by Gene Wolfe
I started to ask how it was possible for the House Absolute (which I had always imagined a vast palace of gleaming towers and domed halls) to be invisible; but Thecla was already thinking of something else altogether, stroking a bracelet formed like a kraken, a kraken whose tentacles wrapped the white flesh of her arm; its eyes were cabochon emeralds. “They let me keep this, and it’s quite valuable. Platinum, not silver. I was surprised.”
“There’s no one here who can be bribed.”
“It might be sold in Nessus to buy clothing. Have any of my friends tried to see me? Do you know, Severian?”
I shook my head. “They would not be admitted.”
“I understand, but someone might try. Do you know that most of the people in the House Absolute don’t know this place exists? I see you don’t believe me.”
“You mean they don’t know of the Citadel?”
“They’re aware of that, of course. Parts of it are open to everyone, and anyway you can’t miss seeing the spires if you get down into the southern end of the living city, no matter which side of Gyoll you’re on.” She slapped the metal wall of her cell with one hand. “They don’t know of this—or at least, a great many of them would deny it still exists.”
She was a great, great chatelaine, and I was something worse than a slave (I mean in the eyes of the common people, who do not really understand the functions of our guild). Yet when the time had passed and Drotte tapped the ringing door, it was I who rose and left the cell and soon climbed into the clean air of evening, and Thecla who stayed behind to listen to the moans and screams of the others. (Though her cell was some distance from the stairwell, the laughter from the third level was audible still when there was no one there to talk with her.)
In our dormitory that night I asked if anyone knew the names of the journeymen Master Gurloes had sent in search of the House Absolute. No one did, but my question stirred an animated discussion. Although none of the boys had seen the place or so much as spoken with anyone who had, all had heard stories. Most were of fabled wealth—gold plates and silk saddle blankets and that sort of thing. More interesting were the descriptions of the Autarch, who would have had to be a kind of monster to fit them all; he was said to be tall when standing, of common size seated, aged, young, a woman dressed as a man, and so on. More fantastic still were the tales of his vizier, the famous Father Inire, who looked like a monkey and was the oldest man in the world. We had just begun trading wonders in good earnest when there was a knock at the door. The youngest opened it, and I saw Roche—dressed not in the fuligin breeches and cloak the regulations of the guild decree, but in common, though new and fashionable, trousers, shirt, and coat. He motioned to me, and when I came to the door to speak to him, he indicated that I was to follow him. After we had gone some way down the stair, he said, “I’m afraid I frightened the little fellow. He doesn’t know who I am.”
“Not in those clothes,” I told him. “He’d recall you if he saw you dressed the way you used to be.”
That pleased him and he laughed. “Do you know, it felt so strange, having to bang on that door. Today is what? The eighteenth—it’s been under three weeks. How are things going for you?”
“Well enough.”
“You seem to have the gang in hand. Eata’s your second, isn’t he? He won’t make a journeyman for four years, so he’ll be captain for three after you. It’s good for him to have the experience, and I’m sorry now you didn’t have more before you had to take the job on. I stood in your way, but I never thought about it at the time.”
“Roche, where are we going?”
“Well, first we’re going down to my cabin to get you dressed. Are you looking forward to becoming a journeyman yourself, Severian?” These last words were thrown over his shoulder as he clattered down the steps ahead of me, and he did not wait for an answer.
My costume was much like his, though of different colors. There were overcoats and caps for us too. “You’ll be glad for them,” he said as I put mine on. “It’s cold out and starting to snow.” He handed me a scarf and told me to take off my worn shoes and put on a pair of boots.
“They’re journeymen’s boots,” I protested. “I can’t wear those.”
“Go ahead. Everyone wears black boots. Nobody will notice. Do they fit?”
They were too large, so he made me draw a pair of his stockings on over my own. “Now, I’m supposed to keep the purse, but since there’s always a chance we may be separated, it would be better if you have a few asimi.” He dropped coins into my palm. “Ready? Let’s go. I’d like to be back in time for some sleep if we can.”
We left the tower, and muffled in our strange clothing rounded the Witches’ Keep to take the covered walk leading past the Martello to the court called Broken. Roche had been right: it was starting to snow, fluffy flakes as big as the end of my thumb sifting so slowly through the air that it seemed they must have been falling for years. There was no wind, and we could hear the creaking our boots made in breaking through the familiar world’s new, thin disguise. “You’re in luck,” Roche told me. “I don’t know how you worked this, but thank you.”
“Worked what?”
“A trip to the Echopraxia and a woman for each of us. I know you know—Master Gurloes told me he’d already notified you.”
“I had forgotten, and anyway I wasn’t sure he meant it. Are we going to walk? It must be a long way.”
