thing for you, Patera. You can forget about that. You’re working for the gods, right? Let them get you out.”

Almost whispering, because he was saddened by the knowledge, Silk said, “Yes, you will, Auk.”

“Sneeze it!”

“Because you couldn’t ever be certain that I wouldn’t tell, eventually. I won’t, but you don’t trust me. Or at least not that much.”

Auk snorted.

“And since you’re a better man than you pretend to be, the knowlege that I—not I particularly perhaps, but an augur who had been a companion of sorts, if only for this one night—required your help would devour you, even if you denied it a hundred times or more, as you very probably would. Thus you’ll help me if you can, Auk, eventually and possibly quite quickly. I know you will. And because you will, it will go much better for me if Blood doesn’t know about you.”

“I’d crawl a long way in for a while, maybe, but that’s all. Maybe go see Palustria for a year or three till Blood was gone or he’d forgotten about me. People ain’t like you think, Patera. Maybe you studied a long time, but there’s a lot that you don’t know.”

Which was true enough, Silk admitted to himself. For whatever inscrutable reasons, the gods thrust bios into the whorl knowing nothing of it; and if they waited until they were so wise as to make no mistakes before they acted, they waited forever. With sudden poignancy Silk wished that he might indeed wait forever, as some men did.

And yet he felt certain that he was right about Auk, and Auk wrong about himself. Auk still returned at times to talk with little Maytera Mint; and Auk had killed a man that evening—a serious matter even to a criminal, since the dead man had friends—because that man had been about to kill the big man called Gib. Auk might be a thief and even a murderer; but he had no real talent for murder, no innate bent toward evil. Not even Blood had such a bent, perhaps. He, Silk, had seen someone who did in Blood’s glass, and he promised himself now that he would never again mistake mere dishonesty or desperation for it again.

“But I know you, Auk,” he said softly. He shifted his weight in the vain hope of finding a more comfortable spot on the crude saddle. “I may be too trusting of people in general, as you say; but I’m right about you. You’ll help me when you think that I require it.”

Auk made a quick, impatient gesture, barely visible in the gloom. “Be quiet there, Patera. We’re getting pretty close.”

If there had ever been a real path, they were leaving it. With seeing feet, the donkeys picked their way up a rock-strewn hillside, often unavoidably bathed in the eerie skylight. At the top, Auk reined up and dismounted; Silk followed his example. Here the faintest of night breezes stirred, as stealthy as a thief itself, making away with the mingled scents of post oak and mulberry, of grass and fern withered almost to powder, of a passing fox, and the very essence of the night. The donkeys raised their long muzzles to catch it, and Silk fanned himself with his wide straw hat.

“See them lights, Patera?” Auk pointed toward a faint golden glimmer beyond the treetops. “That’s Blood’s place. What we did was circle around behind it, see? That’s what we been doing ever since we got off the main road. On the other side, there’s a big gate of steel bars, and a grass-way for floaters that goes up to the front. Can you see that black line, kind of wavy, between us and the house?”

Silk squinted and stared, but could not.

“That’s a stone wall about as high as that little tree down there. It’s got big spikes on top, which I’d say is mostly for show. Could be if you threw your rope up there and caught one, you could climb up the wall—I don’t know that anybody’s ever tried it. Only Blood’s got protection, understand? Guards, and a big talus that I know about for sure. I don’t know what else. You ever done anything like this before, Patera?”

Silk shook his head.

“I didn’t think so. All right, here’s all that’s going to happen, probably. You’re going to try to get over that wall, with your rope or whatever, only you’re not going to make it. Along about shadeup, you’re going to start hiking back to the city, feeling worse than shit in the street and thinking that I’m going to laugh myself sick at you. Only I’m not. I’m going to sacrifice ’cause you came back alive, understand? A black ram to Tartaros, see? A good big one, at your manteion the day after tomorrow, you got my word on that.”

Auk paused for breath.

