CALDE OF THE LONG SUN 
	by Gene Wolfe 

Chapter  1  -- The Slaves of Scylla 

As unruffled by the disturbances shaking the city as by the furious thunderstorm that threatened with every gust to throw down its 
shiprock and return its mud brick to the parent mud, His Cognizance Patera Quetzal, Prolocutor of the Chapter of This Our Holy 
City of Viron, studied his present sere and sallow features in the polished belly of the silver teapot. 
As at this hour each day, he swung his head to the right and 
contemplated his nearly noseless profile, made a similar inspection of its obverse, and elevated his chin to display a lengthy and 
notably 
wrinkled neck. He had shaped and colored face and neck with care 
upon arising, as he did every morning; nevertheless, there remained the possibility  (however remote) that something had gone awry by 
ten: thus the present amused but painstaking self-examination. 
	"For I am a careful man," he muttered, pretending to smooth one 
thin white eyebrow. 
A crash of thunder shook the Prolocutor's Palace to its 
foundations at the final word, brightening every light in the room to 
a 
glare; rain and hail drummed the windowpanes. 
Patera Remora, Coadjutor of the Chapter, nodded solemnly. 
"Yes indeed, Your Cognizance. You are indeed a most--ah--advertent man." 
Yet there was always that possibility. "I'm growing old, Patera. Even we careful men grow old." 
Remora nodded again, his long bony face expressive of regret. "Alas, Your Cognizance." 
"As do many other things, Patera. Our city... The whorl itself 
grows old. When we're young, we notice things that are young, like 
ourselves. New grass on old graves. New leaves on old trees." 
Quetzal lifted his chin again to study his bulging reflection through hooded eyes. 
"The golden season of beauty and--um--elegiacs, Your Cognizance." Remora's fingers toyed with a dainty sandwich. 
"As we notice the signs of advancing age in ourselves, we see 
them 
in the whorl. Just a few chems today who ever saw a man who saw a man who remembered the day Pas made the whorl." 
A little bewildered by the rapid riffle through so many 
generations, 
Remora nodded again. "Indeed, Your Cognizance. Indeed 
not." Surreptitiously, he wiped jam from one finger. 
"You become conscious of recurrences, the cyclical nature of 
myth. When first I received the baculus, I had occasion to survey 
many old documents. I read each with care. It was my custom to 
devote three Hieraxdays a month to that. To that alone, and to 
inescapable obsequies. I gave my prothonotary the straitest 
instructions 
to make no appointments for that day. It's a practice I recommend, Patera." 
Thunder rattled the room again, lightning a dragon beyond the windows. 
"I will, um, reinstitute this wise usage at once, Your Cognizance." 
"At once, you say?" Quetzal looked up from the silver pot, 

resolved to repowder his chin at the first opportunity. "You may go to young Incus and so instruct him, if you want. Tell him now, 
Patera. Tell him now." 
"That is--ah--unfeasible, I fear, Your Cognizance. I sent Patera 
Incus upon a--um--errand Molpsday. He has not--um--rejoined us." 
	"I see. I see." With a trembling hand, Quetzal raised his cup 
until 
its gilt rim touched his lips, then lowered it, though not so far as 
to 
expose his chin. "I want beef tea, Patera. There's no strength in this. 
I want beef tea. See to it, please." 
Long accustomed to the request, his coadjutor rose. "I shall 
prepare it with my own hands, Your Cognizance. It will--ah--occupy only an, um, trice. Boiling water, an, um, roiling boil. Your 
Cognizance may rely upon me." 
Slowly, Quetzal replaced the delicate cup in its saucer as he watched Remora's retreating back; he even spilled a few drops 
there, for he was, as he had said, careful. The measured closing of the door. Good. The clank of the latchbar. Good again. No one 
could intrude now without noise and a slight delay; he had designed the latching mechanism himself. 
Without leaving his chair, he extracted the puff from a drawer on the other side of the room and applied flesh-toned powder delicately to the small, sharp chin he had shaped with such care upon arising. Swinging his head from side to side as before, frowning and smiling by turns, he studied the effect in the teapot. Good, good! 
Rain beat against the windows with such force as to drive trickles 
of chill water through crevices in the casements; it pooled invitingly 
on the milkstone windowsills and fell in cataracts to soak the carpet. 
That, too, was good. At three, he would preside at the private 
sacrifice of twenty-one dappled horses, the now-posthumous offering 
of Councillor Lemur--one to all the gods for each week since 
Thin more substantial than a shower had blessed Viron's fields. They 
could be convened to a thank offering, and he would so convert them. 
	Would the congregation know by then of Lemur's demise? 
Quetzal debated the advisability of announcing the fact if they did 
not. It was a question of some consequence and at length, for the 
temporary relief the act afforded him, he pivoted his hinged fangs 
from their snug grooves in the roof of his mouth, snapping each 
gratefully into its socket and grinning gleefully at his distorted 
image. 
The rattle of the latch was. nearly lost in another crash of thunder, 
but he had kept an eye on the latchbar. There was a second and 
louder rattle as Remora, on the other side of the door, contended with the inconveniently-shaped iron handle that would, when its 
balky rotation had been completed, laboriously lift the clumsy bar clear of its cradle. 
Quetzal touched his lips almost absently with his napkin; when he spread it upon his lap again, his fangs had vanished. "Yes, Patera?" he inquired querulously. "What is it now? Is it time already?" 
"Your beef tea, Your Cognizance." Remora set his small tray on 
the table. "Shall I--um--decant a cup for you? I have, er, obtained a clean cup for the purpose." 
"Do, Patera. Please do." Quetzal smiled. "While you were gone, I was contemplating the nature of humor. Have you ever considered it?" 
	Remora resumed his seat. 'i fear not, Your Cognizance." 
	"What's become of young Incus? You hadn't expected him to be 
 gone so long?" 
"No, Your Cognizance. I dispatched him to Limna." Remora spooned 

beef salts 
into the clean cup and added water from the small copper kettle he 
had 
brought, producing a fine plume of steam. "I am--ah--moderately concerned. An, um, modicum of civil unrest last night, eh?" He 
stirred 
vigorously. "This--ah--stripling Silk. Patera Silk, alas. I know him." 
"My prothonotary told me." With the slightest of nods, Quetzal accepted the steaming cup. "I'd have thought Limna would be safer." 
	"As would I, Your Cognizance. As did I." 
A cautious sip. Quetzal held the hot, salty fluid in his mouth, drawing it deliciously through folded fangs. 
"I sent him in search of a--ah, um--individual, Your Cognizance. A, er, acquaintance of this Patera Silk's. The Civil Guard is 
searching for Patera himself, hey? As are, er, certain others. 
Other--ah--parties. So I am told. This morning, Your Cognizance, I dispatched still others to look for young Incus. The rain, however, ah, necessitous, will hamper them all, hum?" 
"Do you swim, Patera?" 
"I, Your Cognizance? At the--um--lakeside, you mean? No. Or at least, not for many years. 
"Nor I." 
Remora groped toward a point he had yet to discern. "A healthful 
exercise, however. For those of, um, unaugmented years, eh? A hot 
bath before sacrifice, Your Cognizance? Or--I have it!--springs. 
There are, er, reborant springs at Urbs. Healing springs, most 
healthful. Possibly, while--affairs are so--ah--unsettled here, eh?" 
	Quetzal shook himself. He had a way of quivering like a fat man 
when he did that, although on the few occasions when Remora had 
been obliged to lift him into bed, his body had in fact been light 
and 
sinuous. "The gods..." He smiled. 
"Must be served, to be sure, Your Cognizance. I would be on the spot--ah--ensuring that the Chapter's interests were vigilantly 
safeguarded, hey?" Remora tossed lank black hair away from his 
eyes. "Each rite carried out with--um--" 
"You must recall the story, Patera." Quetzal swayed from side to side, perhaps with silent mirth. "A-man and Wo-man like rabbits in a garden. The--what do you call them?" He held up a thin, 
blue-veined hand, palm cupped. 
"A cobra, Your Cognizance?" 
"The cobra persuaded Wo-man to eat fruit from his tree, miraculous 
fruit whose taste conferred wisdom." 
Remora nodded, wondering how he might reintroduce the springs. "I recollect the--um--allegory." 
Quetzal nodded more vigorously, a wise teacher proffering praise 
to a small boy. "It's all in the Writings. Or nearly all. A god 
called 
Ah Lah barred Wo-man and her husband from the garden." He 
ceased to speak, apparently wandering among thoughts. "We seem 
to have lost sight of Ah Lah, by the way. I can't recall a single sacrifice to him. No one ever asks why the cobra wanted Wo-man to eat his fruit." 
"From sheer, er, wickedness, Your Cognizance? That is what I had always supposed." 
Quetzal swayed faster, his face solemn. "In order that she would ditrib his tree, Patera. The man likewise. Their story's not over because they haven't climbed down. That's why I asked if you had 
considered the nature of humor. Is Patera Incus a strong swimmer?" 
	"Why, I've--ah--no notion, Your Cognizance." 
"Because you think you know why the woman you sent him to 
look for visited the lake with our scamp Silk, whose name I see on 

walls." 
"Why, er, Your Cognizance is--ah--great penetration, as always." Remora fidgeted. 
"I saw it scratched on one five floors up, yesterday," Quetzal continued as though he had not heard, "and went wide." 
	"Disgraceful, Your Cognizance!" 
"Respect for our cloth, Patera. I myself swim well. Not so well 
as a 
fish, but very well indeed. Or I did." 
"I'm pleased to hear it, Your Cognizance." 
"The jokes of gods are long in telling. That's why you ought to 
sift 
the records of the past on Hieraxdays, Patera. Today's Hieraxday. 
You'll learn to think in new and better ways. Thank you for my beef tea. Now go." 
Remora rose and bowed. "As Your Cognizance desires." 
His Cognizance stared past him, lost in speculation. 
Greatly daring, Remora ventured, "I have often observed that your own way of thinking is somewhat--ah--unlike, as well as much more, um, select than that of most men." 
There was no reply. Remora took a step backward. "Upon every--
ah--topic 
whatsoever, Your Cognizance's information is quite, um, marvelous." 
	"Wait." Quetzal had made his decision. "The riots. Has the 
Alambrera fallen?" 
"What's that? The Alambrera? Why--ah--no. Not to my knowledge, Your Cognizance." 
"Tonight." Quetzal reached for his beef tea. "Sit down, Patera. You're always jumping about. You make me nervous. It can't be 
good for you. Lemur's dead. Did you know it?" 
Remora's mouth gaped, then snapped shut. He sat. 
"You weren't. It's your responsibility to learn things." 
Remora acknowledged his responsibility with a shamefaced nod. "May I inquire, Your Cognizance--?" 
"How I know? In the same way I knew the woman you sent Incus after had gone to Lake Limna with Patera Calde Silk." 
	"Your Cognizance!" 
Once again, Quetzal favored Rernora with his lipless smile. "Are 
you afraid I'll be arrested, Patera? Cast into the pits? You'd be 
Prolocutor, presumably. I've no fear of the pits." Quetzal's long-
skulled, 
completely hairless head bobbed above his cup. "Not at my age. None." 
"None the less, I implore Your Cognizance to be more--ah--
circumspect." 
"Why isn't the city burning, Patera?" 
Caught by surprise, Remora glanced at the closest window. 
"Mud brick and shiprock walls. Timbers supporting upper floors. 
Thatch or shingles. Five blocks of shops burned last night. Why isn't the whole city burning today?" 
"It's raining, Your Cognizance," Remora summoned all his courage. "It's been raining--ah--forcibly since early this morning." 
	"Exactly so. Patera Calde Silk went to Limna on Molpsday with a 
woman. That same day, you sent Incus there to look for an 
acquaintance of his. A woman, since you were reluctant to speak of 
it. Councillor Loris spoke through the glass an hour before lunch." 
	Remora tensed. "He told you Councillor Lemur was no longer 
among us, Your Cognizance?" 
Quetzal swung his head back and forth. "That Lemur was still alive, Patera. There are rumors. So it would appear. He wanted me to denounce them this afternoon." 
"But if Councillor Loris--ah--assures--" 
"Clearly Lemur's dead. If he weren't, he'd speak to me in person. Or show himself at the Juzgado. Or both." 