“Not as long as you probably think, but I told you we have funds. There will be fiacres at the Bitter Gate. There always are—people are continually coming and going, though you wouldn’t think it back in our little corner.” To make conversation, I told him what the Chatelaine Thecla had said: that many people in the House Absolute did not know we existed. “That’s so, I’m sure. When you’re brought up in the guild it seems like the center of the world. But when you’re a little older—this is what I’ve found myself, and I know I can rely on you not to tell tales—something pops in your head, and you discover it isn’t the linchpin of this universe after all, only a well-paid, unpopular business you happen to have fallen into.” As Roche had predicted there were coaches, three of them, waiting in the Broken Court. One was an exultant’s with blazonings painted on the doors and palfreniers in fanciful liveries, but the other two were fiacres, small and plain. The drivers in their low fur caps were bending over a fire they had kindled on the cobbles. Seen at a distance through the falling snow it seemed no bigger than a spark.
Roche waved an arm and shouted, and a driver vaulted into the seat, cracked his whip, and came rattling to meet us. When we were inside, I asked Roche if he knew who we were, and he said, “We’re two optimates who had business in the Citadel and are bound now for the Echopraxia and an evening of pleasure. That’s all he knows and all he needs to know.”
I wondered if Roche were much more experienced at such pleasures than I was myself. It seemed unlikely. In the hope of discovering whether he had visited our destination before, I asked where the Echopraxia lay. “In the Algedonic Quarter. Have you heard of it?”
I nodded and said that Master Palaemon had once mentioned that it was one of the oldest parts of the city.
“Not really. There are parts farther south that are older still, a waste of stone where only omophagists live. The Citadel used to stand some distance north of Nessus, did you know that?”
I shook my head.
“The city keeps creeping upriver. The armigers and optimates want purer water—not that they drink it, but for their fishponds, and for bathing and boating. Then too, anyone living too near the sea is always somewhat suspect. So the lowest parts, where the water’s the worst, are gradually given up. In the end the law goes, and those who stay behind are afraid to kindle a fire for fear of what the smoke may draw down on them.”
I was looking out the window. We had already passed through a gate unknown to me, dashing by helmeted guards; but we were still within the Citadel, descending a narrow close between two rows of shuttered windows. “Wh
en you are a journeyman you can go into the city any time you want, provided you’re not on duty.”
I knew that already, of course; but I asked Roche if he found it pleasant. “Not pleasant, exactly… I’ve only gone twice, to tell you the truth. Not pleasant, but interesting. They know who you are, naturally.”
“You said the driver didn’t.”
“Well, he probably doesn’t. Those drivers go all over Nessus. He may live anywhere, and not get to the Citadel more than once a year. But the locals know. The soldiers tell. They always know, and they always tell, that’s what everybody says. They can wear their uniforms when they go out.”
“These windows are all dark. I don’t think there’s anyone in this part of the Citadel at all.”
“Everything’s getting smaller. Not much anybody can do about that. Less food means fewer people until the New Sun comes.”
Despite the cold, I felt stifled in the fiacre. “Is it much farther?” I asked.
Roche chuckled. “You’re bound to be nervous.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Certainly you are. Just don’t let it bother you. It’s natural. Don’t be nervous about being nervous, if you see what I mean.”
“I’m quite calm.”
“It can be quick, if that’s what you want. You don’t have to talk to the woman if you don’t want to. She doesn’t care. Of course, she’ll talk if that’s what you like. You’re paying—in this case I am, but the principle’s the same. She’ll do what you want, within reason. If you strike her or use a grip, they’ll charge more.”
“Do people do that?”
“You know, amateurs. I didn’t think you’d want to, and I don’t think anybody in the guild does it, unless perhaps they’re drunk.” He paused. “The women are breaking the law, so they can’t complain.”
With the fiacre sliding alarmingly, we wheeled out of the close and into a still narrower one that ran crookedly east.
9. THE HOUSE AZURE
Our destination was one of those accretive structures seen in the older parts of the city (but so far as I know, only there) in which the accumulation and interconnection of what were originally separate buildings produce a confusion of jutting wings and architectural styles, with peaks and turrets where the first builders had intended nothing more than rooftops. The snow had fallen more heavily here—or perhaps had only been failing while we rode. It surrounded the high portico with shapeless mounds of white, softened and blurred the outlines of the entrance, made pillows of the window ledges, and masking and robing the wooden caryatids who supported the roof, seemed to promise silence, safety, and secrecy.
There were dim yellow lights in the lower windows. The upper stories were dark.
In spite of the drifted snow, someone within must have heard our feet outside. The door, large and old and no longer in the best condition, swung back before Roche could knock. We entered and found ourselves in a narrow little room like a jewel box, in which the walls and ceiling were covered with blue satin quilting. The person who had admitted us wore thicksoled shoes and a yellow robe; his short, white hair was smoothed back from a wide but rounded brow above a beardless and unlined face. As I passed him in the doorway, I discovered that I was looking into his eyes as I might have looked into a window. Those eyes could truly have been of glass, so unveined and polished they seemed—like a sky of summer drought.
“You are in good fortune,” he said, and handed us each a goblet. “There is no one here but yourselves.”
Roche answered, “I’m sure the girls are lonesome.”