“And after my sacrifice is over, I’m going to make you swear you’ll never try anything this stupid ever again. You think you can make Blood swear to give back your manteion, which you can’t. And you think he’ll stick with whatever he swore to afterward, which he wouldn’t, not for every god in Mainframe. But I can make you swear, Patera, and I’m going to—see if I don’t. And I know you’ll stick. You’re the kind that does.”

Silk said gratefully, “This is really very good of you, Auk. I don’t deserve it.”

“If I was really good I wouldn’t have hired us these donkeys, Patera. I’d have hiked out here with you and let you tire yourself—that way you’d come back that much quicker.”

Troubled, Auk paused, running his fingers through his hair. “Only if you do get inside, it’d be all queer if you was tired. You don’t work when you’re fagged out, not in my trade, only when you’re cold up and full of jump. Only I’ve done a hundred or more, and I wouldn’t try to solve this one for a thousand goldboys. Good-bye, Patera. Phaea smile on you.”

“Wait a moment.” Silk took him by the sleeve. “Haven’t you been inside that house? You said you had.”

“A couple of times on business, Patera. I don’t know anything much about it.”

“You said that I was certain to be caught, and I’ll concede that you may very well be correct. Nevertheless, I don’t intend to be caught; and if I am, I will have failed the Outsider, the god who has sent me, just as I will have failed him if I don’t make the attempt tonight. Can’t you see that? Haven’t you ever been caught yourself, Auk? You must have been.”

Auk nodded reluctantly. “Once, Patera, when I was just a sprat. He winnowed me out. By Phaea’s sow, I thought he was going to kill me. And when he was through, he kicked me out into the street. That was right in our quarter. I’ll show you the house sometime.”

He tried to pull free, but Silk retained his grip on his sleeve. “How were you caught, Auk? What was it that you did wrong? Tell me, please, so I won’t make the same mistake.”

“You done it already, Patera.” Auk sounded apologetic. “Look here. I’d solved a few places, and I got pretty hot on myself and thought I couldn’t get caught. I had some picks, know what I mean? And I showed ’em off and called myself a master of the art, thinking Tartaros himself would pull his hat off to me. Got to where I never troubled to look things over the way a flash buck ought to.”

Auk fell silent, and Silk asked, “What was the detail you overlooked?”

“Debt, Patera.” Auk chuckled. “That don’t go with Blood, ’cause it’s not him you got to worry about.”

“Tell me anyway,” Silk insisted.

“Well, Patera, this bucko that had the house had a good lay, see? Taking care of all the shoes and such like up at Ermine’s. You know about Ermine’s? A goldboy or maybe two for supper. Gilt places like that deal on Scylsday, ’cause Sphigxday’s their plum night, see? So I gleaned once he’d got off he’d put down a few and snoodge like a soldier. If I was to flush his fussock—rouse up his wife, Patera—she’d stave her broom getting him off straw, and I’d beat the hoof to my own tune. Only he owed ’em, you see? Up to Ermine’s. They’re holding his lowre back on him, so he was straight up, or nearly. So he napped me and I owed it.”

Silk nodded.

“Now you tonight, Patera, you’re doing the same thing. You’re not flash. You don’t know who’s there or who ain’t, or how big the rooms might be, or what kind of windows. Not a pip of the scavy you got to have right in your hand.”

“You must be able to tell me something,” Silk said.

Auk adjusted the heavy hanger he wore. “The house’s a tidy stone place with a wing to each side. Three floors in ’em, and the middle’s two. When you come in the front like I did, there’s a big front room, and that’s the farthest I got. Him that told me about floors says there’s a capital cellar and another underneath. There’s guards. You saw one of that quality in my glass. And there’s a tall ass, begging your pardon, Patera. Like what I told you already.”

“Have you any idea where Blood sleeps?”

