Exodus from the Long Sun

Chapter 10 — A Life for Pas

Sergeant Sand had scrambled up first. Maytera Mint, exhausted and practically suffocated by the ash that filled the air of the tunnel, thought it strange that it should be large enough to admit his bulky steel body. She had purified the altar of the old manteion on Sun Street many times, and although she told herself that she must surely be mistaken, it seemed to her that its chute had been scarcely half as large as this one.

“These victims, eh?” Remora coughed, eyeing the yearling tunnel gods Eland had taken charge of. “For, hem!, Pas. His — er — ah — ghost?”

Schist nodded. “That’s what the Prolocutor says.”

“You’re saying that Pas is dead.” Maytera Mint was by no means sure she believed such a thing possible, still less that it had taken place. “He’s come back as a ghost?”

“That’s it, General.”

Shale added, “We’re not sayin’ it happened, but that’s what he says.” He jerked his head toward the chute into which Sand’s heels had vanished. “Sarge believes him. So do I, I guess.”

Urus edged nearer Maytera Mint. “They’re abram, lady, all these chems Look, we’re bios, all right? You ’n me, ’n Spider ’n Eland here. Even the long butcher.”

She could scarcely make out Urus’s features in the ash-dimmed light; yet she could picture his wheedling expression only too vividly.

“We got to stick, us bios. Got to make a knot, don’t we? The way they’re talkin’, we’ll all be cold.”

“Good riddance,” Spider muttered.

Sand’s voice ended the conversation, hollow-sounding as it echoed down the chute overhead. “The augur next. Hand him up.”

Remora was peering up the chute. “It’s a manteion, eh?”

“Big one, Patera. Pretty dark, too. Wait a minute.”

Slate had crouched at Remora’s feet. “I’m goin’ to grab you by the legs, see, Patera? I’m goin’ to lift you up ’n in. Get your arms up over your head to steer yourself. When you’re in good, I’ll push on your feet ’n get you up as far as I can. Maybe you’ll have to wiggle up a little more before Sarge can grab hold of you.” Abruptly the dark mouth of the chute became a rectangle of light.

It is big, Maytera Mint thought; it has to be. They have a lot of victims, burn a cartload of wood at every sacrifice.

Sand’s voice returned. “They got oil lamps here. I lit a couple for you.”

“Thank you!” Remora called. “My most, um, deepest — ah — sincere appreciation, my son.” He looked down at Slate. “I am ready, eh? Lift away.”

“You’ll be fine, Your Eminence,” Maytera Mint assured him.

“You think — ah — fear me apprehensive.” Remora smiled, his teeth visible in the light from the chute. “To, um, revisit the whorl of light, Maytera, I should — umph!”

Slate had grasped his ankles and was rising. For a moment Remora swayed dangerously and it seemed he must fall; but Spider pushed his hips to right him, and in another second his arms and head were out of sight.

“Here he comes, Sarge!”

“What it is, see,” Urus was nearly at Maytera Mint’s ear, “is they think they ought to give Pas somethin’. He put that in their heads, your jefe did.”

“His Cognizance.” Coughing, she turned to face Urus. “I cannot imagine His Cognizance in these horrible tunnels, though I know he was here with the calde.”

“Me neither. Only, see—”

“Be quiet.” Maytera Mint was studying Eland’s beasts. “How are we going to get these animals up there, Slate?”

“I been thinkin’ about that,” Slate said. “Watch this.”

Crouching again, he sprang into the chute and scrambled up.

“You two’d better stay here to lift the general and me up,” Spider told Schist and Shale.

“Sure thing.” With Slate gone, Schist leaned back against the shiprock wall. “We’ll pass ’em up just like the slug guns. You’ll see.”

Shale indicated the opening with a contemptuous gesture. “He’s buckin’ for another stripe, Slate is. We used to have this corporal from ‘H’ Company, only he bought it in the big fight with the talus the other day. This time probably they’ll promote from inside, and Slate figures he’ll cop it.”

Slate’s voice came from the chute. “Knock off jawin’ down there ’n pass them guns.”

Schist said, “Sure thing,” and lifted the bundled slug guns into the chute. Shale explained, “I strapped ’em together with one of the slings. Makes ’em easier to handle.”

The bundle of guns vanished amid scrapings and bumpings. Schist tilted his head back and to the left to grin at Maytera Mint. “He’s hangin’ in there, see? Sarge’s got his feet.”

Spider coughed. “Maybe you’d like to go next, General.”

“I would,” she confessed, “but I’ll go last. It is my place as the senior officer present.”

“I don’t think you can jump up there,” Schist objected.

She turned on him. “ ‘I don’t think you can jump up there, sir.’ Or ‘General.’ I give you your choice, Private, which is more than I ought to give you.”

“Yes, sir. Only I don’t think you can, sir, and I’d be glad to stay down here and help you, sir.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Maytera Mint turned to the other soldier. “Private Shale.”

“Yes, sir!” Shale snapped to attention.

“You were very ingenious with that sling. After you and Private Schist have passed these beasts up and helped Spider, Urus, and this other convict—”

“Eland,” Eland put in, speaking for the first time since they had reached this darkest stretch of tunnel.

“Thank you. And Eland to climb up, you will contrive a rope of slug gun slings, making a loop at the bottom into which I can put one foot. Can you do that?”

“Sure thing, sir.”

“Good. Do it. Then you can pull me up. Last.”

Spider ventured, “You’re goin’ to be down here all alone, for a minute or two, anyhow.”