“They are. You smile… I see you do not believe me, but it is so. They complain when too many attend their court, but they are sad, too, when no one coles. Each will try to fascinate you tonight. You’ll see. They’ll want to boast when you are gone that you chose them. Besides, you are both handsome young men.” He paused, and though he did not stare, seemed to look at Roche more closely. “You have been here previously, have you not? I remember your red hair and high color. Far to the south, in the narrow lands, the savages paint a fire spirit much like you. And your friend has the face of an exultant… that is what my young women like best of all. I see why you brought him here.” His voice might have been a man’s tenor or a woman’s contralto. Another door opened. It had a stained-glass insert showing the Temptation. We went into a room that seemed (no doubt in part because of the constriction of the one we had just left) more spacious than the building could well contain. The high ceiling was festooned with what appeared to be white silk, giving it the air of a pavilion. Two walls were lined with colonnades—these were false, the pretended columns being only half-round pilasters pressed against their blue-painted surfaces, and the architrave no more than a molding; but so long as we remained near the center, the effect was impressive and nearly perfect. At the farther end of this chamber, opposite the windows, was a high-backed chair like a throne. Our host seated himself in it, and almost at once I heard a chime somewhere in the interior of the house. In two lesser chairs, Roche and I waited in silence while its clear echoes died. There was no sound from outside, yet I could sense the falling snow. My wine promised to hold the cold at bay, and in a few swallows I saw the bottom of the cup. It was as though I were awaiting the beginning of some ceremony in the ruined chapel, but at once less real and more serious.
“The Chatelaine Barbea,” our host announced.
A tall woman entered. So poised was she, and so beautifully and daringly dressed, that it was several moments before I realized she could be no more than seventeen. Her face was oval and perfect, with limpid eyes, a small, straight nose, and a tiny mouth painted to appear smaller still. Her hair was so near to burnished gold that it might have been a wig of golden wires. She posed herself a step or two before us and slowly began to revolve, striking a hundred graceful attitudes. At the time I had never seen a professional dancer; even now I do not believe I have seen one so beautiful as she. I cannot convey what I felt then, watching her in that strange room. “All the beauties of the court are here for you,” our host said. “Here in the House Azure, by night flown here from the walls of gold to find their dissipation in your pleasure.”
Half hypnotized as I was, I thought this fantastic assertion had been put forward seriously. I said, “Surely that’s not true.”
“You came for pleasure, did you not? If a dream adds to your enjoyment, why dispute it?” All this time the girl with the golden hair continued her slow, unaccompanied dance.
Moment flowed into moment.
“Do you like her?” our host asked. “Do you choose her?” I was about to say—to shout rather, feeling everything in me that had ever yearned for a woman yearning then—that I did. Before I could catch my breath, Roche said, “Let’s see some of the others.” The girl ended her dance at once, made an obeisance, and left the room.
“You may have more than one, you know. Separately or together. We have some very large beds.” The door opened again. “The Chatelaine Gracia.” Though this girl seemed quite different, there was much about her that reminded me of the “Chatelaine Barbea” who had come before her. Her hair was as white as the flakes that floated past the windows, making her youthful face seem younger still, and her dark complexion darker. She had (or seemed to have) larger breasts and more generous hips. Yet I felt it was almost possible that it was the same woman after all, that she had changed clothing, changed wigs, dusked her face with cosmetics in the few seconds between the other’s exit and her entrance. It was absurd, yet there was an element of truth in it, as in so many absurdities.
There was something in the eyes of both women, in the expression of their mouths, their carriage and the fluidity of their gestures, that was one. It recalled something I had seen elsewhere (I could not remember where), and yet it was new, and I felt somehow that the other thing, that which I had known earlier, was to be preferred.
“That will do for me,” Roche said. “Now we must find something for my friend here.” The dark girl, who had not dance
d as the other had, but had only stood, smiling very slightly, curtsying and turning in the center of the room, now permitted her smile to widen a trifle, went to Roche, seated herself on the arm of his chair, and began whispering to him.
As the door opened a third time, our host said, “The Chatelaine Thecla.” It seemed really she, just as I had remembered her—how she had escaped I could not guess. In the end it was reason rather than observation that told me I was mistaken. What differences I could have detected with the two standing side by side I cannot say, though certainly this woman was somewhat shorter. “It is she you wish, then,” our host said. I could not recall speaking. Roche stepped forward with a leather burse, announcing that he would pay for both of us. I watched the coins as he drew them out, waiting to see the gleam of a chrisos. It was not there—there were only a few asimi. The “Chatelaine Thecla” touched my hand. The scent she wore was stronger than the faint perfume of the real Thecla; still it was the same scent, making me think of a rose burning. “Come,” she said.
I followed her. There was a corridor, dimly lit and not clean, then a narrow stair. I asked how many of the court were here, and she paused, looking down at me obliquely. Something there was in her face that might have been vanity satisfied, love, or that more obscure emotion we feel when what had been a contest becomes a performance. “Tonight, very few. Because of the snow. I came in a sleigh with Gracia.”
I nodded. I thought I knew well enough that she had come only from one of the mean lanes about the house in which we were that night, and most likely on foot, with a shawl over her hair and the cold striking through old shoes. Yet what she said I found more meaningful than reality: I could sense the sweating destriers leaping through the falling snow faster than any machine, the whistling wind, the young, beautiful, jaded women bundled inside in sable and lynx, dark against red velvet cushions.