Auk shook his head, the motion scarcely visible. “But he don’t sleep a hour, nightside. The flash never do, see? His business’ll keep him out of bed till shadeup.” Sensing Silk’s incomprehension, Auk elaborated. “People coming to talk to him like I did, or the ones that work for him with their hats off so he can tell where they come from and where they’re going, Patera.”

“I see.”

Auk took the reins of the smaller donkey and mounted his own. “You got four, maybe five hours to shadeup. Then you got to get back. I wouldn’t be too close to that wall then if I was you, Patera. There might come a guard walking the top. I’ve known ’em to do that.”

“All right.” Silk nodded, reflecting that he had some ground to cover before he was near the wall at all. “Thank you again. I won’t betray you, whatever you may think; and I won’t get caught if I can help it.”

As he watched Auk ride away, Silk wondered what he had really been like as a schoolboy, and what Maytera Mint had found to say to that much younger Auk that had left so deep an impression. For Auk believed, despite his hard looks and thieves’ cant; and unlike many superficially better men, his faith was more than superstition. Scylla’s smiling picture on the wall of that dismal, barren room had not come to its place by accident. Its presence there had revealed more to Silk than Auk’s glass: deep within his being, Auk’s spirit knelt in adoration.

Inspired by the thought, Silk knelt himself, though the sharp flints of the hilltop gouged his knees. The Outsider had warned him that he would receive no aid—still, it was licit, surely, to ask help of other gods; and dark Tartaros was the patron of all who acted outside the law.

“A black lamb to you alone, kindly Tartaros, as quickly as I can afford another. Be mindful of me, who come in the service of a minor god.”

But Blood, too, acted outside the law, dealing in rust and women and even smuggled goods, or so Auk had indicated; it was more than possible that Tartaros would favor Blood.

Sighing, Silk stood, dusted off the legs of his oldest trousers, and began to pick his way down the rocky hillside. Things would be as they would be, and he had no choice but to proceed, whether with the aid of the dark god or without it. Pas the Twice-Seeing might side with him, or Scalding Scylla, who wielded more influence here than her brother. Surely Scylla would not wish the city that most honored her to lose a manteion! Encouraged, Silk scrambled along.

The faint golden lights of Blood’s house soon vanished behind the treetops, and the breeze with them. Below the hill, the air lay hot and close again, stale, and overripe with a summer protracted beyond reason.

Or perhaps not. As Silk groped among close-set trunks, with leaves crackling and twigs popping beneath his feet, he reflected that if the year had been a more normal one, this forest might now lie deep in snow, and what he was doing would be next to impossible. Could it be that this parched, overheated, and seemingly immutable season had in actuality been prolonged for his benefit?

For a few seconds the thought halted him between step and step. All this heat and sweat, for him? Poor Maytera Marble’s daily sufferings, the children’s angry rashes, the withered crops and shrinking streams?

No sooner had he had the thought than he came close to falling into the gully of one, catching hold by purest luck to a branch he could not see. Cautiously he clambered down the uneven bank, then knelt on the water-smoothed stones of the streambed to seek water with his fingers, finding none. There might be pools higher or lower, but here at least what had been a stream could be no drier.

With head cocked, he listened for the familiar music of fast-flowing water over stones. Far away a nightjar called; the harsh sound died away, and the stillness of the forest closed in once more, the hushed expectancy of the thirsting trees.

This forest had been planted in the days of the caldé (or so one of his teachers at the schola had informed him) in order that its watershed might fill the city’s wells; and though the Ayuntamiento now permitted men of wealth to build within its borders, it remained vast, stretching more than fifty leagues toward Palustria. If its streams were this dry now, how long could Viron live? Would it be necessary to build a new city, if only a temporary one, on the lakeshore?

Wishing for light as well as water, Silk climbed the opposite bank, and after a hundred strides saw through the bare, close-ranked trees the welcome gleam of skylight on dressed and polished stone.