“These—” She was wracked by a paroxysm of coughing. “These animals. I don’t know what to call them.”

“Bufes,” Eland supplied.

“Thank you.” Turning her head, she spat. “I will not call them gods. That must stop. More bufes may come, though I hope they won’t. I pray they won’t. But if they do I’ll shoot them. If I don’t see them in time, or don’t aim well, I will die.”

“I’ll stay with you,” Spider told her.

She shook her head. “Only one—”

From the chute, Slate called, “Gimme a god.” Shale lifted a squirming beast over his head and thrust its hindquarters into the opening in the ceiling; its eyes were wild, and blood ran from the sinews binding its muzzle.

“I dunno if I could of trained ’em as big as that,” Eland muttered, “only it seems like a shame to waste ’em.”

“I caught ’em, sir,” Shale explained to Maytera Mint. “The bios and me were back by that dead bio you left behind. We knew the smell would fetch ’em.”

Schist added, “That was why Slate and Sarge jumped out of the dirt when they did, probably, sir. Sarge thought you might scare ’em off if you went back for the dead one.”

“Perhaps. I can understand how a soldier could capture such an animal. What I cannot understand is how you, Eland, were able to capture others without the help of one.”

“Mine was littler when I got ’em.” He watched the second beast vanish up the chute. “We killed the big ’uns, we had to. I got behind the little ’uns and got a noose over their mouth.”

“It must have been dangerous just the same.”

He shrugged, the motion of his skeletal shoulders barely visible. “I want to go up next. Be with ’em. That all right?”

From the chute, Slate called, “Pass up them other bios.”

“Certainly,” Maytera Mint told Eland. She gestured toward the chute, and Schist lifted him.

“You can’t get ’em to like you,” Eland said as his head vanished into the chute, “only maybe mine did, a little.”

From nearer the top, Slate told him, “Grab on.”

“If the bufes don’t bring Pas, lady, ’n they won’t, I know they won’t—”

Maytera Mint shook her head. “You cannot know.”

“Then it’s us. Me ’n Eland. Him, too,” Urus pointed to Spider, “if you let ’em. That sergeant—”

“My son.” Maytera Mint stepped so close to Urus that the muzzle of the needler she held gouged his ribs. “I have been most remiss with you. I have let you call me ‘lady’ or whatever you wished. I must remember to bring it up at my next shriving, if there is a next shriving. In future, you are to address me as Maytera. It means mother. Will you do that?”

“Yeah. Dimber here, Maytera.”

“That is well.” She smiled up at him; she was a full head shorter than he. “As your mother, your spiritual mother, I must explain something to you. Please pay strict attention.”

Urus nodded mutely. From the chute, Slate called, “Gimme another one.”

“Go, Spider,” Maytera Mint said, and turned back to Urus. “I haven’t had much time in which to form my estimate of your character, yet I think it accurate. It is not an estimate very favorable to you.”

When he did not speak, she added, “Not favorable at all. I will not compare you to such a man as Sergeant Sand. Though not pious, he is resolute, energetic, loyal, and reasonably honest. To compare him to you would be grossly unjust to him. Nor will I venture to compare you to His Eminence. His Eminence has less physical courage, I think, than many other men. Yet he has more than a casual observer might suppose, as I have seen, and his assiduity and piety have justly earned him a high position in the Chapter. He is intelligent as well, and he labors almost too diligently to put the mental acuity that he received from the gods at their service.”

“Have you got the safety on that thing, lady?”

“Call me Maytera. I insist on it.”

“All right, all right!” His voice shaking, Urus repeated, “Have you got the safety on?” and added, “Maytera?”

“No, my son, I do not.” She took a deep breath. “Stop talking and listen. Your life hangs upon it, and we haven’t long. I am a general and a sibyl. As a sibyl I try to find good in everyone, and though it may sound less than modest, I generally succeed. I find a great deal in His Eminence, as I would expect. I find more than I expected in Sergeant Sand. There is good in Private Slate, too, and in Private Shale and Private Schist here. Not good of a very high order, perhaps, but abundant in its kind. I have tried to find good in Spider and found more than I dared hope for. The glimmers of good in Eland are hardly discernible, yet unmistakable.” She sighed. “I talk too much when I’m tired. I hope you’ve followed me.”

Urus nodded. There was a faint play of light across one cheekbone; it was half a second before she understood that he was sweating, cold perspiration soaking the gray ash black and running down his face like rivulets of fresh paint.

“As a general, it is my duty to defeat the enemy. I must do it by killing men and women. I find that repugnant, but such is the case. You are the enemy, Urus. Do you follow me still?”

From the chute, Slate called, “Ready for the next one.”

“That will be you,” Maytera Mint told Shale. “Remember what I told you about those slings.”

He saluted with a clash of steel. “I’ll get right on it, sir.”

She returned her attention to Urus. “You are the enemy, I say. Should I, who have been called the Sword of Echidna, let you live when I have you at my mercy?”

“You’re fightin’ the Ayuntamiento, right? General, I swear by every shaggy god there is that I never done nothin—”

“Be quiet!” Angrily, she poked him with the muzzle of the big needler that had been Spider’s. “What you say is true, I’m sure. You never served the Ayuntamiento. But ultimately the enemy is evil. Evil is the ultimate enemy of us all.”

She fell silent, listening to the faint rattle as Shale was helped up the chute, to the sighing of the ever-present breeze, and to Urus’s feverish breathing. “The ash is not so thick in the air as it was,” she said.