"Even so, Your Cognizance--" 
Another crash of thunder made common cause with Quetzal's thin hand to interrupt. 
"Can the Ayuntamiento prevail without him? That's the question, Patera. I want your opinion." 
To give himself time to consider, Rernora sipped his now tepid tea. "Munitions, the--ah--thews of contention, are stored in the Alambrera, as well as in the, um, cantonment of the Civil Guard, cast of the city." 
"I know that." 
"It is an, er, complex of great--um--redoubtability, Your 
Cognizance. I am informed that the outer wall is twelve cubits 
in--ah--laterality. Yet Your Cognizance anticipates its surrender tonight? Before venturing an opinion, may I enquire as to the 
source of Your Cognizance's information?" 
"I haven't any," Quetzal told him. "I was thinking out loud. If
the
Alambrera doesn't fall in a day or so, Patera Calde Silk will fail. That's my opinion. Now I want yours." 
"Your Cognizance does me honor. There is also the--um--dormant 
army 
to consider. Councillor Lemur--ah--Loris will undoubtedly issue an--ah--call to arms, should the, um, situation, 
in his view, become serious." 
"Your opinion, Patera." 
Remora's cup rattled in its saucer. "As long as the--ah--fidelity
of
the Civil Guard remains--um--unblemished, Your Cognizance," he 
drew a deep breath, "it would appear to me, though I am assuredly no--um--master hand at matters military, that--ah, um--Patera 
Calde cannot prevail." 
Quetzal appeared to be listening only to the storm; for perhaps fifteen tickings of the coffin-shaped clock that stood beside the door, the howling of the wind and the lash of rain filled the room. At last he asked, "Suppose that you were to learn that part of the Guard's gone over to Silk already?" 
Remora's eyes widened. "Your Cognizance has--?" 
"No reason to think so. My question's hypothetical." 
Remora, who had much experience of Quetzal's hypothetical 
questions, filled his lungs again. "I should then say, Your Cogni 
zance, that should any such unhappy circumstance--ah--circumstances eventuate, the city would find itself amongst--ah--perilous 
waters." 
"And the Chapter?" 
Remora looked doleful. "Equally so, Your Cognizance. if not 
worse. As an augur, Silk could well, ah, proclaim himself Prolocutor, as well as calde." 
"Really. He lacks reverence for you, my coadjutor?" "No, Your Cognizance. Quite the, um, contrary." 
Quetzal sipped beef tea in silence. 
"Your Cognizance--ah--intends the Chapter to support the--um--
host 
of, er, Patera Calde?" 
"I want you to compose a circular letter, Patera. You have nearly six hours. It should be more than enough. I'll sign it when we're 
through in the Grand Manteion." Quetzal stared down at the 
stagnant brown liquid in his cup. 
"To all the clergy, Your Cognizance?" 
"Emphasize our holy duty to bring comfort to the wounded and the Final Formula to the dying. Imply, but don't say--" Quetzal paused, inspired. 
"Yes, Your Cognizance?" 
"That Lemur's death ends the claim to rule the councillors had in the past. You say you know Patera Calde Silk?" 

Remora nodded. "I conversed with him at some--ah--extensively 
Scylsday evening, Your Cognizance. We discussed the financial--um--
trials 
of his manteion, and--ah--various other matters." 
"I don't, Patera. But I've read every report in his file, those of his 
instructors and those of his predecessor. Thus my recommendation. 
Diligent, sensitive, intelligent, and pious. Impatient, as is to be 
expected at his age. Respectful, which you now confirm. A tireless 
worker, a point his instructor in theonomy was at pains to emphasize. Pliable. During the past few days, he's become immensely 
popular. Should he succeed in subjugating the Ayuntamiento, he's 
apt to remain so for a year or more. Perhaps much longer. Charteral 
government by a young augur who'll need seasoned advisors to 
remain in office..." 
"Indeed, Your Cognizance." Remora nodded energetically. "The same--ah--intuition had occurred tome." 
With his cup, Quetzal gestured toward the nearest window. "We suffer a change in weather, Patera." 
"An, um, profound one, Your Cognizance." 
"We must acclimate ourselves to it. That's why I asked if young 
Incus swam. If you can reach him, tell him to strike out boldly. Have I made myself clear?" 
Remora nodded again. "I will, um, strive to render the Chapter's wholehearted endorsement of an--ah--lawful and holy government 
apparent, Your Cognizance." 
"Then go. Compose that letter." 
"If the Alambrera doesn't--ah--hey?" 
There was no indication that Quetzal had heard. Remora left his chair and backed away, at length closing the door behind him. 
	Quetzal rose, and an observer  (had there been one) might have 
been more than a little surprised to see that shrunken figure grown so tall. As if on wheels, he glided across the room and threw open 
the broad casement that overlooked his garden. admitting pounding 
rain and a gust of wind that made his mulberry robe stand out 
behind him like a banner. 
For some while he remained before the window, motionless, 
cosmetics streaming from his face in rivulets of pink and buff, while 
he contemplated the tamarind he had caused to be planted there 
twenty years previously. It was taller already than many buildings 
called lofty; its glossy, rain-washed leaves brushed the windowframe 
and now even, by the width of a child's hand, sidled into his 
bedchamber like so many timid sibyls, confident of welcome yet 
habitually shy. Their parent tree, nourished by his own efforts, was 
of more than sufficient size now, and a fount of joy to him: a 
sheltering presence, a memorial of home, the highroad to freedom. 
	Quetzal crossed the room and barred the door, then threw off his 
sodden robe. Even in this downpour the tree was safer, though he 
could fly. 

The looming presence of the cliff slid over Auk as he sat in the bow, 
and with it a final whistling gust of icy rain. He glanced up at the 
beetling rock, then trained his needler on the augur standing to the 
halyard. "This time you didn't try anything. See how flash you're 
getting?" The storm had broken at shadeup and showed no signs of 
slackening. 
Chenille snapped, "Steer for that," and pointed. Chill tricklings from her limp crimson hair merged into a rivulet between her full 
breasts to flood her naked loins. 
At the tiller, the old fisherman touched his cap. "Aye, aye, Scaldin' Scylla." 
They had left Limna on Molpsday night. From shadeup to 
shadelow, the sun had been a torrent of white fire across a dazzling 
sky; the wind, fair and strong at morning, had veered and died away 

to a breeze, to an occasional puff, and by the time the market 
closed, to nothing. Most of that afternoon Auk had spent in the 
shadow of the sail, Chenille beneath the shelter of the half deck; he and she, like the augur, had gotten badly sunburned just the same. 
	Night had brought a new wind, foul for their destination. 
Directed by the old fisherman and commanded to hold ever closer 
by the major goddess possessing Chenille, they had tacked and 
tacked and tacked again, Auk and the augur bailing frantically on 
every reach and often sick, the boat heeling until it seemed the 
gunnel must go under, a lantern swinging crazily from the masthead 
and crashing into the mast each time they went about, going out half a dozen times and leaving the three weary men below in deadly fear 
of ramming or being rammed in the dark. 
Once the augur had attempted to snatch Auk's needler from his waistband. Auk had beaten and kicked him, and thrown him over 
the side into the churning waters of the lake, from which the old fisherman had by a miracle of resource and luck rescued him with a boathook. Shadeup had brought a third wind, this out of the 
southeast, a storm-wind driving sheet after gray sheet of slanting rain before it with a lash of lightning. 
"Down sail!" Chenille shrieked. "Loose that, you idiot! Drop the yard!" 
The augur hurned to obey; he was perhaps ten years senior to 
Auk, with protruding teeth and small, soft hands that had begun to bleed almost before they had left Limna. 
After the yard had crashed down, Auk turned in his seat to peer 
forward at their destination, seeing nothing but rainwet stone and 
evoking indignant squawks from the meager protection of his legs. 
"Come on out," he told Silk's bird. "We're under a cliff here." 
"No out!" 
Dry by comparison though the foot of the cliff was, and shielded from the wind, it seemed colder than the open lake, reminding Auk 
forcibly that the new summer tunic he had worn to Limna was 
soaked, his baggy trousers soaked too, and his greased riding boots 
full of water. 
The narrow inlet up which they glided became narrower yet, 
damp black rock to left and right rising fifty cubits or more above 
the masthead. Here and there a freshet, born of the storm, 
descended in a slender line of silver to plash noisily into the quiet 
water. The cliffs united overhead, and the iron mast-cap scraped 
stone. 
"She'll go," Chenille told the old fisherman confidently. "The ceiling's higher farther in." 
"I'd 'preciate ter raise up that mains'l ag'in, ma'am," the old fisherman remarked almost conversationally, "an' undo them reefs. It'll rot if it don't dry." 
Chenille ignored him; Auk gestured toward the sail and stood to 
the halyard with the augur, eager for any exercise that might warm 
him. 
Oreb hopped onto the gunnel to look about and fluff his damp feathers. "Bird wet!" They were gliding past impressive tanks of white-painted metal, their way nearly spent. 
"A  _Sacred Window!_ It  _is!_ There's a Window and an altar _right there!_ Look!" The augur's voice shook with joy, and he released 
the halyard. Auk's kick sent him sprawling. 
"Got ter break out sweeps, ma'am, if there's more channel." 
	"Mind your helm. Lay alongside the Window." To the augur 
 Chenille added, "Have you got your knife?" 
He shook his head miserably. 
"Your sword then," she told Auk. "Can you sacrifice?" 
"I've seen it done, Surging Scylla, and I got a knife in my boot. That might work better." As daring as Remora, Auk added, "But a 
bird? I didn't think you liked birds." 