The wall surrounding Blood’s villa loomed higher and higher as he drew nearer. Auk had indicated a height of ten cubits or so; to Silk, standing before its massive base and peering up at the fugitive glints of skylight on the points of its ominous spikes, that estimate appeared unnecessarily conservative. Somewhat discouraged already, he uncoiled the thin horsehair rope he had worn about his waist, thrust the hatchet into his waistband, tied a running noose in one end of the rope as Auk had suggested, and hurled it up at those towering points.

For a moment that seemed at least a minute, the rope hung over him like a miracle, jet black against the shining skylands, lost in blind dark where it crossed the boundless, sooty smear of the shade. A moment more, and it lay limp at his feet.

Biting his lips, he gathered it, reopened the noose, and hurled it again. Unlooked-for, the last words of the dying stableman to whom he had carried the forgiveness of the gods a week earlier returned, the summation of fifty years of toil: “I tried, Patera. I tried.” With them, the broiling heat of the four-flight bedroom, the torn and faded horsecloths on the bed, the earthenware jug of water, and the hard end of bread (bread that some man of substance had no doubt intended for his mount) that the stableman could no longer chew.

Another throw. The ragged, amateurish sketch of the wife who had left when the stableman could no longer feed her and her children …

One last throw, and then he would return to the old manse on Sun Street—where he belonged—and go to bed, forgetting this absurd scheme of rescue with the brown lice that had crept across the faded blue horsecloths.

A final throw. “I tried, Patera. I tried.”

Descriptions of three children that their father had not seen since before he, Silk, had been born. All right, he thought, just one more attempt.

With this, his sixth cast, he snared a spike, and by this time he could only wonder whether someone in the house had not already seen his noose rising above the wall and falling back. He heaved hard on the rope and felt the noose tighten, wiped his sweating hands on his robe, planted his feet against the dressed stone of the wall, and started up. He had reached twice his own considerable height when the noose parted and he fell.

“Pas!” He spoke more loudly than he had intended. For three minutes or more after that exclamation he cowered in silence beside the base of the wall, rubbing his bruises and listening. At length he muttered, “Scylla, Tartaros, Great Pas, remember your servant. Don’t treat him so.” And stood to gather and examine his rope.

The noose had been sliced through, almost cleanly, at the place where it must have held the spike. Those spikes were sharp-edged, clearly, like the blades of swords, as he ought to have guessed.

Retreating into the forest, he groped among branches he could scarcely see for a forked one of the right size. The first half-blind blow from his hatchet sounded louder than the boom of a slug gun. He waited, listening again, certain that he would soon hear cries of alarm and hurrying feet.

Even the crickets were silent.

His fingertips explored the inconsiderable notch in the branch that his hatchet had made. He shifted his free hand to a safe position and struck hard at the branch again, then stood motionless to listen, as before.

Briefly and distantly (as he had long ago, a child and feverish, heard through a tightly closed window with drawn curtains, from three streets away, the faint yet melodious tinklings of the barrel organ that announces the gray beggar monkey) he caught a few bars of music, buoyant and inviting. Quickly it vanished, leaving behind only the monotonous song of the nightjar.

When he felt certain it would not return, he swung his hatchet again and again at the unseen wood, until the branch was free and he could brace it against its parent trunk for trimming. That done, he carried the rough fork out of the darkness of the trees and into the skylit clearing next to the wall, and knotted his rope securely at the point where the splayed arms met. A single hard throw sent the forked limb arching above the spikes; it held solidly against them when he drew it back.

He was breathless, his tunic and trousers soaked with sweat, by the time he pulled himself up onto the slanting capstone, where for several minutes he stretched panting between the spikes and the sheer drop.

He had been seen, beyond doubt—or if he had not, he would inevitably be seen as soon as he stood up. It would be utter folly to stand. As he sought to catch his breath, he assured himself that only such a fool as he would so much as consider it.

When he did stand up at last, fully expecting a shouted challenge or the report of a slug gun, he had to call upon every scrap of self-discipline to keep from looking down.

