Shadows of the New Sun: Stories in Honor of Gene Wolfe

by Bill Fawcett

  “I wasn’t referring to the dagger,” Savek said, as he bent to retrieve the mirrors and cloth. “I was talking about these. Where did you get them?”

  “Beyond the western sea,” Hethor lied. “That, oh lord, is w-w- where maidens with gleaming hair pour sweet nectar, where flowers perfume the air, and the bazaars of O-O-Opar open their arms at night. Dreams can be bought there—and potions such as to stir the blood! Even as s-s- stars fall from the sky, light-filled orbs float suspended in the air, and blind men see.”

  “So you purchased the objects,” Savek said impatiently. “Y-y-yes, lord. If it pleases you.”

  “It does not please me,” Savek said, “as you are about to learn.” Savak waved a hand and the beast men took Hethor away.

  Severian was furious. Having been denied the opportunity to torture the careless Waggoner, he turned to find that Dr. Talos, Jolenta, Baldanders, and precious Dorcas had disappeared. But there, no more than half a chain away, was Hethor. His feet were walking on air as two beast men carried him away. And though of no great concern in and of itself, that raised the possibility that the others had been abducted as well.

  Severian shouted at the beast men soldiers to stop, but either they couldn’t hear him over the surrounding tumult or chose not to acknowledge him. A door swung open, Hethor was taken inside, and the barrier closed again. Fearful that a similar fate had befallen Dorcas and the others, Severian hurried forward.

  “Out of the way!” he shouted. And the combination of his commanding manner, the fuligin cloak, and the drawn sword was sufficient to clear a path to the metal-strapped door. The sword made a thumping sound as the hilt struck dark wood. “Open up!” Severian demanded, as he tugged on a bronze handle.

  There was no response at first. Then a head- high door within the door opened to reveal a leering face. It had a low brow, pink-hued eyes, and a hog-wide nose. But the creature’s mouth was disturbingly human, as were its ears.

  “My name is Severian . . . I am a Journeyman of the Seekers of Truth and Penitence. Let me in.”

  The beast uttered a grunt, the window slammed closed, and Severian was left to fume for at least a minute before the larger door opened. Having returned Terminus Est to its scabbard, Severian stepped inside. His eyes swept the chamber, saw the prisoners, and checked them one by one. Dorcas was nowhere to be seen, nor were the others.

  “My name is Kevas. I am the Assistant Exsecutor here. Can I be of assistance?” The voice was light and delightfully melodic.

  Severian turned to find himself looking at a woman with black hair, a high forehead, and large, luminous eyes that seemed to peer right through him. “My name is Severian. I saw your soldiers snatch my servant off the street and bring him here. His name is Hethor. And I’m looking for the rest of my party as well. That includes a small man with red hair, a giant, and a woman almost as beautiful as you.”

  That was a lie, since Severian had never seen a woman as comely as Jolenta, but he figured a little flattery couldn’t hurt. But the compliment had no visible effect on the Exsecutor. Her eyes were like deep wells. “There was a man,” she said softly. “My superior is about to question him. As for the others, no, they aren’t here.”

  Severian considered that. Dorcas was out on the road somewhere. Dr. Talos and Baldander would look after her, to some extent at least, but not with the care that he would. So part of him wanted to leave right away. But what of Hethor? For some reason Severian was reminded of Triskele, the three-legged dog he had rescued, and even dreamt of the night before. Could he leave Hethor with the beast men? No, he couldn’t. Time was of the essence, however, so he hoped to find Hethor and free him as quickly as possible. “I would like to see Hethor. Now, please.”

  The luminous eyes stared up at him. And as the clean scent of her found his nostrils, Severian could imagine how her soft melodic voice would sound interposed with the piteous screams of a well- flayed client. A musical counterpoint of sorts. A duet unsung.

  “Your servant was carrying proscribed artifacts. Was he carrying them for you?” she asked. “Perhaps you aren’t seeking the man so much as the items he carried.”