"That?" She spat into the water. 
A fender of woven cordage thumped, then ground against stone. 
Their side lay within a cubit of the natural quay on which the tanks 
and the Window stood. "Tie us up." Chenille pointed to the augur. 
"You, too! No, the stern, you idiot. He'll take the bow." 
	Auk made the halyard fast, then sprang out onto the stone quay. 
It was wet, and so slimed that he nearly fell; in the watery light of 
the cavern, he failed to make out the big iron ring at his feet until 
he 
stepped on it. 
The augur had found his ring sooner. He straightened up. "I--I 
_am_ an  _augur_, Savage Scylla. I've sacrificed to you and to all 
the Nine  _many times_. I'd be  _delighted_, Savage Scylla. With his 
knife..." 
"Bad bird," Oreb croaked. "Gods hate." He flapped his injured wing as if to judge how far it might carry him. 
Chenille bounded onto the slippery stone and crooked a finger at the old fisherman. "You. Come up here." 
"I oughter--" 
"You ought to do what you're told, or I'll have my thug kill you straight off." 
It was a relief to Auk to draw his needler again, a return to familiar ground. 
"_Scylla!_" the augur gasped. "A  _human being?_ Really--" 
She whirled to confront him. "What were you doing on my boat? "Who sent you?" 
"Bad cut," Oreb assured her. 
The augur drew a deep breath. "I am H-his  _Eminence's_ 
prothonotary." He smoothed his sopping robe as if suddenly conscious of his 
bedraggled appearance. "H-his E-e-eminence desired me to  _l-locate_ a particular y-y-young woman--" 
Auk trained his needler on him. 
"Y-you. Tall, red hair and so forth. I  _didn't_ know it was you, Savage Scylla." He swallowed and added desperately, "H-his interest was ha-wholly friendly. H-his Eminence--" 
"You are to be congratulated, Patera." Chenille's voice was 
smooth and almost courteous; she had an alarming habit of remaining immobile in attitudes no mere human being could have maintained for more than a few seconds, and she did so now, her pivoting 
head and glaring eyes seemingly the only living pans of her lush 
body. "You have succeeded splendidly. Perhaps you identified the 
previous occupant? You say this woman," she touched her chest, 
"was described to you?" 
The augur nodded rapidly. "_Yes_, Savage Scylla. Fiery hair and--and s-skill with a  _knife_ and..." 
Chenille's eyes had rolled backward into her skull. until only
the
whites could be seen. "Your Eminence. Silk addressed him like that. You attended my graduation, Your Eminence." 
The augur said hurriedly, "He wished me to  _assure_ her of our 
submission. Of the  _Chapter's_. To offer our  _advise_ and 
_support_, and declare our  _loyalty_. Information H-his Eminence 
had received indicated that--that you'd  _g-gone_ to the lake with 
Patera Silk. His Eminence is Patera's  _superior_. He--I--we 
declare our  _undying_ loyalty, Savage Scylla." 
	"To Kypris." 
There was that in Chenille's tone which rendered the words unanswerable. The augur could only stare at her. 
	"Bad man," Oreb announced virtuously. "Cut?" 
	"An augur? I hadn't considered it, but..." 
The old fisherman hawked and spat. "If'n you're really Scaldin' Scylla, ma'am, I'd like ter say somethin'." He wiped his grizzled mustache on the back of his hand. 

"I am Scylla. Be quick. We must sacrifice now if we're to sacrifice 
at all. My slave will arrive soon." 
"I been prayin' and sacrificin' ter you all my life. You an' your 
pa's 
the only ones us fishermen pay mind to. I'm not sayin' you owe me 
anythin'. I got my boat, an' I had a wife and raised the boys. Always 
made a livin'. What I'm wantin' ter say is when I go you'll be losin' 
one of your own. It's goin' ter be one less here for you an' ol' Pas. 
Maybe you figure I took you 'cause the big feller's got his stitchin' 
gun. Fact is, I'd of took you anywheres on the lake soon as I knowed 
who you was." 
"I must reintegrate myself in Mainframe," Chenille told him. 
"There may be new developments. Are you through?" 
"Pretty nigh. The big feller, he does anythin' you want him, just like what I'd do in his britches. Only he b'longs ter Hierax, ma'am." 
	Auk started. 
"Not ter you nor your pa neither. He maybe don't know it hisself, but he do. His bird an' that needler he's got, an' the big 
hangersword, 
an' his knife what he tells he's got in his boots, they all show 
it. You got ter know it better'n me. As fer this augur you're gettin' set ter offer me up, I fished him out O' the lake last night, and 
t'other 
day I seen another fished up. They do say--" 
	"Describe him." 
"Yes'm." The old fisherman considered. "You was down in the 
cuddy then, I guess. When they'd got him out, I seen him look over 
our way. Lookin' at the bird, seemed like. Pretty young. Tall as the big feller. Yeller hair--" 
"Silk!" Auk exclaimed. 
"Pulled out of the water, you said?" 
The fisherman nodded. "Scup's boat. I've knowed Scup thirty year." 
"You may be right," Chenille told him. "You may be too valuable to sacrifice, and one old man is nothing anyway." 
	She strode toward the Window before whirling to face them 
again. "Pay attention to what I say, all three of you. In a moment, I'll depart from this whore. My divine essence will pass from her 
into the Sacred Window that I have caused to be put here, and be 
reintegrated with my greater divine self in Mainframe. Do you 
understand me? All of you?" 
Auk nodded mutely The augur knelt, his head bowed. 
"Kypris, my mortal enemy and the enemy of my mother, my 
brothers, and my sisters--of our whole family, in fact--has been 
mischief-making here in Viron. Already she seems to have won to 
her side the meager fdol this idiot--What's your name, anyhow?" 
"Incus, Savage Scylla. I-I'm Patera  _Incus_." 
"The fool this idiot calls His Eminence. I don't doubt that she 
intends to win over my Prolocutor and my Ayuntamiento too, if she 
can. The four of you, I include the whore after I'm through with her, 
are to see to it that she fails. Use threats and force and the power 
of 
my name. Kill anyone you need to, it won't be held against you. If 
Kypris returns, do something to get my attention. Fifty or a hundred children should catch my eye, and Viron's got plenty to spare." 
	She glared at each man in turn. "Questions? Let's hear them now, 
if there are any. Objections?" 
Oreb croaked in his throat, one bright black eye trained warily upon her. 
"Good. You're my prophets henceforth. Keep Viron loyal, and 
you'll have my favor. Believe nothing Kypris may tell you. My slave 
should be here shortly. He'll carry you there, and assist you. See 
the 

Prolocutor and talk to the commissions in the Juzgado. Tell 
everyone who'll listen about me. Tell them everything I've said to 
you. I'd hoped that the Ayuntamiento's boat would be in this dock. 
It usually is. It isn't today, so you'll have to see the councillors 
for 
me. The old man can bring you back here. Tell them I mean to sink their boat and drown them all in my lake if my city goes over to 
Kypris." 
Incus stammered, "A th-theophany, S-savage S-s-scylla, w-would--" 
	"Not convince your councillors. They think themselves too wise. 
 Theophanies may be useful, however. Reintegrated, I may consider 
them." 
She strode to the damp stone altar and sprang effonlessly to its 
top. 
"I had this built so your Ayuntamiento might offer private 
sacrifices and, when I chose, confer with me. Not a trace of ash! They'll pay for that as well. 
"You." She pointed to Auk. "This augur Silk's plotting to overthrow 
them for Kypris. Help him, but show him where his duty lies. 
If he can't see it, kill him. You've my permission to rule yourself 
as 
my Calde in that case. The idiot here can be Prolocutor under similar circumstances, I suppose." 
She faced the Window and knelt. Auk knelt, too, pulling the 
fisherman down.  (Incus was kneeling already.) Clearing his throat, Auk began the prayer that he had bungled upon the Pilgrims' Way, when Scylla had revealed her divine identity. "Behold us, lovely Scylla, woman of the waters--" 
Incus and the fisherman joined in. "Behold our love and our need for thee. Cleanse us, O Scylla!" 
At the name of the goddess, Chenille threw high her arms with a 
strangled cry. The dancing colors called the Holy Hues filled the 
Sacred Window with chestnut and brown, aquamarine, orange, 
scarlet, and yellow, cerulean blue and a curious shade of rose 
brushed with drab. And for a moment it seemed to Auk that he 
glimpsed the sneering features of a girl a year or two from 
womanhood. 
Chenille trembled violently and went limp, slumping to the altar top and roiling off to fall to the dark and slimy stone of the quay. 
	Oreb fluttered over to her. "God go?" 
The girl's face--if it had been a face--vanished into a wall of green water, like an onrushing wave. The Holy Hues returned, first 
as sun-sparkles on the wave, then claiming the entire Window and 
filling it with their whirling ballet before fading back to 
luminescent 
gray. 
"I think so," Auk said. He rose, and discovered that his needler was still in his hand; he thrust it beneath his tunic, and asked 
tentatively, "You all right, Jugs?" 
Chenille moaned. 
He lifted her into a sitting position. "You banged your head on
the
rock, Jugs, but you're going to be all right." Eager to do something for her, but unsure what he should do, he called, "You! Patera! Get some water." 
"She throw?" 
Auk swung at Oreb, who hopped agilely to one side. "Hackum?" 
"Yeah, Jugs. Right here." He squeezed her gently with the arm 
that supponed her, conscious of the febrile heat of her sunburned 
skin. 
"You came back. Hackum, I'm so glad." 
The old fisherman coughed, striving to keep his eyes from 

Chenille's breasts. "Mebbe it'd be better if me an' him stayed on the boat awhile?" 
"We're all going on your boat," Auk told him. He picked up Chenille. 
Incus, a battered tin cup of water in his hand, asked, "You intend 
to  _disobey?_" 
Auk dodged. "She said to go to the Juzgado. We got to get back to Limna, then there's wagons to the city." 
"She was sending someone, sending her slave she said, to take us there." Incus raised the cup and sipped. "She also said  _I_ was to be _Prolocutor_." 
The old fisherman scowled. "This feller she's sendin', he'll have
a
boat o' his own. Have ter, ter git out here. What becomes o' mine if we go off with him? She said fer me ter fetch the rest back ter see them councillors, didn't she? How'm I s'posed ter do that if I ain't got my boat?" 
Oreb fluttered onto Auk's shoulder. "Find Silk?" 
"You got it." Carrying Chenille, Auk strode across the quay to 
eye 
the open water between it and the boat; it was one thing to spring 
from the gunnel to the quay, another to jump from the quay to the 
boat while carrying a woman taller than most. "Get that rope," he 
snapped to Incus. "Pull it closer. You left too much slack." 
Incus pursed his lips. "We cannot  _possibly_ disobey the instructions 
of the goddess." 
"You can stay here and wait for whoever she's sending. Tell him 
we'll meet up with him in Limna. Me and Jugs are going in Dace's 
boat." 
The old fisherman nodded emphatically. 
"If  _you_ wish to disobey, my son,  _I_ will not attempt to prevent 
you. However--" 
Something in the darkness beyond the last tank fell with a crash, and the scream of metal on stone echoed from the walls of the 
cavern. A new voice, deeper and louder than any merely human 
voice, roared, "_I bring her! Give her to me!_" 
It was that of a talus larger than the largest Auk had ever seen;
its
virescent bronze face was cast in a grimace of hate, blinding yellow 
light glared from its eyes, and the oily black barrels of a flamer 
and a 
pair of buzz guns jutted from its open mouth. Behind it, the black 
dark at the back of the cavern had been replaced by a sickly greenish glow. 
"_I bring her! All of you! Give her to me!_" The talus extended a lengthening arm as it rolled toward them. A steel hand the size of 
the altar from which she had fallen closed about Chenille and 
plucked her from Auk's grasp; so a child might have snatched a 
small and unloved doll from the arms of another doll. "_Get on my 
back! Scylla commands it!_" 
A half dozen widely spaced rungs of bent rod laddered the talus's metal flank. Auk scrambled up with the night chough flapping 
ahead of him; as he gained the top, the talus's huge hand deposited Chenille on the sloping black metal before him. 
"Hang on!" 
Two rows of bent rods much like the steps of the ladder ran the length of the talus's back. Auk grasped one with his left hand and Chenille with his right. Her eyelids fluttered. "Hackum?" 
"Still here." 
Incus's head appeared as he clambered up; his sly face looked 
sick 