Schist nodded. “Not so many stirrin’ it up, sir.”

“I suppose so, and those ugly beasts were struggling.” She jabbed Urus as hard as she could, and he yelped.

“This one, too. I’m tired, Urus. I’m awfully tired. I’ve slept on floors, and walked for leagues and leagues. I forget, sometimes, what I’ve said, and what I intended to say. You were thinking of snatching my needler a moment ago.”

Schist chuckled, a hard dry metallic rattle.

“No doubt you could. No doubt you can. Taking a needler from a tired woman much smaller than yourself, a woman so close that her needler is within easy reach, should be simple for you. For anybody.” She waited.

“If you’re not going to, you’d better raise your hands. Otherwise some small motion may cause me to pull the trigger.”

Slowly, Urus’s hands went up.

“As you say, you haven’t served the Ayuntamiento. I’ve talked with Councillor Potto, Urus. Did you know that?”

He shook his head.

“I have. Also with Spider, who served the Ayuntamiento and would serve it still if he could. With a number of Guardsmen, Generalissimo Oosik particularly, who served it for many years. I’ve questioned prisoners, too. In not one of them did I fail to discover some gleam of good. Councillor Potto is the worst, I think. But even Councillor Potto is not entirely evil.”

From the chute, Slate called, “How about the general and that other bio?”

Maytera Mint backed away, then motioned toward the area under the chute. “I give you fair warning. I must see some good in you, Urus, and soon.”

His smile was at once pitiable and horrible. “You’re goin’ to let me get out, lady? Let me go up there?”

“Call me Maytera!”

“M-maytera. Maytera, I figured, see, I’d made it out. Only it w-w-was just the pit, the shaggy pit, ’n then we run back down ’n got into it with the old man—”

Schist lifted him by his ankles. “He ain’t got no sores on his legs like that other one, sir. Maybe you saw ’em.”

Looking down at the needler, Maytera Mint felt herself nod.

“I had to sorta wash off my hands with ashes.” Somewhat violently, Schist shoved Urus’s head and shoulders into the chute. “After I lifted him, sir. I got pus on ’em, sir.”

“No doubt he’d been nipped from time to time by the beasts he had earlier,” Maytera Mint said absenfly. “Those would be the ones our calde says Patera Incus killed, perhaps.” Eland and Urus might have encountered Auk, in that case; she made a mental note to ask them about it, adding as an afterthought that she must not kill Urus before she had a chance to question him.

“You’re goin’ to stay, sir?”

“Until Private Shale lets down his slings. Yes, I am. Go ahead, Schist. Anytime they’re ready for you.”

The safety had been off, as she had said. Did that make her better, because she had told the truth? Or worse, because she had practically nerved herself to killing Urus? Dropping the needler into one of the big side pockets of her torn and soiled habit, she watched Schist’s feet disappear into the chute, then sat down in the ash to await Shale’s slings, or the beasts that he called gods, and Eland bufes.

Bison put down the untasted leg of a pheasant. “Two cards to every one of them, Calde?”

Silk nodded, his eyes upon Mucor. “Yes. I hadn’t meant to tell you tonight, Colonel. To be more exact, I hadn’t planned to make my decision until morning.”

Saba began, “I submit—”

“But if Mucor can locate the manteion to which the woman I’ve had her looking for is bringing her offering, I’ll be busy tomorrow. Besides, it’s better that I announce it now, so that Generalissimo Oosik and Generalissimo Siyuf can hear it. We’ll send the volunteers home tomorrow, each with a letter of credit worth two cards at the Fisc.”

“Calde…” Oosik reached across Maytera Mint’s vacant place to touch Silk’s arm. “It will take longer than one day merely to collect their weapons.”

Silk shook his head. “We won’t collect them. They’re to keep whatever they have — those are their weapons now”

Saba looked at Siyuf, and when Siyuf did not speak, said, “That’s unheard-of. It’s folly. Insanity.” Chenille caught Silk’s eye and nodded. “She’s right, Patera. It’s abram.”

He spoke to Maytera Marble, at the far end of the table. “You told me something earlier that weighed heavily with me, Maytera; there’s no one whose judgement I value more, as you know. Would you repeat it for us?”

“I can’t, Patera. I don’t remember what it was.”

Xiphias put in, “Couldn’t you just let them keep their swords, lad?”

“I could scarcely take those, could I? Those are their own property already. Chenille, you agree that I shouldn’t do this. Why not?”

Saba snapped, “Because they’re men, ninety percent of them, and unstable, like all men.” Chenille added, “They’ll kill each other, Patera.”

“Of course they will — they always have.” Silk addressed Siyuf “My manteion is in what we call the Sun Street Quarter. I should explain that our city counts many more quarters than four; a quarter in our sense really means no more than the area served by a manteion.”

If she inclined her head, the motion was too slight to be seen. “Fifty thousand, Calde Silk? All with slug guns?”

“There are more than fifty thousand certainly, but not all of them have slug guns. Fifty thousand slug guns, perhaps, or a little over.”

When she put no further question, he said, “It’s a violent quarter; most augurs would say it’s the worst in the city. It borders on the Orilla, which is what we call an empty quarter — one without a manteion. A few people from the Orilla come to our manteion, however, just as a few from our quarter go into the Orilla to buy stolen goods. What I was going to say is that there’s seldom a week without a killing or two, and there are often three or four. When one man decides to kill another, he does it. If he has a slug gun or a needler, he may use it; but if he doesn’t, he uses a dagger or a sword. Or a hatchet, an axe, or a stick of firewood.”