The top of the wall was a full cubit wider than he had expected, however—as wide as the garden walk. Stepping across the spikes (which his fingers had told him boasted serrated edges), he crouched to study the distant villa and its grounds, straightening his low-crowned hat and drawing his black robe across the lower half of his face.

The nearer wing was a good hundred cubits, he estimated, from his vantage point. The grassway Auk had mentioned was largely out of sight at the front of the villa, but a white roadway of what appeared to be crushed shiprock ran from the back of the nearer wing to the wall, striking it a hundred strides to his left. Half a dozen sheds, large and small, stood along this roadway, the biggest of them apparently a shelter for vehicles, another (noticeably high and narrow, with what seemed to be narrow wire-covered vents high in an otherwise blank wall) some sort of provision for fowls.

What concerned Silk more was the second in size of the sheds, whose back opened onto an extensive yard surrounded by a palisade and covered with netting. The poles of the palisade were sharpened at the top, perhaps partly to hold the netting in place; and though it was difficult to judge by the glimmering skylight, it seemed that the area enclosed was of bare soil dotted with an occasional weed. That was a pen for dangerous animals, surely.

He scanned the rest of the grounds. There appeared to be a courtyard or terrace behind the original villa; though it was largely hidden by the wing, he glimpsed flagstones, and a flowering tree in a ceramic tub.

Other trees were scattered over the rolling lawns with studied carelessness, and there were hedges as well. Blood had built this wall and hired guards, but he did not really fear intrusion. There was too much foliage for that.

Although if his watchdogs liked to lie in the shadows, an intruder who sought to use Blood’s plantings to mask his approach could be in for an ugly surprise; in which case an uncomplicated dash for the villa might be best. What would an experienced and resolute housebreaker like Auk have done in his place?

Silk quickly regretted the thought; Auk would have gone home or found an easier house to rob. He had said as much. This Blood was no common magnate, no rich trader or graft-swollen commissioner. He was a clever criminal himself, and one who (why?) appeared more anxious than might be expected about his own security. A criminal with secrets, then, or with enemies who were themselves outside the law—so it appeared. Certainly Auk had not been his friend.

At the age of twelve, Silk had once, with several other boys, broken into an empty house. He remembered that now, the fear and the shame of it, the echoing, uninhabited rooms with their furniture swathed in dirty white dustcovers. How hurt and dismayed his mother had been when she had found out what they had done! She had refused to punish him, saying that the nature of his punishment would be left to the owner of the house he had violated.

That punishment (the mere thought of it made him stir uneasily on top of the wall) had never arrived, although he had spent weeks and months in dread of it.

Or possibly had arrived only now. That deserted house, after all, had loomed large in the back of his mind when he had gathered up his horsehair rope and his hatchet and gone out looking for Auk, then only a vague figure recalled from Scylsdays past. And if it had not been for Auk and Maytera Mint, if it had not been for the repairs he had been making on the roof of the manteion, but most of all if it had not been for that well-remembered house whose rear window he had helped to force—if it had not been for all those things together, he would never have undertaken to break into this villa of Blood’s. Or rather, into an imagined house on the Palatine belonging to Blood. On the Palatine where, as he realized now, the respectable rich would never have allowed such a man as Blood to live. Instead of this preposterous, utterly juvenile escapade, he would have …

Would have what? Have penned another appeal to Patera Remora, the coadjutor of the Chapter, perhaps, although the Chapter had, as seemed clear, already made its decision. Or have sought an interview with His Cognizance the Prolocutor—the interview that he had tried and failed to get weeks before, when it had at last become apparent to him (or so he had thought at the time) exactly how serious the manteion’s financial situation was. His hands clenched as he recalled the expression of His Cognizance’s sly little prothonotary, his long wait, ended only when he had been informed that His Cognizance had retired for the night. His Cognizance was quite elderly, the prothonotary had explained (as though he, Patera Silk, had been a foreigner). His Cognizance tired very easily these days.

