Nightside the Long Sun (36 page)

He made a seated bow.

“I was there last night. Yes. But not for you. Only because I play with Hy sometimes. Now she reminds me of the way I used to be, but all that will be over soon. She's twenty-three. And you, Silk? How old are you?”

“Twenty-three, Gentle Kypris.”

“There. You see. I prompted you. I know I did.” She shook her head almost imperceptibly. “All that abstinence! And now you've seen a goddess. Me. Was it worth it?”

“Yes, Loving Kypris.”

She laughed again, delighted. “Why?”

The question hung in the silence of the baking sellaria while Silk tried to kick his intellect awake. At length he said haltingly, “We are so much like beasts, Kypris. We eat and we breed; then we spawn and die. The most humble share in a higher existence is worth any sacrifice.”

He waited for her to speak, but she did not.

“What Echidna asks isn't actually much of a sacrifice, even for men. I've always thought of it as a token, a small sacrifice to show her—to show all of you—that we are serious. We're spared a thousand quarrels and humiliations, and because we have no children of our own, all children are ours.”

The smile faded from her lovely face, and the sorrow that displaced it made his heart sink. “I won't talk to you again, Silk. Or at least not very soon. No, soon. I am hunted…” Her perfect features faded to dancing colors.

He rose and found that he was cold in his sweat-soaked tunic and robe, despite the heat of the room. Vacantly, he stared at the shattered window; it was the one he had opened when he had spoken with Orchid. The gods—Kypris herself—had prompted him to throw it open, perhaps; but Orchid had closed it again as soon as he left, as he should have known she would.

He trembled, and felt that he was waking from a dream.

An awful silence seemed to fill the empty house, and he remembered vaguely that it was said that haunted houses were the quietest of all, until the ghost walked. Everyone was outside, of course, waiting on Lamp Street where he had left them, and he would be able to tell them nothing.

He visualized them standing in their silent, straggling line and looking at one another, or at no one. How much had they overheard through the window? Quite possibly they had heard nothing.

He wanted to jump and shout, to throw Orchid's untasted goblet of brandy out the window or at the empty glass. He knelt instead, traced the sign of addition, and rose with the help of Blood's stick.

*   *   *

Outside, Blood demanded to know who had summoned him. Silk shook his head.

“You won't tell me?”

“You don't believe in the gods, or in devils, either. Why should I tell you something at which you would only scoff?”

A woman whose hair had been bleached until it was as yellow as Silk's own, exclaimed, “That was no devil!”

“You must keep silent about anything you heard,” Silk told her. “You should have heard nothing.”

Blood said, “Musk and Bass were supposed to have found every woman in the place and made them come to this ceremony of yours. If they missed any of them, I want to know about it.” He turned to Orchid. “You know your girls. Are they all here?”

She nodded, her face set. “All but Orpine.”

Musk was staring at Silk as though he wanted to murder him; Silk met his eyes, then turned away. Speaking loudly to the group at large, he said, “We've never completed our third circuit. It is necessary that we do so. Return to your places, please.” He tapped Blood's shoulder. “Go back to your place in the procession.”

Orchid had kept the Writings for him, her finger at the point at which he had stopped reading. He opened the heavy volume there and began to pace and read again, a step for each word, as the ritual prescribed: “Man, himself, creates the conditions necessary for advance by struggling with and yielding to his animal desires; yet nature, the experiences of the spirit, and materiality need never be. His torment depends upon himself, yet the effects of that torment are always sufficient. You must consider this.”

The words signified nothing; the preternaturally lovely face of Kypris interposed itself. She had seemed completely different from the Outsider, and yet he felt that they were one, that the Outsider, who had spoken in so many voices, had now spoken in another. The Outsider had cautioned him to expect no help, Silk reminded himself as he had so many times since that infinite instant in the ball court; he felt that he had received it nevertheless, and was about to receive more. His hands shook, and his voice broke like a boy's.

“… has of all merely whorlly intellectual ambition and aspiration.”

Here was the door of the derelict manteion, with Pas's voided cross fresh and bright above it in black paint that had not yet dried. He closed the Writings with a bang and opened the door, led the way in and limped up the steps to the stage that had once been a sanctuary.