Recalling Auk, Silk added, “A big, strong man may simply knock down a weaker one and kick him to death. A group of men could clearly do the same thing; and I know of one instance in which a man who had raped a child was killed by a dozen women, who beat him to death with their washing sticks and stabbed him with kitchen knives and scissors.”

Hadale told him, “One woman can kill a man, Calde. It’s common at home, and there’s a woman at this table who’s killed several.”

“It isn’t uncommon here, either, Major; and that bears on the thing Maytera told me that impressed me so much. A woman from our quarter came to see her this afternoon, and Maytera asked if she wasn’t afraid to walk so far through the city when just about everyone has a slug gun or a needler. The woman said she wasn’t, because she had one, too.”

Silk paused, inviting comment, and Saba growled, “They’ll over throw you, Calde, in half a year or less.”

“You may well be right.” He spread his hands. “But not by force, since they won’t have to — I haven’t the least desire to retain this office if our people don’t want me. That’s the chief difference between the Ayuntarniento and our side, really. But I think you’ve hit on something important. The reason the Ayuntamiento didn’t let our people have slug guns or launchers like the one Chenille told me about this afternoon was that they are effective means of fighting soldiers and troopers in armor. The Ayuntanniento believed that if our people didn’t have those weapons it could rule as long as it retained the loyalty of the Army and the Guard.”

“Very sensible,” Saba declared.

“Perhaps, but it didn’t work very well. A few days ago, our people overwhelmed hundreds of Guardsmen and took their weapons. I see I have not convinced you.”

Saba shook her head.

“Then let me say this. Generalissimo Oosik says that he would need more than a day to collect the weapons of General Mint’s volunteers.”

Bison added, “If they’d surrender them.”

“Exactly. The best troopers would give their weapons up when they were ordered to, but the worst would hide theirs — the precise opposite of the situation we’d prefer. Furthermore, it would take at least as long to reissue those weapons, and we may need the volunteers again any day.”

Quetzal, who had been nodding over his untouched plate, murmured, “One hundred thousand cards is a large sum, Patera Calde. Can you afford that much?”

Silk shook his head.

Xiphias exclaimed, “Then don’t, lad! Don’t do it!”

“We can’t afford to do it, Master Xiphias.” Silk smiled wryly. “But we cannot afford not to, either. In the first place, I promised to reward those who fought bravely on either side, and I’ve done nothing thus far. There may be a thousand things we cannot afford. No doubt there are. But the thing we cannot afford above all — the thing we dare not risk — is to have people come to believe that my promises are worthless. So tomorrow, as I say, every trooper that General Mint and Colonel Bison have is to receive two cards, and permission to return to his or her home and occupation. Those who were given slug guns or other weapons are to be told that the weapons are theirs now. No one will be able to complain that those who fought on our side went unrewarded, at least.”

Siyuf smiled. “Like you, Calde Silk, I think we may need the horde of Mint again, and soon. When you call for them they will come, having been rewarded handsomely for the first time.”

“Thank you. Most of our financial troubles result from various businesses—”

Hossaan had entered as he spoke, carrying a huge roast upon a magnificent golden platter. “The people from Ermine’s can see to that, Willet,” Silk told him. “Please get your floater ready — I’ll want it soon.”

Oreb flew up the table, circling warily before perching on Silk’s shoulder. “Bird too!”

“Of course, if you wish.”

“Let me hear the rest, Calde Silk. I am most interested.”

“I was about to say that if the overdue taxes were paid, our city government would be rolling in wealth, Generalissimo. General Mint’s troopers will spend the cards they receive very quickly for the most part, and that should produce a wave of prosperity. If we make forceful efforts to collect the overdue taxes then, we may be able to meet our other obligations.”

Siyuf looked down the table to Saba. “You have tell me he is mad. He is not mad. He is only more clever than you. It is not the same.”

Might not the dead rise and walk again? There were tales of such things, and they flitted through Maytera Mint’s mind as she was drawn up the chute.

I was sacrificed, she thought. I should have realized it when Councillor Potto had Spider bend me over his knee. A drop struck me, too. How wonderful it would be if all the rest could come back up through these the way I am!

The top of the chute was a glaring rectangle above her, light so bright that it seemed to her it must surely be noon, with the whole of Pas’s long sun pouring golden radiance through the windows of the manteion into which she rose. Fascinated, she watched Slate’s metal hands in silhouette as they slowly and steadily hauled her up, each grip succeeded by the next.

Then a hand of flesh, Remora’s long blue-veined hand, was reaching for her; she caught it and let him help her climb from the looped slings to a mosaic floor. “There you are, Maytera. I, um, we have been waiting for you. The sergeant is most, er, desirous to proceed, eh?” Remora’s face was clean, his soiled overrobe was gone, and his costly robe had been replaced by one more costly still.

She looked for the windows she had pictured, expecting to find them glowing with sunshine; but there were no windows, only scores of rock-crystal holy lamps surmounted by long, bright flames, and a fire blazing upon the altar.

“I — ah — kindled the, um,” Remora ventured, following the direction of her eyes. “It seemed provident.”

“Certainly. You’ve cleaned up, too. May I ask where, Your Eminence?” Catching sight of Urus edging toward the back of the manteion, she shouted, “Sergeant! Stop that prisoner!”