  Suddenly Severian was in a trap, or teetering on the edge of one, and wondered what if anything Hethor had confessed to. He sensed movement, but it was too late. A pair of beast men stepped in to grab his arms. Severian chose not struggle, lest doing so seem to confirm his guilt. “I am a member of the torturer’s guild,” he said, mustering all the dignity that he could.

  “And a subject of the Autarch,” Kevas said primly. The grunts and growls that followed meant nothing to Severian and were unseemly coming from her full-lipped mouth. Severian felt a tug as Terminus Est was removed from its scabbard. Then, having been on the receiving end of a powerful shove, the carnifex was led away.

  A door opened and closed as Severian was forced into a great emptiness. And as the carnifex looked upward he could see what appeared to be endless flights of stairs that led to precarious galleries, ramps that zigzagged back and forth across the face of the pitted metal wall, and platforms for which there was no obvious purpose, all lit by the beams of dusty sunlight that slanted down from above.

  As Severian was escorted ever higher, he passed tiers of cells all filled with miserable human beings. Some, having left all sanity behind, screamed words that no one knew. Others, upon seeing the deathly darkness of his cloak, shrank into the recesses of their filthy cells. In spite of their misery, they were still eager to live out another minute, hour, or day. Steel clashed with steel somewhere, chains rattled, and Severian heard the high, eerie sound of a song, the words filled with longing. And here, he decided, was where hell lay, not in the land beyond death.

  The Chamber of Truth was equipped to accommodate the needs of a professional torturer, though none was in attendance. So that as Hethor was questioned, it was in a room furnished with a chair of spikes, also called a Confession Chair. In one corner an Iron Maiden stood, her hinged body open to receive the next offender. And that was to say nothing of the bench-mounted skull crusher, the dangling chain whip, the horizontal rack, the stork, the thumbscrew, or the aptly named knee splitter. All of which was frequently sufficient to loosen tongues without the sending for a member of the torturer’s guild. All Hethor could do was stall, try to retrain control of his bowels, and hope that something would break his way.

  Hethor was seated on a sturdy chair that occupied a platform. It was located below a bright light, which caused him to squint. “What is your real name?” the Exsecutor demanded.

  “I have many n-n-names,” Hethor replied. “I am called the buyer, seller, and transporter of goods useful and otherwise. A merchant am I, sailing the shining seas, always far from home. Andeth, Fosfer, and Umbay. I am known by all and n-n-none of those. For names are as numerous as pebbles on a beach and of no particular importance.”

  “I grow weary of your witless prattling,” Savek said sternly. “Perhaps I will send for a torturer. All we need is your tongue. The rest can be cut away.”

  There was a momentary commotion as the door was thrown open. Severian stumbled into the room, caught his balance, and looked around. A woman entered behind him.

  “M-M-Master,” Hethor said pitifully, “is it truly you?”

  The woman spoke. “Yes, your master came looking for you, or what you were carrying. The question is which. Tell me Hethor, who do the objects on this table belong to? You? Or your employer?”

  “ T-T- Tome.”

  “The lout could be lying,” Savek observed, “but we will come back to that. Now,” Savek said, as he removed two mirrors from a nearby table. “Tell me what these devices are.”

  Hethor accepted one in each hand. He held them up as if to admire himself. “T-T-They are mirrors, lord, which I planned to sell.”

  “Our devices tell a different story,” Savek countered. “And these are not ordinary mirrors. They have a numinous aura of some kind. Are they haunted?”

  “No, lord. Not that I know of,” He
thor replied, as he continued to manipulate the mirrors. Once they faced each other he blew so as to fog them.

  “Stop that,” Savek said, as he took the objects back.

  “S-S- Sorry, lord. I know not of what you describe. For me they are but trinkets, purchased beyond the western sea, and brought here by ship.” The last being true.

  “And this?” Savek demanded, shaking the sail out to its full size.

  “A t-t-tablecloth, lord, or a shroud. Depending on what the customer may choose.”

  “You are a liar.”

  “If you say so, l-l-lord,” Hethor said humbly.

  It looked like Severian was about to object when a commotion came from outside. Then the door slammed open and a beast man entered. It uttered a series of urgent grunts, and a scream was heard coming from somewhere behind him. Savek swore and led the rest of the guards out of the chamber. A heartbeat later a roaring whoosh sounded.

