by Gene Wolfe
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 pie
rced 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—”