“An, er, dressing chamber? Cubiculum. Off the sacristy, eh? For sibyls. Cabinets — ah — wardrobes in there. So I, um, given to understand.”

“I’ll want water and soap,” she told him. “Warm water, if that’s possible. You’ve washed, clearly.”

Spider interjected, “The sergeant wants to sacrifice right away. He—” From his position between Urus and the door, Sand himself rasped, “The Prolocutor told us Pas would come, sir. I reported that. It’s the Plan, and standing orders say it’s got higher priority than anything else.” Slate nodded agreement.

“Indeed it does. But Pas may not come as well. We must be prepared for that eventuality, too. I say that, though I hate putting myself on the same side as Urus, who feels certain Pas won’t. But if he comes, as we hope, we must be fit to receive him. Not only I, but all of you as well.” She followed Remora onto the sanctuary elevation and past the fire-crowned altar.

“The, um, locality, hey?” Remora was almost grinning.

“What about it, Your Eminence? If you’re asking whether I know where we are,” she glanced around her, “I haven’t the least idea. I didn’t know that a manteion like this existed.”

They entered the sacristy, thrice the size of Silk’s on Sun Street; a shelf held a long row of jeweled chalices, and a block of fragrant sandalwood a dozen sacrificial knives whose gold or ivory handles flashed with gems.

“I have officiated here, er, innumerable,” Remora informed her. “Five hundred, eh? A thousand? I should not contest even so lofty a figure as that. It is the, um, oratorium abolitus, the private chapel beneath the Palace. For His Cognizance’s use, hey? And augurs who have — ah — administrative duties, eh? We, er, offer our — ah — seldom-seen? Obscure services to the gods.”

He was about to go; she caught the voluminous sleeve of his robe. “The room where I can wash? Where there may be a clean habit I can borrow?”

“Oh, yes, yes, yes! Right — ah — door.” He opened it for her. “Should be a bolt, eh? Inside. No doubt, no doubt. Water likewise. Tank, eh?” He pointed at the ceiling. “Under the — ah — in the west cupola.”

The room was twice as large as her longed-for bedroom in the cenoby. Gratefully, she shut its door and shot the bolt. Two large wardrobes and a wash basin; a pierced copper hamper, presumably for laundry; a full-length mirror on one wall and a glass on another. A table in a corner.

Opening one of the wardrobes, she found half a dozen clean habits of various sizes; she draped the biggest over the glass, then emptied her pockets onto the table, took off her own habit, and dropped it into the hamper. It was probably beyond saving, and the Chapter owed her a round hundred new ones at least.

Grimly stepping out of her soiled underdrawers and removing her chemise and bandeau, she resolved to collect those habits and distribute them to sibyls as poor as she.

It was Mainframe itself to take off her shoes and stockings, although she had to sit on the floor to do it, which made it seem likely there were no clean stockings. She rinsed the ones she had taken off, wrung them as dry as she could, and hung them over the open door of the wardrobe.

The tap to her left gushed water that was at first tepid, then pleasantly steaming. There was a boiler somewhere in the Palace, presumably; Maytera Mockorange, whose family had been wealthy, had spoken of such luxury, although Maytera Mint had never dreamed it might be available to sibyls.

She had to wash her hands three times (with scented soap!) before the suds that streamed from them were no longer black with filth. Even so, small crescents remained under her nails. The point of a needle from her needler attended to those.

Her small, tired face seemed to her equally dirty, if not worse; gingerly dabbing at the bruises and burns, she washed it again and again, washing her short brown hair too, then sponged her entire body, heedless of the pools that formed on the red-tiled floor.

Remora’s querulous voice penetrated the heavy wooden door. “The… Sergeant Sand. Sergeant Sand wishes—”

She felt her sly little smile, although she struggled to repress it. “Tell him that I myself wish for sandwiches, Your Eminence, and ask what he knows about court-martials.”

“You… chaff.”

“Not at all. Tell him that and ask him.” Her image in the mirror appalled her. If Bison were ever to see her like this!

Not that he or any other man ever would, presumably; but men did not like skinny legs, narrow hips, or small breasts, all of which she possessed to a degree that seemed appalling. Yet she had been pretty twenty years ago; many people had told her so, many of them men.

A pretty girl whose long curls had bordered upon chestnut. Some of those men might have been lying, and no doubt some had been. But all of them? It seemed improbable.

The other wardrobe was divided into pigeonholes; most were empty, but one held two clean chemises and two pairs of clean underdrawers. The underdrawers were several sizes too large, but wearable with the string pulled tight. She could rinse her bandeau as she had her stockings -

In a flurry of rebellion, she flung it into the hamper. A bandeau to cover up what? To hold in what? She had worn one because her mother, and subsequently Maytera Rose, had said she must; she looked no different now in this yellowed chemise than she had in her own in the cenoby.

Snatching the habit from the glass, she clapped her hands. “Monitor? Monitor?” She had used glasses during the past few days, but was not completely comfortable with them.

“Yes, madame.” The floating gray face was at once detached and deferential.

“Look at me. I’m lacking an essential item of feminine apparel. What is it?”

“Several, madame. A gown, madame. Hose, and shoes.”

“Besides those.” She turned sideways and stood on tiptoe. “What is it?”

“I am at a loss, madame. I might offer a conjecture.”

“You needn’t bother.” She took the smallest habit from the first wardrobe. “Do you know who I am?” For an instant she was wrapped in darkness before it setfied into place. Still no coif, she thought. Still no coif.