in the watery light. "By--by  _Hierax!_" 
	Auk chuckled. 
"You--You--Help me  _up_." 
"Help yourself, Patera. You were the one that wanted to wait for him. You won. He's here." 
Before Auk had finished speaking, Incus sprang onto the talus's back with astonishing alacrity, apparently impelled by the muscular arm of the fisherman, who clambered up a moment later. "You'd 
make a dimber burglar, old man," Auk told him. 
	"Hackum, where are we?" 
"In a cave on the west side of the lake." 
The talus turned in place, one wide black belt crawling, the other 
locked. Auk felt the thump of machinery under him. 
Puffs of black smoke escaped from the joint between the upright 
thorax and long wagon-like abdomen to which they clung. It rocked, 
jerked, and skewed backward. A sickening sidewise skid ended in a 
geyser of icy water as one belt slipped off the quay. Incus clutched 
at 
Auk's tunic as their side of the talus went under, and for a dizzying second Auk saw the boat tossed higher than their heads. 
	The wave that had lifted it broke over them like a blow, a 
suffocating, freezing whorl that at once drained away; when Auk 
opened his eyes again Chenille was sitting up screaming, her 
dripping face blank with terror. 
Something black and scarlet landed with a thump upon his sopping shoulder. "Bad boat! Sink." 
It had not, as he saw when the talus heaved itself up onto the 
quay 
again; Dace's boat lay on its side, the mast unshipped and tossing like driftwood in the turbulent water. 
Huge as a boulder, the talus's head swiveled around to glare at them, revolving until it seemed its neck must snap. "_Five ride! The small may go!_" 
Auk glanced from the augur to the fisherman, and from him to 
the hysterical Chenille, before he realized who was meant. "You can 
beat the hoof if you want to, bird. He says he won't hurt you if you 
do." 
"Bird stay," Oreb muttered. "Find Silk." 
The talus's head completed its revolution, and the talus lunged forward. Yellow light glared back at them, reflected from the 
curved white side of the last tank, leaving the Sacred Window empty and dead looking behind them. Sallow green lights winked into 
being just above the talus's helmeted head, and the still-tossing 
waters of the channel congealed to rough stone as the cavern 
dwindled to a dim tunnel. 
Auk put his arm around Chenille's waist. "Fancy a bit of company, Jugs?" 
She wept on, sobs lost in the wind of their passage. 
He released her, got out his needler, and pushed back the 
sideplate; a trickle of gritty water ran onto his fingers, and he 
blew 
into the mechanism. "Should be all right," he told Oreb, "soon as it dries out. I ought to put a couple drops of oil on the needles, 
though." 
"Good girl," Oreb informed him nervously. "No shoot." 
"Bad girl," Auk explained. "Bad man, too. No shoot. No go away, either." 
"Bad bird!" 
"Lily." Gently, he kissed Chenille's inflamed back. "Lie down if you want to. Lay your head in my lap. Maybe you can get a little 
sleep." 
As he pronounced the words, he sensed that they came too late. 
The talus was descending, the tunnel angling downward, if only 

slightly. The mouths of other tunnels flashed past to left and right, 
darker even than the damp shiprock walls. Drops of water clinging 
to the unchanging ceiling gleamed like diamonds, vanishing as they 
passed. 
The talus slowed, and something struck its great bronze head, 
ringing it like a gong. Its buzz guns rattled and it spat a tongue of blue fire. 

Chapter  2  -- Silk's Back! 

"It would be better," Maytera Marble murmured to Maytera Mint, "if you did it, sib." 
Maytera Mint's small mouth fell open, then firmly closed. 
Obedience meant obeying, as she had told herself thousands of times; obedience was more than setting the table or fetching a plate of 
cookies. "If you wish it, Maytera. High Hierax knows I have no 
voice, but I suppose I must." 
Maytera Marble sighed to herself with satisfaction, a hish from 
the speaker behind her lips so soft that no ears but hers could hear 
it. 
Maytera Mint stood, her cheeks aflame already, and studied the 
congregation. Half or more were certainly thieves; briefly she 
wondered whether even the images of the gods were safe. 
She mounted the steps to the ambion, acutely conscious of the 
murmur of talk filling the manteion and the steady drum of rain on 
its roof; for the first time since early spring, fresh smelling rain 
was 
stabbing through the god gate to spatter the blackened altartop--
though 
there was less now than there had been earlier. 
Molpe, she prayed, Marvelous Molpe, for once let me have a 
voice. "Some--" Deep breath. "Some of you do not know me..." 
Few so much as looked at her, and it was apparent that those who did could not hear her. How ashamed that gallant captain who had 
showed her his sword would be of her now! 
Please Kypris! Sabered Sphigx, great goddess of war  . 
There was a strange swelling beneath her ribs; through her mind a 
swirl of sounds she had never heard and sights she had not seen: the 
rumbling hoofbeats of cavalry and the booming of big guns. the 
terrifying roars of Sphigx's lions, the silver voices of trumpets, 
and 
the sharp crotaline clatter of a buzz gun. A woman with a bloodstained 
rag about her head steadied the line:  _Form up! Form Up! Forward now! Forward! Follow me!_ 
With a wide gesture, little Maytera Mint drew a sword not even 
she could see. "_Fr_iends!" Her voice broke in the middle of the 
word. 
Louder, girl! Shake these rafters! 
"Friends, some of you don't know who I am. I am Maytera Mint, a. sibyl of this manteion." She swept the congregation with her eyes, and saw Maytera Marble applauding silently; the babble of several hundred voices had stilled altogether. 
"The laws of the Chapter permit sacrifice by a sibyl when no augur 
is present. Regrettably, that is the case today at our manteion. Few of you, we realize, will wish to remain. There is another manteion on Hat Street, a manteion well loved by all the gods, I'm sure, 
where a holy augur is preparing to sacrifice as I speak. Toward the market, and turn left. It's not far." 
She waited hopefully, listening to the pattering rain; but not 

one 
of the five hundred or so lucky enough to have seats stood, and none 
of the several hundred standers in the aisles turned to go. 
	"Patera Silk did not return to the manse last night. As many of 
you 
know, Guardsmen came here to arrest him&151" 
The angry mutter from her listeners was like the growl of some enormous beast. 
"That was yesterday, when Kind Kypris, in whose debt we shall 
always be, honored us for a second time. All of us feel certain that there has been a foolish enor. But until Patera Silk comes back, we can only assume that he is under arrest. Patera Cub, the worthy 
augur His Cognizance the Prolocutor sent to assist Patera Silk, 
seems to have left the manse early this morning, no doubt in the 
hope of freeing him." 
Maytera Mint paused, her fingers nervously exploring the 
chipped stone of the ancient ambion, and glanced down at the 
attentive worshipers crouched on the floor in front of the foremost bench, and at the patchy curtain of watching faces that filled the narthex arch. 
"Thus the duty of sacrifice devolves upon Maytera Marble and 
me. There are dozens of victims today. There is even an unspotted 
white bull for Great Pas, such a sacrifice as the Grand Manteion 
cannot often see." She paused again to listen to the rain, and for a glance at the altar. 
"Before we begin, I have other news to give you, and most 
particularly to those among you who have come to honor the gods 
not only today but on Scylsday every week for years. Many of you 
will be saddened by what I tell you, but it is joyful news. 
"Our beloved Maytera Rose has gone to the gods. in whose 
service she spent her long life. For reasons we deem good and 
proper, we have chosen not to display her mortal remains. That is her casket there, in front of the altar. 
"We may be certain that the immortal gods are aware of her 
exemplary piety. I have heard it said that she was the oldest 
biochemical person in this quarter, and it may well have been true. 
She belonged to the last of those fortunate generations for which 
prosthetic devices remained, devices whose principles are lost even 
to our wisest. They sustained her life beyond the lives of the 
children of many she had taught as children, but they could not 
sustain it indefinitely. Nor would she have wished them to. Yester 
day they failed at last, and our beloved sib was freed from the 
sufferings that old age had brought her, and the toil that was her 
only solace." 
Some men standing in the aisles were opening the windows there; little rain if any seemed to be blowing in. The storm was over, 
Maytera Mint decided, or nearly over. 
"So our sacrifice this morning is not merely that which we offer
to
the undying gods each day at this time if a victim is granted us. It 
is 
our dear Maytera Rose's last sacrifice, by which I mean that it is 
not 
just that of the white bull and the other beasts outside, but the sacrifice of Maytera herself. 
"Sacrifices are of two kinds. In the first, we send a gift. In
the
second, we share a meal. Thus my dear sib and I dare hope it will 
not shock you when I tell you that my dear sib has taken for her use 
some of the marvelous devices that sustained our beloved Maytera 
Rose. Even if we were disposed to forget her, as I assure you we are 
not, we could never do so now. They will remind us both of her life 
of service. Though I know that her spirit treads the Aureate Path, I 
shall always feel that something of her lives on in my sib." 

Now, or never. 
"We are delighted that so many of you have come to honor her, as it is only right you should. But there are many more outside, men and women, children too, who would honor her if they could, but 
were unable to find places in our manteion. It seems a shame, for her sake and for the gods' as well. 
"There is an expedient, as some of you must stirely know, that
can
be adopted on such occasions as this. It is to move the casket, the 
altar, and the Sacred Window itself out into the street temporarily." 
	They would lose their precious seats. She half expected them to 
riot, but they did not. 
She was about to say, "I propose--" but caught herself in time;
the
decision was hers, the responsibility for it and its execution hers. "That is what we will do today." The thick, leather-bound 
Chrasmologic 
Writings lay on the ambion before her; she picked it up. "Horn? Horn, are you here?" 
He waved his hand, then stood so she could see him. 
"Horn was one of Maytera's students. Horn, I want you to choose 
five other boys to help you with her casket. The altar and the Sacred Window are both very heavy, I imagine. We will need volunteers to 
move those." 
Inspiration struck. "Only the very strongest men, please. Will twenty or thirty of the strongest men present please come forward? My sib and I will direct you." 
Their rush nearly overwhelmed her. Half a minute later, the altar was afloat upon a surging stream of hands and arms, bobbing and 
rocking like a box in the lake as a human current bore it down the aisle toward the door. 
The Sacred Window was more difficult, not because it was 
heavier, but because the three-hundred-year-old clamps that held it 
to the sanctuary floor had rusted shut and bad to be hammered. Its 
sacred cables trailed behind it as it, too, was carried out the door, 
at 
times spitting the crackling violet fire that vouched for the immanent 
presence of divinity. 
"You did wonderfully, sib. Just wonderfully!" Maytera Marble had followed Maytera Mint out of the manteion; now she laid a hand 
upon her shoulder. "Taking everything outside for a viaggiatory! 
However did you think of it?" 
"I don't know. It was just that they were still in the street, most of 
them, and we were in there. And we couldnn't let them in as we 
usually do. Besides," Maytera Mint smiled impishly, "think of all the blood, sib. It would've taken us days to clean up the manteion 
afterward." 
There were far too many victims to pen in Maytera Marble's little 
garden. Their presenters had been told very firmly that they would 
have to hold them until it was time to lead them in, with the result 
that Sun Street looked rather like the beast-sellers quarter in the 
market. How many would be here, Maytera Mint wondered, if it 
hadn't been for the rain? She shuddered. As it was, the victims and 
their presenters looked soaked but cheerful, steaming in the sunshine 
of Sun Street. 
"You're going to need something to stand on," Maytera Marble warned her, "or they'll never hear you." 
"Why not here on the steps?" Maytera Mint inquired. 
"Friends..." To her own ears, her voice sounded weaker than 
ever here in the open air; she tried to imagine herself a trumpeter1 
then a trumpet. "Friends! I won't repeat what I said inside. This is 
Maytera Rose's last sacrifice. I know that she knows what you've 

