CALDE OF THE LONG SUN botls-3

by Gene Wolfe

  window. The captain pointed. "We have a buzz gun for this

  post, as you see, My General. A buzz gun because the street offers

  the most direct route to the entrance. The angle affords us a

  longitudinal field of fire. Down there," he pointed again, "a step or

  two more, and we could be fired upon from an upper window of the

  Alambrera."

  "They could come down this street, straight across Cage, and go

  into the Alambrera?"

  "That is correct, My General. Therefore we will not go farther.

  This way, please. You do not object to the alley?"

  "Certainly not."

  How strange the service of the gods was! When she was only a

  girl, Maytera Mockorange had told her that the gods' service meant

  missing sleep and meals, and had made her give that response each

  time she was asked. Now here she was; she hadn't eaten since

  breakfast, but by Thelxiepeia's grace she was too tired to be hungry.

  "The boy you sent off to bed." The captain chuckled. "He will

  sleep all night. Did you foresee that, My General? The poor girl will

  have to remain at her post until morning."

  "Horn? No more than three hours, Captain, if that."

  The alley ended at a wider steet. Mill Street, Maytera Mint told

  herself, seeing the forlorn sign of a dark coffee shop called the Mill.

  Mill Street was where you could buy odd lengths of serge and tweed cheaply.

  "Here we are out of sight, though not hidden from sentries on the

  wall. Look." He pointed again. "Do you recognize it, My General?"

  "I recognize the wall of the Alambrera, certainly. And I can see a

  floater. Is it yours? No, it can't be, or they'd be shooting at it, and

  the turret's missing."

  "It is one of those you destroyed, My General. But it is mine now.

  I have two men in it." He halted. "Here I leave you for perhaps three

  minutes. It is too dangerous for us to proceed, but I must see that all

  is well with them."

  She let him trot away, waiting until he had almost reached the

  disabled floater before she began to run herself, running as she had

  so often pictured herself running in games with the children at the

  palaestra, her skirt hiked to her knees and her feet flying, the fear of

  impropriety gone who could say where.

  He jumped, caught the edge of the hole where the turret had

  been, pulled himself up and rolled over, vanishing into the disabled

  floater. Seeing him, she felt less confident that she could do it too.

  Fortunately she did not have to; when she was still half a dozen

  strides away, a door opened in its side. "I did not think you would

  remain behind, My General," the captain told her, "though I dared

  hope. You must not risk yourself in this fashion."

  She nodded, too breathless to speak, and ducked into the floater.

  It was cramped yet strangely roofless, the crouching Guardsmen

  clearly ill at ease, trained to snap to attention but compressed by

  circumstance. "Sit down," she ordered them, "all of you. We can't

  stand on formality in here."

  That word _stand_ had been unwisely chosen, she reflected. They

  sat anyway, with muttered thanks.

  "This buzz gun, you see, My General," the captain patted it, "once

  it belonged to the commander of this floater. He missed you, so it is

  yours."

  She knew nothing about buzz guns and was curious despite her

  fatigue. "Does it still operate? And do you have," at a loss, she

  waved a vague hand, "whatever it shoots?"

  "Cartridges, My General. Yes, there are enough. It was the fuel

  that exploded in this floater, you see. They are not like soldiers,

  these floaters. They are like taluses and must have fish oil or

  palm-nut oil for their engines. Fish oil is not so nice, but we employ

  it because it is less costly. This floater carried sufficient ammunition

  for both guns, and there is sufficient still."

  "I want to sit there." She was looking at the officer's seat. "May I?"

  "Certainly, My General." The captain scrambled out of her way.

  The seat was astonishingly comfortable, deeper and softer than

  her bed in the cenoby, although its scorched upholstery smelled of

  smoke. Not astonishing, Maytera Mint told herself, not really. To

  be expected, because it had been an officer's seat, and the Ayuntamiento

  treated officers well, knowing that its power rested on

  them; that was something to keep in mind, one more thing she must

  not forget.

  "Do not touch the trigger, My General. The safety catch is

  disengaged." The captain reached over her shoulder to push a small

  lever. "Now it is engaged. The gun will not fire."

  "This spider web thing." She touched it instead. "Is it what you call

  the sight?"

  "Yes, the rear sight, My General. The little post you see at the end

  of the barrel, that is the front sight. The gunner aligns the two, so

  that he sees the top of the post in one or another of the small rectangles."

  "I see."

  "Higher rectangles, My General, if the target is distant. To left or

  right if there is a strong wind, or because the gun favors one side or

  another."

  She leaned back in the seat and allowed herself, for no more than

  a second or two, to close her eyes. The captain was saying

  something about night vision, short bursts hitting more than long

  ones, about fields of fire.