“I recognize you now, madame. You are General Mint. I was ignorant of your identity, previously. Would you prefer that I address you as General?”

“As you like. Has anyone been trying to contact me?”

For perhaps a second, the monitor’s face dissolved into darting lines. “Several, madame. Currently, Captain Serval. Do you wish to speak with him?”

She sensed that the name should have been familiar, yet it meant nothing to her. She nodded. Better to find out who he was and what he wanted, and be done.

The monitor’s face revised itself, gaining color, a round chin, and a debonair mustache. “My General!” A brisk salute, which she returned almost automatically.

“My General, I have been ordered by Generalissimo Oosik to make you aware of the situation here.”

She nodded. Where was “here”?

“It is a detachment of the Companion Cavalry, My General. They have posted sentries who are standing guard with mine as we speak. I have requested that their officer explain this to Generalissimo Oosik, but she refuses.”

“I see.” Maytera Mint took a deep breath and found herself wishing for a chair. “Let me say first, Captain, that it’s good to see you again.

“For me it is a great pleasure, My General. An honor.”

“Thank you, Captain. I’m sorry to find that you’re still a captain, by the way. I’ll talk to the generalissimo about that. You mentioned Companion Cavalry. That is the name of the unit?”

“Yes, My General.”

The memory of Potto’s boiling teakettle returned. “You’ll have to forgive me, Captain. I’ve been out of touch for the past few days.” It had seemed like weeks. “I was told that a Trivigaunti horde was marching toward the city. Am I to take it that this Companion Cavalry is theirs?”

“Yes, My General. An elite regiment.”

Regiment was a new term to her, but she persevered. “What was it you wanted this officer from Trivigaunte to explain to the generalissimo?”

“I wish her to explain why she and her women are mounting a guard on our Juzgado, My General, when it is already guarded by my men and myself.” (That was “here” then, almost certainly.) “I wish her to explain who has issued these orders and to what purpose.”

“I take it she won’t tell you either.”

“No, My General. She will say only that her instructions are to protect our Juzgado until relieved. No more than that.”

“Generalissimo Oosik asked you to make me aware of this situation. Where is he?”

“At the Calde’s Palace, My General. He is dining with the calde. He informs me that the calde has seen you, My General, in his glass, and that he has ordered a place set for you at his table. Generalissimo Oosik instructed me to request that you join them there if I reached you, should this be convenient.”

“I need sleep more than food.” It had slipped out.

“You drive yourself too hard, My General. I have observed this previously.”

“Perhaps. Can you tell me what orders you received from Generalissimo Oosik regarding these Trivigauntis?”

“He is of the opinion that they have learned of a threat to the Juzgado, My General. I am to cooperate. There is to be no friction between those of my command and theirs.” The captain paused, a pause pregnant with meaning. “Or as little as may be. I am to explore the situation and report once more, should I discover facts of significance.”

“And notify me.”

“Yes, My General. As I do.”

“Also Colonel Bison, I hope. If Generalissimo Oosik did not tell you to notify Colonel Bison, I am ordering you to now. Tell him I consider Generalissimo Oosik’s position prudent.”

Someone was tapping at the door.

“Colonel Bison is also at the calde’s dinner, My General. Generalissimo Oosik stated that he would inform him.”

“Good. That will be all, then, Captain. Thank you for keeping me abreast of things.” She returned his salute.

“Monitor, was Colonel Bison one of the people who have been trying to reach me?”

The captain’s face grayed and sharpened. “Yes, madame.”

“I want to speak to him now. He’s at the Calde’s Palace.” Vaguely, she recalled seeing it the year before on her way to sacrifice at the Grand Manteion, a huge house upon whose facade files of shuttered windows had risen like stacks of long and narrow coffins; she had shuddered and turned away. “I’ll be out in a moment, Your Eminence!”

The monitor said, “I am aware of it, madame. I will ask someone to bring him to the glass there, madame.”

She would see him — and he would see her: the tired eyes and bloodless mouth that the mirror had shown her, the wet hair plastered to her skull, the face black-and-blue with bruises, surmounted by a scab. “Monitor?”

“Yes, madame.”

“Let me speak to whoever comes to the glass.” This was the hardest thing she had ever done, harder even than shutting her eyes during Kypris’s theophany. “I needn’t speak to the colonel in person.”

“Yes, madame.”

A minute, then two, passed. The gray features melted and flowed, becoming those of a lean man with hooded eyes. “Yes, General Mint,” he said. “I’m Willet, the calde’s driver. How may I serve you?”

General Saba spoke, looking less like an angry sow than a dead one. “She’s coming up here with it, Silk. Coming up the hill you’re on.”

“This is warlockery,” Siyuf declared.

“I disagree, but I haven’t time to discuss it now.” Silk stood so abruptly that Oreb fluttered to maintain his balance. “Leaving you is the height of bad manners; I know it, and all of you are entitled to be furious with me. I’m leaving just the same. Maytera Marble will remain as my representative. I beg your forgiveness sincerely and fervently, but I must go.” He was already halfway down the table,

Xiphias sprang to his feet as Silk strode past his chair. “Alone,” Silk said. Undeterred, Xiphias hurried after him, and the door slammed behind them.

Saba’s head jerked. She looked around self-consciously.

“We must speak of this,” Siyuf hissed. “You must describe to me. Not now.”

Major Hadale drained her wine. “I’ll remember this dinner as long as I live. What entertainment!”