done for her, and is glad. 
"Now my sib and her helpers are going to build a sacred fire on
the
altar. We will need a big one today--" 
	They cheered, surprising her. 
"We'll need a big one, and some of the wood will be wet. But the whole sky is going to be our god gate this afternoon, letting in Lord Pas's fire from the sun." 
Like so many brightly-colored ants, a straggling line of little girls 
had already begun to carry pieces of split cedar to the altar, where Maytera Marble broke the smallest pieces. 
"It is Patera Silk's custom to consult the Writings before sacrificing. 
Let us do so too." Maytera Mint held up the book and opened it at random. 
<blockquote> 
Whatever it is we are, it is a little flesh, breath, and the ruiing 
part. As if you were dying, despise the flesh; it is blood, bones, 
and 
network, a tissue of nerves and veins. See the breath also, what 
kind of thing it is: air, and never the same, but at every moment 
sent 
Out and drawn in. The third is the ruling part. No longer let this 
part 
be enslaved, no longer let it be pulled by its strings like a 
marionette. No longer complain of your lot, nor shrink from the future. 
</blockquote> 
<spacer Type='horizontal' Size=32> 
"Patera Silk has told us often that each passage in the Writings holds two meanings at least." The words slipped out before she realized that she could see only one in this one. Her mind groped frantically for a second interpretation. 
"The first seems so clear that I feel foolish explaining it, though it 
is my duty to explain it. All of you have seen it already, I'm sure. 
A 
part, two parts as the Chrasmologic writer would have it, of our dear Maytera Rose has perished. We must not forget that it was the baser part, the part that neither she nor we had reason to value. The 
better part, the part beloved by the gods and by us who knew her, 
will never perish. This, then, is the message for those who mourn 
her. For my dear sib and me, particularly." 
Help me! Hierax, Kypris, Sphigx, please help! 
She had touched the sword of the officer who had come to arrest Silk; her hand itched for it, and something deep within her, denied until this moment, scanned the crowd. 
"I see a man with a sword." She did not, but there were scores of such men. "A fine one. Will you come forward, sir? Will you lend 
me your sword? It will be for only a moment." 
A swaggering bully who presumably believed that she had been addressing him shouldered a path through the crowd. It was a 
hunting sword, almost certainly stolen, with a shell guard, a stag grip, and a sweeping double-edged blade. 
"Thank you." She held it up, the polished steel dazzling in the
hot
sunshine. "Today is Hieraxday. It is a fitting day for final rites. I think it's a measure of the regard in which the gods held Maytera 
Rose that her eyes were darkened on a Tarsday, and that her last 
sacrifice takes place on Hieraxday. But what of us? Don't the 
Writings speak to us, too? Isn't it Hieraxday for us, as well as for Maytera? We know they do. We know it is. 
"You see this sword?" The denied self spoke through her, so that 

she--the little Maytera Mint who had, for so many years, thought 
herself the only Maytera Mint--listened with as much amazement as 
the crowd, as ignorant as they of what her next word might be. "You 
carry these, many of you. And knives and needlers, and those little 
lead clubs that nobody sees that strike so hard. And only Hierax 
himself knows what else. But are you ready to pay the price?" 
	She brandished the hunting sword above her head. There was a 
white stallion among the victims; a flash of the blade or some note 
in 
her voice made him rear and paw the air, catching his presenter by surprise and lifting him off his feet. 
"For the price is death. Not death thirty or forty years from 
now, 
but death now! Death today! These things say,  _I will not cower to you! Jam no slave, no ox to be led to the butcher! Wrong me, wrong the gods, and you die! For I fear not death or you!_" 
The roar of the crowd seemed to shake the street. 
"So say the Writings to us, friends, at this manteion. That is 
the 
second meaning." Maytera Mint returned the sword to its owner. "Thank you, sir. It's a beautiful weapon." 
He bowed. "It's yours anytime you need it, Maytera, and a hard hand to hold it." 
At the altar, Maytera Marble had poised the shallow bowl of 
polished brass that caught falling light from the sun. A curl of 
smoke 
arose from the splintered cedar, and as Maytera Mint watched, the first pale, almost invisible flame. 
Holding up her long skirt, she trotted down the steps to face the Sacred Window with outstretched arms. "Accept, all you gods, the 
sacrifice of this holy sibyl. Though our hearts are torn, we, her 
siblings and her friends, consent. But speak to us, we beg, of times 
to come, hers as well as ours. What are we to do? Your lightest word 
will be treasured." 
Maytera Mint's mind went blank--a dramatic pause until she 
recalled the sense, though not the sanctioned wording, of the rest of the invocation. "If it is not your will to speak. we consent to that, too." Her arms fell to her sides. 
From her place beside the altar, Maytera Marble signaled the first 
presenter. 
"This fine white he-goat is presented to..." Once again, Maytera Mint's memory failed her. 
"Kypris," Maytera Marble supplied. 
To Kypris, of course. The first three sacrifices were all for Kypris. 
who had electrified the city by her theophany on Scylsday. But what was the name of the presenter? 
Maytera Mint looked toward Maytera Marble, but Maytera Marble was, strangely, waving to someone in the crowd. 
	"To Captivating Kypris, goddess of love, by her devout 
supplicant--?" 
"Bream," the presenter said. 
"By her devout supplicant Bream." It had come at last, the 
moment she had dreaded most of all. "Please, Maytera, if you'd do it, please...?" But the sacrificial knife was in her hand, and Maytera Marble raising the ancient wail, metal limbs slapping the heavy bombazine of her habit as she danced. 
He-goats were supposed to be contumacious, and this one had 
long, curved horns that looked dangerous; yet it stood as quietly as any sheep, regarding her through sleepy eyes. It had been a pet, no doubt, or had been raised like one. 
Maytera Marble knelt beside it, the earthenware chalice that had been the best the manteion could afford beneath its neck. 

I'll shut my eyes, Maytera Mint promised herself, and did not. 
The blade slipped into the white goat's neck as easily as it might 
have penetrated a bale of white straw. For one horrid moment the 
goat stared at her, betrayed by the humans it had trusted all its 
life; 
it bucked, spraying both sibyls with its lifeblood, stumbled, and rolled onto its side. 
"Beautiful," Maytera Marble whispered. "Why, Patera Pike couldn't have done it better himself." 
Maytera Mint whispered back, "I think I'm going to be sick," and 
Maytera Marble rose to splash the contents of her chalice onto the 
fire roaring on the altar, as Maytera Mint herself had so often. 
The head first, with its impotent horns. Find the joint between 
the 
skull and the spine, she reminded herself. Good though it was, the knife could not cut bone. 
Next the hooves, gay with gold paint. Faster! Faster! They would be all afternoon at this rate; she wished that she had done more of the cooking, though they had seldom had much meat to cut up. She 
hissed, "You must take the next one, sib. Really, you must!" 
	"We can't change off now!" 
She threw the last hoof into the fire, leaving the poor goat's 
legs 
ragged, bloody stumps. Still grasping the knife, she faced the 
Window as before. "Accept, O Kind Kypris, the sacrifice of this fine goat. And speak to us, we beg, of the days that are to come. What 
are we to do? Your lightest word will be treasured." She offered a 
silent prayer to Kypris, a goddess who seemed to her since Scylsday 
almost a larger self. "Should you, however, choose otherwise..." 
	She let her arms fall. "We consent. Speak to us, we beg, through 
this sacrifice." 
On Scylsday, the sacrifices at Orpine's funeral had been 
ill-omened to say the least. Maytera Mint hoped fervently for better indicants today as she slit the belly of the he-goat. 
	"Kypris blesses..." Louder. They were straining to hear her. 
"Kypris blesses the spirit of our departed sib." She straightened up and threw back her shoulders. "She assures us that such evil as 
Maytera did has been forgiven her." 
The goat's head bunt in the fire, scattering coals: a presage of violence. Maytera Mint bent over the carcass once more, struggling frantically to recall what litfie she knew of augury--remarks 
dropped at odd moments by Patera Pike and Patera Silk, half-hearted lessons at table from Maytera Rose, who had spoken as 
much to disgust as to teach her. 
The right side of the beast concerned the presenter and the augur 
who presided, the giver and the performer of the sacrifice; the left 
the congregation and the whole city. This red liver foretold deeds of 
blood, and here among its tangled veins was a knife, indicating the 
augur--though she was no augur--and pointing to a square, the 
square stem of mint almost certainly, and the hilt of a sword. Was 
she to die by the sword? No, the blade was away from her. She was 
to hold the sword, but she had already done that, hadn't she? 
	In the entrails a fat little fish  (a bream, presumably) and a 
jumble 
of circular objects, necklaces or rings, perhaps. Certainly that 
interpretation would be welcomed. They lay close to the bream, one actually on top of it, so the time was very near. She mounted the first two steps. 
"For the presenter. The goddess favors you. She is well pleased 
with your sacrifice." The goat had been a fine one, and presumably 
Kypris would not have indicated wealth had she not been gratified. 
"You will gain riches, jewels and gold particularly. within a short 
time." 
Grinning from ear to ear, Bream backed away. 