And with that, the prothonotary had grinned his oh-so-knowing, vile grin; and Silk had wanted to strike him.

All right then, those possibilities had been explored already, both of them. Yet surely there was something else he might have done, something sensible, effectual, and most significantly, legal.

He was still considering the matter when the talus Auk had mentioned glided ponderously around a corner of the more remote wing, appearing briefly only to vanish and reappear as its motion carried it from skylight into shadow and from shadow into bright skylight again.

Silk’s first thought was that it had heard him, but it was moving too slowly for that. No, this was no more than a routine patrol, one more among the thousands of circuits of Blood’s high, crenelated villa it must have made since Blood engaged its services. Nervously, Silk wondered how good the big machine’s vision was, and whether it routinely scanned the top of the wall. Maytera Marble had told him once that hers was less acute than his own, though he had worn glasses for reading since turning twelve. Yet that might be no more than the effect of her great age; the talus would be younger, although cruder as well. Certainly movement was more apt to betray him than immobility.

And yet he found immobility more and more difficult to maintain as the talus drew nearer. It appeared to wear a helmet, a polished brazen dome more capacious than many a respectable tomb. From beneath that helmet glared the face of an ogre worked in black metal: a wide and flattened nose, bulging red eyes, great flat cheeks like slabs of slate, and a gaping mouth drawn back in a savage grin. The sharp white tusks that thrust beyond its crimson lips were presumably mere bluster, but the slender barrel of a buzz gun flanked each tusk.

Far below that threatening head, the talus’s armored, wagon-like body rolled upon dark belts that carried it in perfect silence over the close-sheared grass. No needler, no sword, and certainly no hatchet like the one he grasped could do more than scratch the talus’s finish. Met upon its own terms, it would be more than a match for a whole platoon of armored Guardsmen. He resolved—fervently—never to meet it on its own terms, and never to meet it at all if he could manage it.

As it neared the pale swath that was the white stone roadway, it halted. Slowly and silently, its huge, frowning head revolved, examining the back of the villa, then each of the outbuildings in turn, then staring down the roadway, and at last looking at the wall itself, tracing its whole visible length (as it appeared) twice. Silk felt certain that his heart had stopped, frozen with fear. A moment more and he would lose consciousness and fall forward. The talus would roll toward him, no doubt, would dismember him with brutal steel hands bigger than the largest shovels; but that would not matter, because he would already be dead.

At length it seemed to see him. For a long moment its head ceased to move, its fierce eyes staring straight at him. As smoothly as a cloud, as inexorably as an avalanche, it glided toward him. Slowly, so slowly that he would not at first permit himself to believe it, its path inclined to the left, its staring eyes left him, and he was able to make out against its rounded sides the ladders of bent rod that would permit troopers to ride into battle on board its flattened back.

He did not move until it had vanished around the corner of the nearer wing; then he stepped across the spikes again, pulled his rope and the forked limb free, and jumped after them. Although he struck the drought-hardened ground with bent knees and rolled forward, putting back into practice the lessons of boyhood, the drop stung the soles of his feet and left him sprawled breathless.

The rear gate, to which the white roadway ran, was a grill of bars, narrow and recessed. A bellpull beside it might (or might not, Silk reflected) summon a human servant from within the house. Suddenly reckless, he tugged it, watching through the four-finger interstices to see who might appear, while the bell clanged balefully over his head. No dog barked at the sound. For a moment only, it seemed to him that he caught the flash of eyes in the shadow of a big willow halfway between the wall and the house; but the image had been too brief to be trusted, and the eyes (if eyes they had been) at a height of seven cubits or more.

The talus itself threw open the gate, roaring, “Who are you!” It seemed to lean forward as it trained its buzz guns at him.