Maytera Marble whispered to Chenille. “I should have gone, too. He’s hurt, and—”

Smoothly, Siyuf overrode her. “General Saba has say to me he suffer a broken ankle, Maytera. Maytera? It is how you are addressed?”

She nodded. “Yes, he did. He does. A week ago Phaesday, I think it was. He fell. But — but…”

“He limp. So I observed. He was in greatest haste, he took big steps. No so big of the right leg, however. The old swordswoman — sword-man. He, also, but the left.”

“The calde was shot.” Maytera Marble indicated her own chest with her working hand. “That’s much worse.”

“Not a slug gun, which would have kill there. A needler?” Siyuf glanced around the table, seeking information.

Oosik shrugged and spread his hands. “Yes, Generalissimo. A needler in the hand of one of my own officers. We strive to prevent these terrible mistakes. They occur in spite of all we do, as you must know.”

“This is a remarkable young man. We do not breed like him in Trivigaunte, I think. Do you know the — what is this word? The ideas of Colonel Abanja?”

Oosik nodded to Siyufs staff officer. “I would like to hear them, particularly if they coneern our calde. What are they, Colonel?”

“I am something of an amateur historian, Generalissimo. An amateur military historian, if you will allow it.”

“Every good officer should be.”

“Thank you. I’m accused of shaping my theory to flatter Generalissimo Siyuf, but that is not the case. I have studied success. Not victory alone, because victory can be a matter of chance, and is frequently a matter of numbers and materiel. I searh out instances in which a small force has frustrated one that should have defeated it in days or hours.”

Saba had regained her self-possession. “I still say that it is brilliance that’s decisive. Military genius.”

Maytera Marble sniffed decisively, and Siyuf said, “Colonel Abanja does not think this. Brilliance, it is well enough when the execution of the so-brilliant orders is brilliant also. I do not speak of genius for I know nothing. Except it is rare and not to be relied on.”

Bison said, “I have a theory of my own, based on what I’ve seen of General Mint. I’ll be interested to see how it compares to the Colonel’s.”

“I mention Abanja’s,” Siyuf continued, “because I think Calde Silk so fine an example of him. She believe it is not this genius, not any quality of the mind. That it is energy, by clearest thoughts directed. Tell us, Abanja.”

“Successful commanders,” Colonel Abanja began, “are those who are still acting, and acting sensibly, on the fourth day. They endure. We have a game that we play on horseback. I don’t think you play it here, but I’ve won a good deal of money by betting on the games during the past year.”

The ends of Oosik’s mustache tilted upward. “Then you must tell us by all means, Colonel.”

“It imitates war, as most games do. A cavalry skirmish in this case. The players may change mounts after each goal, but the players themselves can’t be changed, or even replaced if one is hurt.” Both Oosik and his son nodded.

“There is a twenty-minute rest for them, however, and so we speak of the first half of the game and the second, divided by this rest. What determines the result, I have found, is not which team scores the most goals in the first half, because there’s seldom much disparity. The winning team will be the one that plays best and most aggressively in the second. When I see the team I’ve backed doing that, I double my bet, if I can.”

Siyuf nodded. Her head moved scarcely one finger’s width, but the nod announced that the time for controversy had ended. “Let us move from the fields where killi is played to this city of Viron, where is a so illustrative struggle. Who is winner? It is not too soon to say. One side hide in holes. Above prowl and roars the host of Viron and my horde of the Rani. For the second time I ask you that listen.” She paused dramatically. “Who is winner here?”

No one spoke.

“A man? This man Calde Silk? Can that be? Observe the leg broken, the wound to the chest of which Maytera our hostess speak. Yet he hunt by magic for a woman he require, and when by magic she is found, he leave food and friends and seek her out. Most women, even, would not do this.”

Chenille said, “He’s going to need a lot more help than one old man. I wish I’d made him take me along.”

Across Xiphias’s abandoned plate, Mattak said, “Two old men. His Cognizance has gone, too.” Surprised, Siyuf stared at the empty chair next to her own.

Under his breath, Mattak added, “I’m glad.”

Sergeant Sand spoke for them all. “He didn’t come.”

Kneeling by the headless, pawless body of Eland’s second beast, Remora looked up. “I shall — ah — proceed. I have, um, led astray myself. Enthusiasm. Contagious, eh? But I, um, coadjutor, have not, eh? Seen a god. Possibly the victim will enlighten us.”

As the holy knife laid open the beast from breastbone to pelvis, Spider said, “Sure, read it for us, it can’t hurt.”

It hurt the poor brute, Maytera Mint thought; but its death was swift, at least, and now the pain is over.

Sand had brought his slug gun to his shoulder before she saw Urus, halfway up the convoluted iron stair at the back of the manteion and taking its steps three at a time. She shouted, “Don’t fire!” and Sand did not. A moment later the door at the top of the stair slammed shut. “He thought we were going to offer him,” she explained to Eland. “Do you? We won’t. I will not permit it.”

Remora, who had been kneeling by the second victim, rose and strode to the ambion. “Extraordinary, eh? Extraordinary, my, er, sons. And daughter. Nothing, er, initially, and now this.” Sand resumed his seat, his head bowed.

“An — ah — preface. Necessary, I think. The offering of persons was practiced in the past in — ah — here. Many of you aware of it. Have to be. Forbidden within, um, by the present holder of the baculus.”

O you gods, Maytera Mint thought, he’s going to say the entrails order us to sacrifice Eland. What am I to do?