"For all of us and for our city, violence and death, from which 
good will come." She glanced down at the carcass, eager to be 
certain of the sign of addition she had glimpsed there; but it had 
gone, if it had ever existed. "That is all that I can see in this 
victim, 
though a skilled augur such as Patera Silk could see much more, I'm sure." 
Her eyes searched the crowd around the altar for Bream. "The 
presenter has first claim. If he wishes a share in this meal, let him come forward." 
Already the poor were struggling to get nearer the altar. Maytera Marble whispered, "Burn the entrails and lungs, sib!" 
	It was wise and good and customary to cut small pieces when the 
congregation was large, and there were two thousand in this one at least; but there were scores of victims, too, and Maytera Mint had little confidence in her own skill. She distributed haunches and 
quarters, receiving delighted smiles in return. 
Next a pair of white doves. Did you share out doves or burn them whole? They were edible, but she remembered that Silk had burned 
a black cock whole at Orpine's last sacrifice. Birds could be read, although they seldom were. Wouldn't the giver be offended, 
however, if she didn't read these? 
"One shall be read and burned," she told him firmly. "The other we will share with the goddess. Remain here if you would like it for yourself." 
He shook his head. 
The doves fluttered desperately as their throats were cut. 
A deep breath. "Accept, O Kind Kypris, the sacrifice of these 
fine 
doves. And speak to us, we beg, of the times that are to come. What 
are we to do? Your lightest word will be treasured." Had she really 
killed those doves? She risked a peek at their lifeless bodies. 
"Should 
you, however, choose otherwise..." 
She let her arms fall, conscious that she was getting more blood on her habit. "We consent. Speak to us, we beg, through this 
sacrifice." 
Scraping feathers, skin, and flesh from the first dove's right 
shoulder blade, she scanned the fine lines that covered it. A bird 
with outspread wings; no doubt the giver's name was Swan or 
something of the sort, though she had forgotten it already. Here was 
a fork on a platter. Would the goddess tell a man he was going to eat dinner? Impossible! A minute drop of blood seemed to have seeped 
out of the bone. "Plate gained by violence," she announced to the 
presenter, "but if the goddess has a second message for me, I am too 
ignorant to read it." 
Maytera Marble whispered, "The next presenter will be my son, Bloody." 
Who was Bloody? Maytera Mint felt certain that she should 
recognize the name. "The plate will be gained in conjunction with the next presenter," she told the giver of the doves. "I hope the goddess isn't saying you'll take from him." 
Maytera Marble hissed, "He's bought this manteion, sib." 
She nodded without comprehension. She felt hot and sick, 
crushed by the scorching sunlight and the heat from the blaze on the altar, and poisoned by the fumes of so much blood, as she bent to consider the dove's left shoulder blade. 
Linked rings, frequently interrupted. 
"Many who are chained in our city shall be set free," she 
announced, and threw the dove into the sacred fire, startling a little 
girl bringing more cedar. An old woman was overjoyed to receive the second dove. 
The next presenter was a fleshy man nearing sixty; with him was a 

handsome younger one who hardly came to his shoulder; the 
younger man carried a cage containing two white rabbits. "For 
Maytera Rose," the older man said. "This Kypris is for love, right?" He wiped his sweating head with his handkerchief as he spoke, 
releasing a heavy fragrance. 
"She is the goddess of love, yes." 
The younger man smirked, pushing the cage at Maytera Mint. 
"Well, roses stand for love," the older man said, "I think these should be all right. 
Maytera Marble sniffed. "Victims in confinement cannot be accepted. Bloody, have him open that and hand one to me." 
	The older man appeared startled. 
Maytera Marble held up the rabbit, pulling its head back to bare its throat. If there were a rule for rabbits, Maytera Mint had 
forgotten it; "We'll treat these as we did the doves," she said as firmly as she could. 
The older man nodded. 
Why, they do everything I tell them, she reflected. They accept 
anything I say! She struck off the first rabbit's head, cast it into 
the 
fire, and opened its belly. 
Its entrails seemed to melt in the hot sunshine, becoming a 
surging line of ragged men with slug guns, swords, and crude pikes. The buzz gun rattled once more, somewhere at the edge of 
audibility, as one stepped over a burning rabbit. 
	She mounted the steps again, groping for a way to begin. "The 
message is very clear. Extraordinarily clear. Unusual." 
	A murmur from the crowd. 
"We--mostly we find separate messages for the giver and the 
augur. For the congregation and our city, too, though often those are together. In this victim, it's all together." 
	The presenter shouted. "Does it say what my reward will be from 
the Ayuntamiento?" 
"Death." She stared at his flushed face, feeling no pity and 
surprised that she did not. "You are to die quite soon, or at least 
the 
presenter will. Perhaps your son is meant." 
She raised her voice, listening to the buzz gun; it seemed strange 
that no one else heard it. "The presenter of this pair of rabbits has 
reminded me that the rose, our departed sib's nameflower, signifies 
love in what is called the language of flowers. He is right, and 
Comely Kypris, who has been so kind to us here on Sun Street, is 
the author of that language, by which lovers may converse with 
bouquets. My own nameflower, mint, signifies virtue. I have always 
chosen to think of it as directing me toward the virtues proper to a 
holy sibyl. I mean charity, humility, and--and all the rest. But 
_virtue_ is an old word, and the Chrasmologic Writings tell us 
that it first meant strength and courage in the cause of right." 
	They stood in awed silence listening to her; she herself listened 
for the buzz gun, but it had ceased to sound if it had ever really 
sounded at all. 
"I haven't much of either, but I will do the best I can in the fight to 
come." She looked for the presenter, intending to say something 
about courage in the face of death, but he had vanished into the 
crowd, and his son with him. The empty cage lay abandoned in the 
street. 
"For all of us," she told them, "victory!" What silver voice was 
this, 
ringing above the crowd? "We must fight for the goddess! We will win with her help!" 
How many remained. Sixty or more? Maytera Mint felt she had 
not strength enough for even one. "But I have sacrificed too long. 

I'm junior to my dear sib, and have presided only by her favor." She handed the sacrificial knife to Maytera Marble and took the second rabbit from her before she could object. 
A black lamb for Hierax after the rabbit; and it was an indescribable 
relief to Maytera Mint to watch Maytera Marble receive it and 
offer it to the untenanted gray radiance of the Sacred Window; to 
wail and dance as she had so many times for Patera Pike and Patera 
Silk, to catch the lamb's blood and splash it on the altar--to watch 
Maytera cast the head into the fire, knowing that everyone was 
watching Maytera too, and that no one was watching her. 
	One by one, the lamb's delicate hoofs fed the gods. A swift 
stroke 
of the sacrificial knife laid open its belly, and Maytera Marble whispered, "Sib, come here." 
Startled, Maytera Mint took a hesitant step toward her; Maytera Marble, seeing her confusion, crooked one of her new fingers. 
"Please!" 
Maytera Mint joined her over the carcass, and Maytera Marble 
murmured, "You'll have to read it for me, sib." 
Maytera Mint glanced up at the senior sibyl's metal face. 
"I mean it. I know about the liver, and what tumors mean. But I can't see the pictures. I never could." 
Closing her eyes, Maytera Mint shook her head. "You must!" 
"Maytera, I'm afraid." 
Not so distant as it had been, the buzz gun spoke again, its rattle 
followed by the dull boom of slug guns. 
Maytera Mint straightened up; this time it was clear that people on the edge of the crowd had heard the firing. 
"Friends! I don't know who's fighting. But it would appear--" 
	A pudgy young man in black was pushing through the crowd, 
 pracfically knocking down several people in his hurry. Seeing him, 
she knew the intense relief of passing responsibility to someone 
else. 
"Friends, neither my dear sib nor I will read this fine lamb for you. Nor need you endure the irregularity of sacrifice by sibyls any 
longer. Patera Gulo has returned!" 
He was at her side before she pronounced the final word, 
disheveled and sweating in his wool robe, but transported with 
triumph. "You will, all you people--everybody in the city--have a 
real augur to sacrifice for you. Yes! But it won't be me. Patera 
Silk's 
back!" 
They cheered and shouted until she covered her ears. 
Gulo raised his arms for silence. "Maytera, I didn't want to tell you, didn't want to worry you or involve you. But I spent most of 
the night going around writing on walls. Talking to--to people. 
Anybody who'd listen, really, and getting them to do it, too. I took a box of chalk from the palaestra.  _Silk for calde! Silk for 
calde! Here he comes!_" 
Caps and scarves flew into the air. "_SILK FOR CALDE!_" 
Then she caught sight of him, waving, head and shoulders 
emerging from the turret of a green Civil Guard floater--one that 
threw up dust as all floaters did, but seemed to operate in ghostly silence, so great was the noise. 
"_I am come?_" the talus thundered again. "_In the service of Scylla! Mightiest of goddesses! Let me pass! Or perish!_" Both buzz guns 
spoke together, filling the tunnel with the wild shrieking of 
ricochets. 
Auk, who had pulled Chenille flat when the shooting began, 
clasped her more tightly than ever. After a half minute or more the 

right buzz gun fell silent, then the left. He could hear no answering fire. 
Rising, he peered over the talus's broad shoulder. Chems littered the tunnel as far as the creeping lights illuminated it. Several were on fire. "Soldiers," he reported. 
"Men fight," Oreb amplified. He flapped his injured wing uneasily. 
"Iron men." 
"The Ayuntamiento," Incus cleared his throat, "must have called 
out the  _Army_." The talus rolled forward before he had finished, and a soldier cried out as its belts crushed him. 
Auk sat down between Incus and Chenille. "I think it's time you and me had a talk, Patera. I couldn't say much while the goddess 
was around." 
Incus did not reply or meet his eyes. 
"I got pretty rough with you, and I don't like doing that to an augur. But you got me mad, and that's how I am." 
	"Good Auk!" Oreb maintained. 
He smiled bitterly. "Sometimes. What I'm trying to say, Patera,
is
I don't want to have to pitch you off this tall ass. I don't want to 
have 
to leave you behind in this tunnel. But I will if I got to. Back there 
you said you went out to the lake looking for Chenille. If you knew about her, didn't you know about me and Silk too?" 
Incus seemed to explode. "How can you sit here talking about 
_nothing_ when  _men_ are  _dying_ down there!" 
"Before I asked you, you looked pretty calm yourself." Dace, the old fisherman, chuckled. 
"I was  _praying_ for them!" 
Auk got to his feet again. "Then you won't mind jumping off to bring 'em the Pardon of Pas." 
Incus blinked. 
"While you're thinking that over," Auk frowned for effect and 
felt 
himself grow genuinely angry, "maybe you could tell me what your jefe wanted with Chenille." 
The talus fired, a deafening report from a big gun he had not 
realized it possessed; the concussion of the bursting shell followed without an interval. 
"You're  _correct_." Incus stood up. His hand trembled as he jerked a 
string of ranling jet prayer beads from a pocket of his robe. "You're right, because Hierax has  _prompted_ you to recall  _me_ to my duty. 
I--I  _go_." 
Something glanced off the talus's ear and ricocheted down the 
tunnel, keening like a grief-stricken spirit. Oreb, who had perched on the crest of its helmet to observe the battle, dropped into Auk's lap with a terrified squawk. "Bad fight!" 
Auk ignored him, watching Incus, who with Dace's help was scrambling over the side of the talus. Behind it, the tunnel stretched 
to the end of sight, a narrowing whorl of spectral green varied by fires. 
When he caught sight of Incus crouched beside a fallen soldier, Auk spat. "If I hadn't seen it... I didn't think he had the salt." A volley pelted the talus like rain, drowning Dace's reply. 
The talus roared, and a gout of blue flame from its mouth lit the 
tunnel like lightning; a buzz gun supported its flamer with a long, 
staccato burst. Then the enormous head revolved, an eye emitting a 
pencil of light that picked out Incus's black robe. "_Return to me!_" 
	Still bent over the soldier, Incus replied, although Auk could 
not 