  Hethor left his chair and retrieved his belongings. “Master,” he said, staring at the open door, “what was that?”

  A tongue of fire shot past the door in answer, and a glowing insect appeared. Its wings were a blur. It had a gauzy appearance, and seemed to shimmer like a mirage. Then, as the head with the hooked beak turned to look at them, it opened its mouth and another gout of fire flooded the entrance to the chamber.

  That was when Kevas darted in and fired her laser pistol . . . to no effect.

  Another tongue of fire shot out of the creature’s mouth and wrapped Kevas in a cocoon of yellow-orange flames. There was nothing melodious about her scream. Death came quickly, but the corpse continued to burn as it hit the floor.

  Severian had reclaimed Terminus Est by then, and held it ready.

  The creature turned away and disappeared onto the platform beyond—and more screams were heard.

  Severian turned to Hethor. “Come on. This is our chance.”

  “Yes, Master,” Hethor said obediently, as he followed the carnifex to the door. There was good reason to look around before exiting the chamber, and what he saw surprised him. The platform was empty. But off to the right, and many chains below, the glowing insect hovered in midair. A streamer of fire shot out to set a beast man alight. The soldier howled and rolled on the floor in a futile attempt to extinguish the flames.

  There was a great cacophony of noise as inmates shouted all manner of things, a bell began to toll, and hundreds of beast men swarmed out onto the galleries, ramps, and platforms, ready to do battle.

  Severian turned to the left and was forced to step over Savek’s charred body before he could access the stairs. He ran down them to a long gallery lined with cells. A beast man saw Severian, took him to be an escaped prisoner, and came at him with sword swinging. The carnifex ducked to let the blade pass over his head and took a swing at the creature’s left leg and followed it with a downward blow that split its head open.

  “It’s wearing a key,” Severian observed. “Take it. Open those cells.”

  Hethor hurried to obey, and as he opened door after door, Severian fought a succession of bloody duels. Then, once enough prisoners had been released, they became an army in their own right. They howled as they rushed down ramps, swarmed any jailer they could find, and opened more cells.

  One by one the beast men fell, and as they did, the escapees took their weapons. All Severian and Hethor had to do was follow the mob down to ground level and find a way out.

  They did so, but as Severian entered the tunnel that lead north from Piteous Gate, he turned to find that Hethor had disappeared. Swept away by the crowd perhaps—or determined to continue alone. Not that it mattered. He wanted to find Dorcas and assumed she was somewhere ahead.

  Now, as Severian pushed his way through the surging crowd, he saw signs that the pyrausta, the flame-throwing insect, was somewhere in front of him. Two burnt bodies lay sprawled in the street, the faint odor of sulfur hung in the air, and there were screams ahead. In moments, he came across the man named Jonas, who was kneeling next to a dead onager. The animal was badly burned and its throat had been cut.

  “It was hurt,” Jonas explained. “I had to give it peace.”

  “You did the right thing,” Severian assured him. “Come with me. I can see the north end of the gate from here.”

  Jonas stood, and with the merychip following along behind, they walked north. Neither man was aware that the object in Severian’s sabretache had started to glow, nor did they take notice when the light began to fade, because their eyes were on the road ahead.

  New York Times bestselling author William C. Dietz has published more than forty novels, some of which have been translated into German, French, Russian, Korean, and Japa nese. Dietz also wrote the script for the Legion of the Damned game (iPhone, iTouch, and iPad), based on the popular series of the same name—and co wrote Sony’s Resis tance: Burning Skies game for the PS Vita. Dietz is a member of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America, the Writer’s Guild, and the International Association of Media Tie-In Writers. He and his wife live near Gig Harbor in Washington state, where they enjoy traveling, kayaking, and reading books. For more information about William C. Dietz and his work, visit www.williamcdi etz.com.

  Michael Andre-Driussi wrote The Wizard Knight Companion: A Lexicon for Gene Wolfe’s The Knight and The Wizard, as well as Lexicon Urthus: A Dictionary for the Urth Cycle, both with Gene Wolfe. This story would have been impossible without Michael’s advice and guidance.