“In practice, children, hey? Almost always. No sense sending a messenger who cannot see the, er, the recipient, eh? The offering of, um, persons, children, by no means usual even then, eh? In dire need. Only then.”

Slate shifted his position until he stood behind Eland.

“Before my time. As an augur, eh? I would have — ah — declared…” Remora paused, his bony hands gripping the edges of the ambion, his eyes on the headless carcass.

“Never, eh? Couldn’t do it. Not a child. Not even, um, Urus. Now — ah — two sides to the entrails. You follow me? One for the congregation and the city. Other the presenter and the augur. For the — ah — Our Holy City, war, death, and destruction. Bad. Calamitous! For the, um, myself, I shall. Offer a person, er, human being. Man. So Pas warns us. Me.”

Maytera Mint said firmly, “Eland, can you see the gods?”

He looked at her in mild surprise. “I dunno, General. I never saw any.”

There was no time for delicacy. “Have you had a woman? You must have!”

“Sure. Lots of times ’fore I got throwed in the pit.”

She turned to Remora. “He is not suitable. I can see that, Your Eminence, and you must—”

Sand stood up. “I am.” He jabbed his steel chest with a steel thumb; the noise it made was like the clank of a heavy chain.

“You can’t mean it!”

“Yes, sir, I do.” With oiled precision, Sand mounted the steps to the sanctuary. “He came. Great Pas came to the Grand Manteion.”

Maytera Mint nodded reluctantly.

“He talked to the Prolocutor, and he told him to talk to us. To me. He said for us to get you out, ’cause it’s part of the Plan. The Plan’s the most important thing there is, sir.”

“Certainly.”

“You say that,” he advanced on her, formidable as a talus, five hundredweight metal. “’Cause they taught you to in some palaestra. I say it ’cause I know it in my pump. He said get you and sacrifice, and he’d come and tell us what to do next. Pas said that.”

Meekly, she nodded again.

“So we caught the bios, and then I thought maybe it’s not enough so I made them catch the two gods.”

“Bufes, Sergeant.”

“Whatever. Only the bufes aren’t any good, and now you and him say the bios are no good either, sir.” Sand wheeled to face Remora and pushed his slug gun into Remora’s hands. “I knew, Patera. ’Fore you read it, I knew. You ever want to die?”

“I? Ah — no.”

He’s lying, Maytera Mint thought. I know what it is, and so does he.

“I do.” Sand gestured toward Schist, Slate, and Shale. “So do they. Maybe they won’t say it, but they do. I want to die for Pas, and I’m going to right now.” He knelt, staring at the floor, and Remora looked helplessly down at the slug gun.

Maytera Mint murmured, “If you would prefer not to, Your Eminence, it would certainly be permissible for someone more familiar with the weapon to act for you.”

“You, er, concur, General?”

She sighed. “Sometimes generals need sergeants to recall them to their duty. So it seems. Whether I learned it in a palaestra or not, Sergeant Sand is right. The Plan is the most important thing in the whorl, and the victim consents.”

Still on his knees, Sand muttered, “Thanks, sir.”

She knelt beside him. “I’ve heard it’s possible for chems to — to reproduce. You’ve never done that?”

Slate said, “None of us have, General, and there’s hardly any fem chems left.” And Sand, “No. Never.”

She turned back to Remora and held out her hands for the slug gun. “I’ve never fired one either, Your Eminence, but I know how they work and I’ve seen it done thousands of times since this began.”

“No, Mayt — No, General.”

“Please, Your Eminence. For your own sake.”

He silenced her by raising Sand’s slug gun and pointing it awkwardly at Sand. “Precisely. Ah — to the point. For my sake, General. If I must, um, officiate, the — ah — holy and um, self-sacrificing. Sole responsibility. Do you follow me? Criminal penalties, hey? Religious, likewise. Removed from the — ah — active clergy.”

His wheezing breath seemed to fill the manteion. “But for him — ah — highest god. For Pas!” He jerked at the trigger.

“Not like that, Your Eminence. There’s a safety, and if you hold it that way the recoil will cripple you. Or so I’m assured.” She positioned the slug gun in his hands. “Grasp it firmly, tight against your shoulder, Then it will merely push you backwards. If you hold it loosely and try to keep it away, it will fly back and strike you like a club.”

Sand said, “In the head, Patera. That’s the best.”

“I am augur here,” Remora told him, and fired.

The crash of the shot was deafening in the enclosed space of the manteion. Sand rose; for an instant Maytera Mint could not see where the slug had hit him. Spinning to face the Sacred Window, he threw up both arms. There was an uncanny sound that might have been a cry of pain or harsh laughter. Black liquid spurted from his throat, spattering the clean black habit she had just put on.

And the Holy Hues began before Sand fell.

She blinked and stared, then blinked again. Not one face but two crowded the Window, one gaping and gasping, the other radiant with power and majesty, just — and more than just — pitiless and nurturing. “My faithful people,” intoned Twice-headed Pas, “receive the blessing of your god.”

“I see him!” From the voice she thought it must be Spider, although she could not be sure.

Pas’s was thunder and a destroying wind. “Carry this most noble of my soldiers to the Grand manteion. I shall speak—”

Both his faces faded. Tawny yellows and iridescent blacks filled the Window on Mainframe. Serpents writhed across it as scorpions scuttled over their backs; behind them all, Spider and Maytera Mint, Eland and Remora, Slate, Shale, and Schist saw the agonized face of Echidna.

Pas returned as if Echidna had never been. “There our prophet Auk will restore him to us.”