make out his words. Ever curious, Oreb fluttered up the tunnel toward them. The talus stopped and rolled backward, one of its extensile arms reaching for Incus. 
This time his voice carried clearly. "_I'll_ get back on if you 
take 
_him_, too." 
There was a pause. Auk glanced behind him at the metal mask that was the talus's face. 
"_Can he speak!_" 
"_Soon_, I hope. I'm  _trying_ to repair him." 
The huge hand descended, and Incus moved aside for it. Perched 
on the thumb, Oreb rode jauntily back to the talus's back. "Still 
live!" 
Dace grunted doubtfully. 
The hand swept downward; Oreb fluttered to Auk's shoulder. "Bird homer' 
With grotesque tenderness fingers as thick as the soldier's thighs 
deposited him between bent handholds. 
"Still live?" Oreb repeated plaintively. 
Certainly it did not seem so. The fallen soldier's arms and legs,
of
painted metal now scratched and lusterless, lay motionless, bent at 
angles that appeared unnatural; his metal face, designed as a model 
of valor, was filled with the pathos that attaches to all broken 
things. 
Singled out inquiringly by one of Oreb's bright, black eyes, Auk could only shrug. 
The talus rolled forward again as Incus's head appeared above its side. "I'm going to--he's not  _dead_," the little augur gasped. "Not completely." 
Auk caught his hand and pulled him up. 
"I was--was just reciting the  _liturgy_ you know. And I saw--The gods provide us such graces! I looked into his  _wound_, there where the chest plate's sprung. They train us, you know, at the schola, to repair Sacred Windows." 
Afraid to stand near the edge of the talus's back, he crawled 
across it to the motionless soldier, pointing. "I was quite good at 
it. 
And--And I've had occasion since to--to  _help_ various chems. _Dying_ chems, you understand." 
He took the gammadion from about his neck and held it up for 
Auk's inspection. "This is Pas's voided cross. You've seen it many times, I'm sure. But you can undo the catches and open up a chem with the pieces.  _Watch_." 
Deftly he removed the sprung plate. There was a ragged hole near its center, through which he thrust his forefinger. "Here's where a flechette went in." 
Auk was peering at the mass of mechanisms the plate had concealed. "I see little specks of light." 
"Certainly you do!" Incus was triumphant. "What you're seeing is what  _I_ saw under this plate when  _I_ was bringing him the Pardon of Pas. His primary cable had been severed, and those are the ends of the fibers. It's  _exactly_ as if your spinal cord were cut." 
	Dace asked, "Can't you splice her?" 
"_Indeed!_" Incus positively glowed. "Such is the mercy of Pas! 
Such 
is his  _concern_ for us, his adopted sons, that here upon the back of 
this valiant talus is the one man who can  _in actual fact_ restore 
him to 
health and strength." 
"So he can kill us?" Auk inquired dryly 
Incus hesitated, his eyes wary, one hand upraised. The talus was advandng even more slowly now, so that the chill wind that had 

whistled around them before the shooting began had sunk to the 
merest breeze. Chenille  (who had been lying flat on the slanted 
plate that was the talus's back) sat up, covering her bare breasts 
with 
her forearms. 
"Why, ah,  _no_," Incus said at last. He took a diminutive black 
device rather like a pair of very small tongs or large tweezers from 
a 
pocket of his robe. "This is an opticsynapter, an  _extremely_ valuable 
tool. With it--Well, look there." 
He pointed again. "That black cylinder is the triplex, the part corresponding to  _your_ heart. It's idling right now, but it 
pressurizes 
_his_ working fluid so that he can move his limbs. The primary cable runs to his microbank--this big silver thing below the triplex--
conveying 
instructions from his postprocessor." 
Chenille asked, "Can you really bring him back to life?" 
	Incus looked frightened. "If he were  _dead_, I could not, 
 Superlative 
Scylla--" 
"I'm not her. I'm me." For a moment it seemed that she might weep again. "Just me. You don't even know me, Patera, and I don't know you." 
"I don't know you either," Auk said. "Remember that? Only I'd like to meet you sometime. How about it?" 
She swallowed, but did not speak. 
"Good girl!" Oreb informed them. Neither Incus nor Dace 
ventured to say anything, and the silence became oppressive. 
With an arm of his gammadion, Incus removed the soldier's skull 
plate. After a scrutiny Auk felt sure had taken half an hour at 
least, 
he worked one end of a second gamma between two thread-like wires. 
	And the soldier spoke: "K-thirty-four, twelve. A-thirty-four, 
ninety-seven. B-thirty-four..." 
Incus removed the gamma, telling Dace, "He was scanning, do 
you follow me? It's as if  _you_ were to consult a physician. He might listen to your chest and tell you to cough." 
Dace shook his head. "You make this sojer well, an' he could kill 
all on board, like the big feller says. I says we shoves him over the 
side." 
"He  _won't_." Incus bent over the soldier again. 
Chenille extended a hand to Dace. "I'm sorry about your boat, 
Captain, and I'm sorry I hit you. Can we be friends? I'm Chenille." 
	Dace took it in his own large, gnarled hand, then released it to 
tug 
the bill of his cap. "Dace, ma'am. I never did hold nothin' agin you." 
"Thank you, Captain. Patera, I'm Chenille." 
Incus glanced up from the soldier. "You asked whether I could 
restore  _life_, my daughter. He isn't dead, merely unable to actuate 
those parts that require fluid. He's unable to move his head, his 
arms, and his legs, in other words. He can  _speak_, as you've heard. 
He 
_doesn't_ because of the shock he's suffered. That is my  _considered_ opinion. The problem is to reconnect all the severed fibers 
correctly. 
Otherwise, he'll move his  _arms_ when he  _intends_ to take a step." He tittered. 
"I still say--" Dace began. 
"In  _addition_, I'll attempt to render him  _compliant_. For our safety. 
It's not  _legal_, but if we're to do as  _Scylla_ has commanded..." He 

bent over the recumbent soldier again. 
	Chenille said, "Hi, Oreb." 
Oreb hopped from Auk's shoulder to hers. "No cry?" 
"No more crying." She hesitated, nibbling her lower lip. "Other girls are always tellirig me how tough I am, because I'm so big. I think I better start trying to live up to it." 
Incus glanced up again. "Wouldn't you like to borrow my robe, my daughter?" 
She shook her head. "It hurts if anything touches me, and my back and shoulders are the worst. I've had men see me naked lots. 
Usually I've had a couple, though, or a pinch of rust. Rust makes it easy." She turned to Auk. "My name's Chenille, Bucko. I'm one of 
the girls from Orchid's." 
Auk nodded, not knowing what to say, and at length said, "I'm Auk. Real pleased, Chenille." 
That was the last thing he could remember. He was lying face down 
on a cold, damp surface, aware of pervasive pain and soft footsteps 
hastening to inaudibility. He rolled onto his back and sat up, then 
discovered that blood from his nose was dribbling down his chin. 
"Here, trooper." The voice was unfamiliar, metallic and harshly resonant. "Use this." 
A wad of whitish cloth was pressed into his hand; he held it gingerly to his face. "Thanks." 
From some distance, a woman called, "Is that you?" "Jugs?" 
The tunnel was almost pitch dark to his left, a rectangle of 
black 
relieved by a single remote fleck of green. To his right, something 
was on fire--a shed or a big wagon, as well as he could judge. 
	The unfamiliar voice asked, "Can you stand up, trooper?" 
	Still pressing the cloth to his face, Auk shook his head. 
	There was someone nearer the burning structure, whatever it 
 was: a short stocky figure with one arm in a sling. Others, men with 
dark and strangely variegated skins... Auk blinked and looked 
again. 
They were soldiers, chems that he had sometimes seen in parades. Here they lay dead, their weapons beside them, eerily lit by the 
flames. 
A small figure in black materialized from the gloom and gave him a toothy grin. "_I_ had sped you to the  _gods_, my son. I see  _they_ sent you back." 
Through the cloth, Auk managed to say, "I don't remember 
meeting any," then recalled that he had, that Scylla had been their 
companion for the better part of two days, and that she had not 
been in the least as he had imagined her. He risked removing the 
cloth. "Come here, Patera. Have a seat. I got to have a word with 
you." 
"Gladly.  _I_ must speak with  _you_, as well." The little augur lowered 
himself to the shiprock floor. Auk could see the white gleam of his teeth. 
"Was that really Scylla?" 
"_You_ know better than  _I_, my son." 
Auk nodded slowly. His head ached, and the pain made it 
difficult to think. "Yeah1 only I don't know. Was it her, or just a devil pretending?" 
Incus hesitated, grinning more toothily than ever. "This is rather 
difficult to explain." 
"I'll listen." Auk groped his waistband for his needler; it was still in 
place. 
"My son, if a devil were to  _personate_ a goddess, it would 

become 
that goddess, in a way." 
Auk raised an eyebrow. 
"Or that  _god_. Pas, let us say, or  _Hierax_. It would run a grave risk 
of merging into the total god. Or so the science of  _theodaimony_ teaches us." 
"That's abram." His knife was still in his boot as well, his hanger at 
his side. 
"Such are the  _facts_, my son." Incus cleared his throat impressively. 
"That is to say, the facts as far as they can be expressed in purely 
_human_ terms. It's there averred that devils do not often dare to 
personate the gods for  _that very reason_, while the immortal gods, 
for 
their part,  _never_ stoop to personating devils." 
"Hoinbuss," Auk said. The man with the injured arm was circling 
the fire. Changing the subject, Auk asked, "That's our talus, ain't 
it? 
The soldiers got it?" 
The unfamiliar voice said, "That's right, we got it." 
Auk turned. There was a soldier squatting behind him. 
"I'm Auk," Auk said; he had reintroduced himself to Chenille with the same words, he remembered, before whatever had happened 
had happened. He offered his hand. 
"Corporal Hammerstone, Auk." The soldier's grip stopped just short of breaking bones. 
"Pleased." Auk tried to stand, and would have fallen if Hammerstone 
had not caught him. "Guess I'm still not right." 
	"I'm a little rocky myself, trooper." 
"Dace and  _that young woman_ have been after me to have 
Corporal Hammerstdne carry you, my son. I've  _resisted_ their 
importunities for his sake. He would  _gladly_ do it if I asked. He and I 
are the  _best of friends_." 
"More than friends," Hammerstone told Auk; there was no hint of humor in his voice. "More than brothers." 
"He would do  _anything_ for me. I'm tempted to  _demonstrate_ that, 
though I refrain. I prefer you to think about it for a while, always with some element of  _doubt_. Perhaps I'm teasing you, merely 
_blustering_. What do you think?" 
Auk shook his head. "What I think don't matter. 
"Exactly. Because you  _thought_ that you could throw me from that 
filthy little boat with  _impunity_. That I'd  _drown_, and you would 
be 
well rid of me. We see  _now_, don't we, how  _misconceived_ that was. You have fodeited any right to have your opinions heard with the 
_slightest_ respect." 
Chenille strode out of the darkness carrying a long weapon with a cylindrical magazine. "Can you walk now, Hackum? We've been 
waiting for you." 
From his perch on the barrel, Oreb added, "All right?" 
"Pretty soon," Auk told them. "What's that you got?" 
"A launcher gun." Chenille grounded it. "This is what did for our talus, or that's what we think. Stony showed me how to shoot it. 
You can look, but don't touch." 
Although pain prevented Auk from enjoying the joke, he managed, "Not till I pay, huh?" 
She grinned wickedly, making him feel better. "Maybe not even 
then. Listen here, Patera. You too, Stony. Can I tell all of you what I've been thinking?" 