Silk tugged his wide-brimmed straw hat lower. “Someone with a message for Blood, your master,” he announced. “Get out of my way.” Quickly, he stepped under the gate, so that it could not be dropped again without crushing him. He had never been so close to a talus before, and there seemed no harm in satisfying his curiosity now; he reached out and touched the angled plate that was the huge machine’s chest. To his surprise he found it faintly warm.

“Who are you!” the talus roared again.

“Do you wish my name or the tessera I was given?” Silk replied. “I have both.”

Though it had not appeared to move at all, the talus was nearer now, so near that its chest plate actually nudged his robe. “Stand back!”

Without warning, Silk found himself a child once more, a child confronting an adult, an uncaring, shouting giant. In a story his mother had read to him, some bold boy had darted between a giant’s legs. It would be perfectly possible now; the seamless black strips on which the talus stood lifted its steel body three cubits at least above the grass.

Could he outrun a talus? He licked his lips. Not if they were as fast as floaters. But were they? If this one chose to shoot, it would not matter.

Its chest plate shoved him backward, so that he reeled and nearly fell. “Get out!”

“Tell Blood I was here.” He would surely be reported; it might be best if he appeared to wish it. “Tell him that I have information.”

“Who are you?”

“Rust,” Silk whispered. “Now let me in.”

Suddenly the talus was rolling smoothly back. The gate crashed down, a hand’s breadth in front of his face. Quite possibly there was a tessera—a word or a sign that would command instant admittance. But rust certainly was not it.

He left the gate, discovering with some surprise that his legs were trembling. Would the talus answer the front gate also? Very probably; but there was no harm in finding out, and the back of the villa seemed unpromising indeed.

As he set off upon the lengthy walk along the wall that would take him to the front gate, he reflected that Auk (and so by implication others of his trade) would have attempted the rear; a foresighted planner might well have anticipated that and taken extra precautions there.

A moment later he rebuked himself for the thought. Auk would not have dared the front gate, true; but neither would Auk have been terrified of the talus, as he had been. He pictured Auk’s coarse and frowning face, its narrowed eyes, jutting ears, and massive, badly shaved jaw. Auk would be careful, certainly. But never fearful. What was still more important, Auk believed in the goodness of the gods, in their benign personal care—something that he, whose own trade it was to profess it, could only struggle to believe.

Shaking his head, he pulled his beads from his trousers pocket, his fingers reassured by their glassy polish and the swinging mass of the voided cross. Nine decades, one with which to praise and petition each major divinity, with an additional, unspecified decade from which the voided cross was suspended. For the first time it occurred to him that there were ten beads in each decade as well. Had the Nine been the Ten, once? He pushed the heretical thought aside.

First the cross. “To you, Great Pas…”

There was a secret in the empty, X-shaped space, or so one of his teachers had confided, a mystery far beyond that of the detachable arms he showed the smallest boys and girls at the palaestra and used (as every other augur did) to test and tighten sacred connections. Unfortunately, his teacher had not seen fit to confide the secret as well, and probably had not known it himself—if any such secret actually existed. Silk shrugged aside the memory, ceased fingering the enigmatic emptiness of the voided cross, and clasped it to his chest.

“To you, Great Pas, I present my poor heart and my whole spirit, my mind and all my belief…”

The grass thinned and vanished, replaced by odd little plants like multilayered, greenish umbrellas that appeared healthy and flourishing, yet crumbled to mere puffs of dust when Silk stepped on them.

Blood’s front gate was less promising than the other, if anything, for an eye in a black metal box gleamed above the top of its arch. Should he ring here, Musk or someone like him inside would not only see him, but interrogate him, no doubt, speaking through a mouth in the same box.

For five minutes or more, sitting on a convenient stone while he rubbed his feet, Silk considered the advisability of submitting himself to the scrutiny of that eye, and thus of the unknown inquisitor who would examine him through it. He knew himself to be a less than competent liar; and when he tried to concoct a tale that might get him into Blood’s presence, he was dismayed at how feeble and unconvincing even the best of his fabrications sounded. Eventually he was driven to conclude, with a distinct sense of relief, that the prospect was hopeless; he would have to get into the villa by stealth, if he got into it at all.