  Fire was eating up somebody's home while he talked, and Lime

  (if Teasel had found her quickly and she hadn't been far) was

  looking for her right now, going from sentry post to post to post to

  post. Looking for her and asking people at each post whether they

  had seen her, whether they knew where the next one was and

  whether they would take her there because of the fires, because

  Bison had known, had rightly known that the fires must be put out

  but had been afraid to say it because he had known his people

  couldn't do it, could not, men and women who had fought so long

  and hard already all day, fight fires tonight and fight again tomorrow.

  Bison who made her feel so strong and competent, whose thick

  and curling black beard was longer than her hair. Maytera Mockorange

  had warned her about going without her coif, which was not

  just against the rule but stimulating to a great many men who were

  aroused by the sight of women's hair, particularly if long. She had

  lost her coif somewhere, had gone without it though her hair was

  short, though it had been cropped short on the first day, all of it.

  She fled Maytera Mockorange's anger down dark cold halls full of

  sudden turnings until she found Auk, who reminded her that she

  was to bring him the gods.

  "I am Colonel Oosik, Calde," Silk's visitor informed him. He was a

  big man, so tall and broad that Shell was hidden by his green-uniformed bulk.

  "The officer who directs this brigade," Silk offered his hand. "In

  command. Is that what you say? I'm Patera Silk."

  "You have familiarized yourself with our organization." Oosik sat

  down in the chair Shell had carried in earlier.

  "Not really. Are those my clothes you have?"

  "Yes." Oosik held them up, an untidy
black bundle. "We will

  speak of them presently, Calde. If you have made no study of our

  organization charts, how is it you know my position?"

  "I saw a poster." Silk paused, remembering. "I was going to the

  lake with a woman named Chenille. The poster announced the

  formation of a reserve brigade. It was signed by you, and it told

  anyone who wanted to join it to apply to Third Brigade Headquarters.

  Patera Shell was kind enough to look in on me a few minutes

  ago, and he happened to mention that this was the Third Brigade.

  After he had gone, I recalled your poster."

  Shell said hurriedly, "The colonel was in the captain's room when

  I got there, Patera. I told them I'd wait, but he made me come in

  and asked what I wanted, so I told him."

  "Thank you," Silk said. "Please return to your manteion at once,

  Patera. You've done everything that you can do here tonight."

  Trying to freight the words with significance, he added, "It's already

  late. Very late."

  "I thought, Patera--"

  "Go," Oosik tugged his drooping mustache. "Your calde and I

  have delicate matters to discuss. He understands that. So should you."

  "I thought--"

  "Go!" Oosik had scarcely raised his voice, yet the word was like

  the crack of a whip. Shell hurried out.

  "Sentry! Shut the door."

  The mustache was tipped with white, Silk observed; Oosik wound

  it about his index finger as he spoke. "Since you have not studied our

  organization, Calde, you will not know that a brigade is the

  command of a general, called a brigadier."

  "No." Silk admitted. "I've never given it any thought."

  "In that case no explanation is necessary. I had planned to tell

  you, so that each of us would know where we stand, that though I

  am a mere colonel, an officer of field grade," Oosik released his

  mustache to touch the silver osprey on his collar, "I command my

  brigade exactly as a brigadier would. I have for four years. Do you

  want your clothes?"

  "Yes. I'd like to get dressed, if you'll let me."

  Oosik nodded, though it was not clear whether his nod was meant

  to express permission or understanding. "You are nearly dead,

  Calde. A needle passed through your lung."

  "Nevertheless, I'd feel better if I were up and dressed." It was a

  lie, although he wished fervently that it were true. "I'd be sitting on

  this bed then, instead of lying in it; but I've got nothing on."

  Oosik chuckled. "You wish your shoes as well?"

  "My shoes and my stockings. My underwear, my trousers, my

  tunic, and my robe. Please, colonel."

  The corners of the mustache tilted upward. "Dressed, you might

  easily escape, Calde. Isn't that so?"

  "You say I'm near death, Colonel. A man near death might

  escape, I suppose; but not easily."

  "We have handled you roughly here in the Third, Calde. You

  have been beaten. Tortured."

  Silk shook his head. "You shot me. At least, I suppose that it was

  one of your officers who shot me. But I've been treated by a doctor

  and installed in this comfortable room. No one has beaten me."

  "With your leave." Oosik peered at him. "Your face is bruised. I

  assumed that we had beaten you."

  Silk shook his head, pushing back the memory of hours of

  interrogation by Councillor Potto and Sergeant Sand.

  "You do not wish to explain the source of your bruises. You have

  been fighting, Calde, a shameful thing for an augur. Or boxing.

  Boxing would be permissible, I suppose."

  "Through my own carelessness and stupidity, I fell down a flight of

  stairs," Silk said.

  To his surprise, Oosik roared with laughter, slapping his knee.

  "That is what our troopers say, Calde," he wiped his eyes, still

  chuckling, "when one has been beaten by the rest. He says he fell

  down the barracks stairs, almost always. They don't want to

  confess that they've cheated their comrades, you see, or stolen

  from them."