  Soldier of Mercy

  MARC ARAMINI

  On Gene Wolfe: He is the single biggest influence on the way that I think today. I first encountered him by accident in the fourth grade when a friend of my father gave me a box of books, which included a hardcover of The Claw of the Conciliator. I had to get the first book, of course, and when I reread Wolfe I realized how profound he was—a modern and sophisticated man who can write breathtakingly about everything from spirituality to despair without ever falling victim to banality. He could build on ancient formulas and traditions without destroying them. I wrote him a fan letter in graduate school, and since then he has become a far more trustworthy hero to me than any of his protagonists. This story is of course inspired by his Latro books and their exploration of memory, identity . . . and mercy.

  I opened the golden pyx as deftly as I could, fumbling for a second, thinking of the words that had caught my attention at the Christmas Vigil last week in the dark pew— the monophony of a chanting tenor echoing in my skull. I tried to believe that there was something sublime or transcendent waiting to happen. That old chant of time’s passage was stuck in my head, of how very much time it had been since the Earth was new, since the flood, since the two of us had seen each other clearly—time oppressed us both as I tried to remember the proper words. Only this hungry lie drew his gaze toward me, though we were alone in his little silent room.

  His lips were dry, irritated from the growth above them. I could almost feel his lust for the unleavened bread in my hand. He was wearing a dark gray dress shirt today, and black slacks, with his red undershirt the only splash of color and vibrancy. St. Jude Thaddeus flashed in gold around his neck as he leaned forward to better see the wafers nestled in the pyx. The fluorescent lights above played shadowy games with his pale skin, hiding the dark blue eyes in deep recesses, but revealing the angry red marks around his scarred forehead, almost like tumors, though they proved flat to the touch.

  There was a discernible reflection of that artificial light nested in his eyes when I returned his scrutiny. With the use of his left hand he must have fastened the buttons himself, or the aides would have left him in only the red shirt. It seemed to me that his right one was reaching out toward the pyx now.

  “You were here last week,” was firmly spoken.

  “Yesterday.”

  He was silent for what seemed a minute at my reply, and I decided it was as good a time as any to get this over with.

  “Behold the Lamb—”

  “But last week, too,” he
interjected, gathering steam now that silence was most expected. “I showed you the letter they sent. Questioning my document. I translated it, you know.”

  “Yeah, yeah, the document. We can talk after, you know.” I caught myself mimicking him, unconsciously. “And about other stuff, too. Eleanor has some questions I would like for you to answer.”

  “Rome was already a republic when that last script was trapped, sealed up in that wall for so unbearably long. I knew it would be there. Before the accident. I found it.” He touched the scar near his left temple. “And right after the accident I was sure of what I had found, at last.”

  I did not think he had been a very religious person before, but things had changed—if not from the time of his accident and that ghastly but apparently harmless skin infection, then later with the stroke, when his gait had become so labored.

  “Hey, Grandpa, speaking of Rome: This is the Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world; happy are those who are called to his supper.” My voice sounded reedy to my ears.

  “Lord, I am not worthy to receive you, but only say the word and I shall be healed.”

  I could hear him humming under his breath, the old songs he had enjoyed so much, but in a fractious kind of concatenation only someone who truly knew him could follow. (And the traitor thought: Did he even know himself anymore? flashed through my mind.) I could hear the words of his haphazard humming in my head as if he were vocalizing: “and drink of his blood, you will live forever . . . Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, miserere nobis . . . dona nobis pacem.”

  Then those shadowed eyes noticed me again, and they shifted to encompass my existence. “You should read it—I rewrote it all, but I think I lost the first half. I corrected a few of the words, from the Latin. I don’t think Sol Invictus was the right term, as I did before.”

  “Look, I don’t have time for that now. I know you kept impeccable rec ords about what happened before the accident, maybe after. You always did. Your study had so many, but nothing about that last trip. Have you stored them somewhere? I need to see them. A key for a safe box? A vault? Anything?”