“Sit down, please. It doesn't matter whom you sit with, because we won't be long. We're almost finished.”

Leaning on Blood's walking stick, he waited for them to get settled.

“I am about to order the devil forth. I see that the last person in our procession—Bass, I suppose—shut the door behind him. For this part of the ceremony it should be open.” Providentially, he remembered the thin woman's name. “Crassula, you're sitting closest. Will you open it for us, please?

“Thank you. Since you were one of the possessed, it might be well to begin this final act of exorcism with you. Do you have a good memory?”

Crassula shook her head emphatically.

“All right. Who does?”

Chenille stood up. “I do, Patera. Pretty good, and I haven't had a drop since last night.”

Silk hesitated.

“Please?”

Slowly, Silk nodded. This was to be a meritorious act, of course; he could only hope that she was capable. “Here's the formula all of us will use:
‘Go, in the names of these gods, never to return.'
Perhaps you'd better repeat it.”

“Go, in the names of these gods, never to return.”

“Very good. I hope that everyone heard you. When I've finished, I'll point to you. Pronounce your own name loudly, then recite the formula—‘Go in the names of these gods, never to return.' Then I'll point out the next person, the woman beside you, and she is to say her own name and repeat the formula she'll have just heard you use. Is there anyone who doesn't understand?”

He scanned their faces as he had earlier, but found no trace of Mucor. “Very well.”

Silk forced himself to stand very straight. “If there is anything in this house that does not come in the name of the gods, may it be gone. I speak here for Great Pas, for Strong Sphigx, for Scalding Scylla…” The sounding names seemed mere words, empty and futile as the sighings of the hot wind that had blown intermittently since spring; and he had not been able to make himself pronounce that of Echidna. “For the Outsider, and for Gentle Kypris. I, Silk, say it!
Go, in the names of these gods, never to return.
”

He pointed toward the woman with the raspberry-colored hair, and she said loudly, “Chenille! Go, in the names of these gods, never to return!”

“Mezereon. Go, in the names of these gods, never to return.”

Orchid spoke after the younger women, in a firm, clear voice. After her, Blood positively thundered—there was, Silk decided, a broad streak of actor in the man. Musk was inaudible; Silk could not help but feel that he was calling to devils, rather than casting them out.

Silk waited on the uppermost of the three steps as he pointed to Bass, who stammered as he pronounced his own name and rumbled out the formula.

Silk started down the steps, hurrying despite his pain.

Doctor Crane, the final speaker, said, “Crane. Go, in the names of these gods, never to return. And now—”

Silk slammed shut the door to Music Street and shot the bolt.

“—I've got to go myself. I'm late already. Stay off that ankle!”

“Good-bye,” Silk told him, “and thank you for the ride and your treatment.” He raised his voice. “All of you may leave. The exorcism is complete.”

Suddenly very weary, he sat down on the second step and unwound the wrapping. All the young women had begun to talk at once. He flailed the dull red tiles of the floor with the wrapping, and then, recalling Crane, flung it as hard as he could against the nearest wall.

A hush fell as the chattering women streamed out into the courtyard; by the time he had replaced the wrapping, he thought himself alone; he looked up, and Musk stood before him, as silent as ever, his hands at his sides.

“Yes, my son. What is it?”

“You ever see how a hawk kills a rabbit?”

“No. I spent all but one year of my boyhood here in the city, I'm afraid. Did you wish to speak to me?”

Musk shook his head. “I wanted to show you how a hawk kills a rabbit.”

“Very well,” Silk said. “I'm watching.”

Musk did not respond; after half a minute or more Silk rose, gripping Blood's stick. The long-bladed knife seemed to come from nowhere—to appear in Musk's hand as though called forth by a nod from Pas. Musk thrust, and Silk felt an explosion of pain in his chest. He staggered and dropped the walking stick; one heel struck the step behind him, and he fell.

By the time that he was able to pull himself up, Musk was gone. Hyacinth's azoth was in Silk's hand, though he could not recall drawing it. He stared at it, dropped it clattering to the floor, clutched his chest, then opened his robe.

His tunic showed no tear, no blood. He pulled it up and touched the spot gingerly; it was inflamed and very painful. A single drop of darkly crimson blood appeared on the surface and trickled away.