  "In my case it's the truth." Silk considered. "I had been trying to

  steal, though not to cheat, two days earlier. But I really did fall

  down steps and bruise my face."

  "I am happy to hear you haven't been beaten. Our men do it

  sometimes without orders. I have known them to do it when it was

  contrary to their orders, as well. I punish them for that severely, you

  may be sure. In your case, Calde," Oosik shrugged. "I sent out an

  officer because I required better information concerning the

  progress of the battle before the Alambrera than my glass could give

  me. I had made provisions for wounded and for prisoners. I needed

  to learn whether they would be sufficient."

  "I understand."

  "He came back with you." Oosik sighed. "Now he expects a medal

  and a promotion for putting me in this very difficult position. You

  understand my problem, Calde?"

  "I'm not sure I do."

  "We are fighting, you and I. Your followers, a hundred thousand

  or more, against the Civil Guard, of which I am a senior officer, and

  a few thousand soldiers. Either side may win. Do you agree?"

  "I suppose so," Silk said.

  "Let us say, for the moment, that it is mine. I do not intend to be

  unfair to you, Calde. We will discuss the other possibility in a

  moment. Say that the victory is ours, and I report to the Ayuntamiento

  that you are my prisoner. I will be asked why I did not

  report it earlier, and I may be court-martialed for not having

  reported it. If I am fortunate, my career will be destroyed. If I am

  not, I may be shot."

  "Then report it," Silk told him, "by all means."

  Oosik shook his head again, his big face gloomier than ever.

  "There is no right course for me in this, Calde. No right course at all.

  But there is one that is clearly wrong, that can lead only to disaster,

  and you have advised it. The Ayuntamiento has ordered that you be

  killed on sight. Do you know that?"

  "I had anticipated it." Silk discovered that his hands were clenched

  beneath the quilt. He made himself relax.

  "No doubt. Lieutenant Tiger should have killed you at once. He

  didn't. May I be frank? I don't think he had the stomach for it. He

  denies it, but I don't think he had the stomach. He shot you. There

  you lay, an augur in an augur's robe, gasping like a fish and bleeding

  from the mouth. One more shot would be the end." Oosik shrugged.

  "No doubt he thought you would die while he was bringing you in.

  Most men would have."

  "I see," Silk said. "He'll be in trouble now if you tell the

  Ayuntamiento that you have me, alive."

  "_I_ will be in trouble." Oosik tapped his chest with a thick

  forefinger. "I will be ordered to kill you, Calde, and I will have to do

  it. If we lose after that, your woman Mint will have me shot, if she

  doesn't light upon something worse. If we win, I will be marked for

  life. I will be the man who killed Silk, the augur who was, as the city

  firmly believes, chosen by Pas to be calde. If it is wise, the

  Ayuntamiento will disavow my actions, court-martial me, and have

  me shot. No,
Calde, I will not report that I hold you. That is the last

  thing that I will do."

  "You said that the Guard and the Army--I've been told there are

  seven thousand soldiers--are fighting the people. What is the

  strength of the Guard, Colonel?" Silk strove to recall his conversation

  with Hammerstone. "Thirty thousand, approximately?"

  "Less."

  "Some Guardsmen have deserted the Ayuntamiento. I know that

  for a fact."

  Oosik nodded gloomily.

  "May I ask how many?"

  "A few hundred, perhaps, Calde."

  "Would you say a thousand?"

  For half a minute or more, Oosik did not speak; at last he said, "I

  am told five hundred. If that is correct, almost all have come from

  my own brigade."

  "I have something to show you," Silk said, "but I have to ask you

  for a promise first. It's something that Patera Shell brought me,

  and I want you to give me your word that you won't harm him or

  the augur of his manteion, or any of their sibyls. Will you promise?"

  Oosik shook his head. "I cannot disobey if I am ordered to arrest

  them, Patera."

  "If you're not ordered to." It should give them ample time to

  leave, Silk thought. "Promise me that you won't do anything to them

  on your own initiative."

  Oosik studied him. "You are offering your information very

  cheaply, Calde. We don't bother you religious, except under the

  most severe provocation."

  "Then I have your word as an officer?"

  Oosik nodded, and Silk took the Prolocutor's letter from under

  his quilt and handed it to him. He unbuttoned a shirt pocket and got

  out a pair of silver-rimmed glasses, shifting his position slightly so

  that the light fell upon the letter.

  In the silence that followed, Silk reviewed everything Oosik had

  said. Had he made the right decision? Oosik was ambitious--had

  probably volunteered to take charge of the reserve brigade as well

  as his own in the hope of gaining the rank and pay to which his

  position entitled him. He might be, in fact he almost certainly was,

  underestimating the fighting capabilities of soldiers like Sand and

  Hammerstone; but he was sure to know a great deal about those of

  the Civil Guard, in which he had spent his adult life; and he was

  considering the possibility that the Ayuntamiento would lose. The

  Prolocutor's letter, with its implications of increased support for