Retying his shoes, he rose, advanced another hundred paces along the wall, and once more heaved the forked limb over its spikes.

As Auk had indicated, there was a central building of two stories, with wings whose rows of windows showed them to be three, although the original structure was nearly as tall as they. Both the original structure and its wings appeared to be of the same smooth, grayish stone as the wall, and all three were so high that throwing the limb onto the roof of any appeared quite impossible. To enter them directly, he would have to discover an unbolted door or force one of the ground-floor casements, exactly as he and the other boys had broken into the deserted house a few years before he left home to attend the schola. He winced at the thought.

On the farther end of the wing on the right, however (the structure most remote from his old vantage point), was a more modest addition whose decorative merlons appeared to stand no more than a scant ten cubits above the lawn; the size and close spacing of its numerous windows suggested that it might be a conservatory. Silk noted it for future use and turned his attention to the grounds.

The broad grassway that curved so gracefully up to the pillared portico of Blood’s villa was bordered with bright flower beds. Some distance in front of that entrance, a fine porcelain Scylla writhed palely among the sprays of an ostentatious fountain, spewing water alike from her woman’s mouth and her upraised tentacles.

Scented water, in fact; sniffing the almost motionless air like a hound, Silk caught the fragrance of tea roses. Postponing judgement on Blood’s taste, he nodded approvingly at this tangible evidence of pious civic feeling. Perhaps Blood was not really such a bad man after all, no matter what Auk thought. Blood had provided three cards for a sacrifice; it might well be that if Blood were approached in the right way he would be amenable to reason. Possibly the Outsider’s errand would come to no more than that, in the end. Giving rein to this pleasing line of thought for a second or two, Silk imagined himself comfortably seated in some luxurious chamber of the villa before him, laughing heartily over his own adventures with the prosperous-looking man with whom he had spoken in Sun Street. Why, even a contribution toward necessary repairs might not be entirely out of the question.

On the farther side of the grassway …

The distant roar of an approaching floater made him look around. With running lights blazing through its own dust, it was hurtling along the public road in the direction of the main gate. Quickly he stretched himself flat behind the row of spikes.

As the floater braked, two figures in silvered conflict armor shot away from the portico on highriders. At the same moment, the talus rounded the conservatory (if that was what it was) at full tilt, dodging trees and shrubs as it rolled across the lawn nearly as fast as the highriders; after it bounded half a dozen sinuous, seemingly tailless beasts with bearded faces and horned heads.

While Silk watched fascinated, the thick metal arms of the talus stretched like telescopes, twenty cubits or more to catch hold of a ring high in the wall near the gate. For a second they paused. An unseen chain rattled and creaked. They shrank, drawing the ring and its chain with them, and the gate rose.

The shadow of a drifting cloud from the east veiled the pillars of the portico, then the steps at their bases; Silk murmured a frantic appeal to Tartaros and tried to judge its speed.

There was a faint and strangely lonely whine from the blowers as the floater glided under the gate’s rounded arch. One of the horned beasts sprang onto its transparent canopy, appearing to crouch upon empty air until it was driven off snarling by the armored men, who cursed and brandished their short-tubed slug guns as if to strike it. The drifting shadow had reached Scylla’s fountain by the time the horned beast sprang away.

The talus let the heavy gate fall again as the floater swept proudly up the darkening grassway, escorted by the highriders and accompanied by all six horned beasts, which rose upon their hind legs again and again to peer inside. It halted and settled onto the grass before the wide stone steps of the villa, and the talus called the horned beasts from it with a shrill shuddering wail that could have issued from no human throat.

As the brilliantly dressed passengers disembarked, Silk leaped from the wall and dashed across the lawn toward the conservatory, with a desperate effort flung the forked limb over its ornamental battlement, and swarmed up the horsehair rope, over the battlement, and onto the roof.