He let his tunic fall again, and picked up the azoth to examine its pommel, running his fingers across the faceted gem there. That was it, and there had been no miracle. Musk had reversed his knife with a motion too swift to be seen as he had thrust, striking hard with its pommel, which must itself be in some fashion pointed or sharply angled.

And he himself, Patera Silk, the Outsider's servant, had been ready to kill Musk, believing that Musk had killed him. He had not known that he could come so easily to murder. He would have to watch his temper, around Musk particularly.

The gem, which he had supposed colorless, caught a ray of sunlight from the god-gate in the roof and flashed a watery green. For some reason, it reminded him of her eyes. He put it to his lips, his thoughts full of things that could never be.

*   *   *

To spare his broken ankle, he had waited until Moorgrass had finished washing and dressing the body, so that he might ride back to the manteion in Loach's wagon.

They would need a coffin, and ice. Ice was very costly, but having accepted a hundred cards from Orchid, he could not refuse her daughter ice. Mutes could be engaged easily and cheaply. On the other hand—

Loach's wagon lurched to a stop, and Silk looked up in surprise at the weather-stained facade of his own manteion. Loach inquired, “Lay her on the altar for now, Patera?”

He nodded; it was what they always did.

“Let me help you down, Patera. About my pay—”

The fisc was closed, of course, and would not open at all on Scylsday. “See me after sacrifice tomorrow,” Silk said. “No, on Molpsday. Not before then.” The icemongers might cash Orchid's draft for him if he bought enough ice, but there was no point in relying on that.

Auk came out of the mantion, waved, and wedged the door open; the sight of him snapped Silk out of his calculations. “I'm sorry I'm late,” he called. “There was a death.”

Auk's heavy, brutal face took on what seemed intended as an expression of concern. “Friend of yours, Patera?”

“No,” Silk said. “I didn't know her.”

Auk smiled. He helped Loach carry Orpine's shrouded body inside, where a new coffin, plain but sturdy-looking, waited on a catafalque.

Maytera Marble rose from the shadows, the silver gleam of her face almost ghostly. “I arranged for these, Patera. The man you sent said that we'd require them. They can be returned, if they're not suitable.”

“We'll need a better casket tomorrow.” Silk fumbled in his pockets, and at length produced Orchid's draft. “Take this, please. It's payable to bearer. Get ice, half a load of ice, and see if they'll cash it for you. Flowers, too. Arrange for a grave, if it's not too late.”

A tiny, but abrupt and uncoordinated, movement of her head as she glanced at the draft betrayed Maytera Marble's surprise.

“You're right.” Silk nodded as she looked up at him. “It's a great deal. I'll get the victims in the morning, a white heifer if I can find one, and a rabbit for Kypris—several, I ought to say. And a black lamb and a black cock for Tartaros; I pledged those last night. But we must have the ice tonight, and if you could take care of it, Maytera, I would be exceedingly grateful.”

“For Kypris the—? All right, Patera. I'll try.” She hurried away, the rapid taps of her footfalls like the soft rattle of a snare drum. Silk shook his head and looked about for Loach, but Loach had already left, unobserved.

Auk said, “If there's ice left in Viron, she'll find it. She teach you, Patera?”

“No. I wish now that she had—she and Maytera Mint. But I should have asked her to arrange for mutes. Well, it can be taken care of tomorrow. Can we talk here, Auk, or would you prefer to go to the manse?”

“Have you eaten yet, Patera? I was hoping you'd have a bite of supper with me while you told me what happened last night.”

“I couldn't pay my share, I'm afraid.”

“I asked you, Patera. I wouldn't let you pay if you wanted to. But you listen here.” Auk's voice dropped to a whisper. “I'm in this as much as you are. It was me that helped you. I got a right to know.”

“Of course. Of course.” Silk sank wearily into a seat near the catafalque. “Sit down, please. It hurts my ankle to stand. I'll tell you whatever you want to know. To tell the truth, I need to tell someone—to talk all of it over, and other things, too. Everything that happened today. And I'd like very much to go to dinner with you. I'm beginning to like you, and I'm terribly hungry; but I can't walk far. Much as I appreciate your generosity, perhaps we should dine together some other night.”