"Smart girl!" Oreb assured them. 
Incus nodded; Auk shrugged and said, "I'm not getting up for a while yet. C'mere, bird." 
Oreb hopped onto his shoulder. "Bad hole!" 
Chenille nodded. "He's right. We heard some real funny noises while I was back there looking for something to shoot, and there's probably more soldiers farther on. There's more lights up that way too though, and that might help." 
Hammerstone said, "Not if we want to dodge their patrols." 
"I guess not. But the thing is, Oreb could say what he did about 
anyplace down here, and he wouldn't be wrong. Auk, what I was 
going to tell you is I used to have a cute little dagger that I 
strapped 
onto my leg. It had a blade about as long as my foot, and I thought 
it 
was just right. I thought your knife or your needler or whatever should fit you, like shoes. You know what I'm saying?" 
	He did not, but he nodded nevertheless. 
"Remember when I was Scylla?" 
"It's whether you remember. That's what I want to know." 
"I do a little bit. I remember being Kypris, too, maybe a little 
better. You didn't know about that, did you, Patera? I was. I was 
them, but underneath I was still me. I think it's like a donkey feels 
when somebody rides him. He's still him, Snail or whatever his 
name is, but he's you, too, going where you want to and doing what 
you want to do. And ifhe doesn't want to, he gets kicked till he does 
it anyhow." 
Oreb cocked his head sympathetically. "Poor girl!" 
"So pretty soon he gives up. Kick him and he goes, pull up and 
he stops, not paying a lot of attention either way. It was like that with me. I wanted rust really bad, and I kept thinking about it 
and how shaggy tired I was. And all at once it was like I'd been 
dreaming. I was in a manteion in Limna, then up on an altar in a 
cave and fit for sod. And I didn't remember anything. or if I did I 
wouldn't think about it. But when I was bumping out to the 
shrine, up on those high rocks, stuff started coming back. About 
being Kypris, I mean." 
Incus sighed. "_Scylla_ mentioned it, my daughter, so I did know. Sharing your  _body_ with the  _goddess of love!_ How I  _envy_ you! 
It must have been  _wonderful!_" 
"I guess it was. It wasn't nice. It wasn't fun at all. But the more I 
think, the more I think it really was wonderful in a abram sort of 
way. I'm not exactly like I used to be, either. I think when they 
left, 
the goddesses must have left some crumbs behind, and maybe they took some with them, too." 
She picked up the launcher, running her fingers along the pins 
protruding from its magazine. "What I started to say was that after 
the talus got hit I saw I'd been wrong about things fitting, my 
dagger 
and all that. This stuff isn't really like shoes at all. The smaller somebody is, the bigger a shiv she needs. Scylla left that behind, I think, or maybe something I could use to see it myself. 
"Anyway, Auk here plucks a dimber needler, but I doubt he 
needs it much. If I lived the way he does, and I chose to do, I'd 
need 
it just about every day. So I found this launcher gun, and it's bigger. 
It was empty, but I found another one with the barrel flat where the talus had gone over it, and it was full. Stony showed me how you 
load and unload them." 
Auk said, "I think I'll get something myself, a slug gun, anyhow. There's probably a bunch of 'em lying around." 

Incus shook his head and reached for Auk's waist. "You'd better allow me to take your needler this time, my son." 
	At once Auk's arms were pinned from behind by a grip that was 
quite literally of steel. 
With evident distaste, Incus lifted the front of Auk's tunic and took his needler from his waistband. "This wouldn't harm Corporal Hammerstone, but it would  _kill_ me, I suppose." He gave Auk a 
toothy smile. "Or  _you_, my son." 
"No shoot," Oreb muttered; it was a moment or two before Auk understood that he was addressing Chenille. 
"If you see him with a  _slug gun_, Corporal, you're to take it 
from 
him and break it  _immediately_. A slug gun or any other such 
weapon." 
"_Ahoy! Ahoy there!_" The old fisherman was shouting and waving, silhouetted by orange flames from the burning talus. "_He says he's dyin'! Wants to talk to us!_" 

Silk lifted himself until he could sit almost comfortably upon the 
turret, then waved both hands. His face was smeared with the mud 
of the storm, mud that was cracking and falling away now; the gaudy 
tunic that Doctor Crane had brought him in Limna was daubed with 
mud as well, and he wondered how many of those who waved and 
cheered and jumped and shouted around the floater actually 
recognized him. 
_SILK FOR CALDE!_ 
_SILK FOR CALDE!_ 
Was there really to be a calde again, and was this new calde to
be
himself? Calde was a title that his mother had mentioned occasionally, 
a carved head in her closet. 
He looked up Sun Street, then stared. That was, surely, the 
silver-gray of a Sacred Window, nearly lost in the bright sunshine--a Window in the middle of the street. 
The wind carried the familiar odor of sacrifice--cedar smoke, 
burning fat, burning hair, and burning feathers, the mixture stronger than that of hot metal, hot fish-oil, and hot dust that wrapped 
the floater. Before the silver shimmer of the Window, a black sleeve slid down a thin arm of gray metal, and a moment later he caught 
sight of Maytera Marble's shining, beloved face below the waving, 
flesh-like hand. It seemed too good to be true. 
"_Maytera!_" In the tumult of the crowd he could scarcely hear
his
own voice; he silenced them with a gesture, arms out, palms down. "_Quiet! Quiet, please!_" 
The noise diminished, replaced by the troubled bleating of sheep and the angry hissing of geese; as the crowd parted before the 
floater, he located the animals themselves. 
"Maytera! You're holding a viaggiatory sacrifice?" "Maytera Mint is! I'm helping!" 
"Patera!" Gulo was back, trotting alongside the floater, his black 
robe fallow with dust. "There are dozens of victims, Patera! Scores!" 
	They would have to sacrifice alternately if the ceremony were not 
to be prolonged till shadelow--which was what Gulo wanted, of 
course; the glory of offering so many victims, of appearing before so 
large a congregation. Yet he was not  (as Silk reminded himself 
sharply) asking for more than his due as acolyte. Furthermore, Gulo 
could begin immediately, while he, Silk, would have to wash and 
change. "Stop," he called to the driver. "Stop right here." The 
floater 
settled to the ground before the altar. 
Silk swung his legs from the turret to stand at the edge of the 

deck 
before it, admonished by a twinge from his ankle. 
"_Friends!_" A voice he felt he should recognize at once, shrill 
yet 
thrilling, rang from the walls of every building on Sun Street. "This 
is 
Patera Silk! This is the man whose fame has brought you to the poorest manteion in the city. To the Window through which the gods look upon Viron again!" 
The crowd roared approval. 
"Hear him! Recall your holy errand, and his!" 
Silk, who had identified the speaker at the fourth word, blinked and shook his head, and looked again. Then there was silence, and he had forgotten what he had been about to say. 
An antlered stag among the waiting victims  (an offering to 
Thelxiepeia, the patroness of divination, presumably) suggested an 
approach; his fingers groped for an ambion. "No doubt there are 
many questions you wish to ask the gods concerning these unsettled 
times. Certainly there are many questions I need to ask. Most of all, I wish to beg the favor of every god; and most of all to beg Stabbing Sphigx, at whose order armies march and fight, for peace. But 
before I ask the gods to speak to us, and before I beg their favor, I must wash and change into suitable clothes. I've been in a battle, 
you see--one in which good and brave men died; and before I 
return to our manse to scrub my face and hands and throw these 
clothes into the stove, I must tell you about it." 
	They listened with upturned faces, eyes wide. 
"You must have wondered at seeing me in a Guard floater. Some of you surely thought, when you saw our floater, that the Guard 
intended to prevent your sacrifice. I know that, because I saw you drawing weapons and reaching for stones. But you see, these 
Guardsmen have endorsed a new government for Viron." 
	There were cheers and shouts. 
"Or as I should have said, a return to the old one. They wish us
to
have a calde--" 
"_Silk is calde!_" someone shouted. 
"--and a return to the forms laid down in our Charter. I 
encountered some of these brave and devout Guardsmen in Limna, 
and because I was afraid we might be stopped by other units of the 
Guard, I foolishly suggested that they pretend I was their prisoner. Many of you will have anticipated what happened as a result. Other Guardsmen attacked us, thinking that they were rescuing me." He 
paused for breath. 
"Remember that. Remember that you must not assume that every Guardsman you see is our enemy, and remember that even those 
who oppose us are Vironese." His eyes sought out Maytera Marble again. "I've lost my keys, Maytera. Is the garden gate unlocked? I should be able to get into the manse that way." 
She cupped her hands  (hands that might have belonged to a bio 
woman) around her mouth. "I'll open it for you, Patera!" 
	"Patera Gulo, proceed with the sacrifice, please. I'll join you 
as 
soon as I can." 
Clumsily, Silk vaulted from the floater, trying to put as much weight as he could on his sound left leg; at once he found himself sunounded by well-wishers, some of them in green Civil Guard 
uniforms, some in mottled green conflict armor, most in bright 
tunics or flowing gowns, and more than a few in rags; they touched him as they might have touched the image of a god, in speeches 
blurted in a second or two declared themselves his disciples, 
partisans, and supporters forever, and carried him along like the rush of a rain-swollen river. 
Then the garden wall was at his elbow, and Maytera Marble at the 

gate waving to him while the Guardsmen swung the butts of the slug guns to keep back the crowd. A voice at his ear said, "I shall come with you, My Calde. Always now, you must have someone to 
protect you." It was the captain with whom he had breakfasted at four in the morning in Limna. 
The garden gate banged shut behind them; on the other side 
Maytera Marble's key grated in the lock. "Stay here," the captain 
ordered a Guardsman in armor. "No one is to enter." He turned 
back to Silk, pointed toward the cenoby. "Is that your house, My 
Calde?" 
"No. It's over there. The triangular one." Belatedly. he realized that it did not appear triangular from the garden; the captain would think him mad. "The smaller one. Patera Gulo won't have locked 
the door. Potto got my keys." 
"Councillor Potto, My Calde?" 
"Yes, Councillor Potto." Yesterday's pain rushed back: Potto's 
fists and electrodes, Sand's black box. Scrupulous answers that 
brought further blows and the electrodes at his groin. Silk pushed 
the memories away as he limped along the graveled path, the 
captain behind him and five troopers behind the captain, passing the dying fig in whose shadow the animals that were to die for Orpine's 
spirit had rested, the arbor in which he had spoken to Kypris and 
chatted with Maytera Marble, her garden and his own blackberries 
and wilting tomato vines, all in less time than his mind required to recognize and love them. 
"Leave your men outside, Captain. They can rest in the shade of 
the tree beside the gate if they like." Were they doomed, too? From 
the deck of the floater he had talked of Sphigx; and those who 
perished in battle were accounted her sacrifices, just as those 
struck 
by lightning were said to have been offered to Pas. 
The kitchen was exactly as he recalled it; if Gulo had eaten since 
moving into the manse, he had not done it here. Oreb's water cup 
still stood on the kitchen table beside the ball snatched from Horn. "If it hadn't happened, the big boys would have won," he murmured. 
	"I beg pardon, My Calde?" 
"Pay no attention--I was talking to myself." Refusing the captain's 
offer of help, he toiled at the pump handle until he could splash his face and disorderly yellow hair with cold water that he could not 
help imagining smelled of the tunnels, soap and rinse them, and rub them dry with a dish towel. 
"You'll want to wash up a bit, too, Captain. Please do so while I change upstairs." 
The stair was steeper than he remembered; the manse, which he 
had always thought small, smaller than ever. Seated on the bed that he had left unmade on Molpseday morning, he lashed its wrinkled 
sheets with Doctor Crane's wrapping. 
He had told the crowd he would burn his tunic and loose brown 
trousers, but although soaked and muddy they were still practically 
new, and of excellent quality; washed, they might clothe some poor 
man for a year or more. He pulled the tunic off and tossed it into 
the 
hamper. 
The azoth he had filched from Hyacinth's boudoir was in the 
waistband of the trousers. He pressed it to his lips and carried it 
to 
the window to examine it again. It had never been Hyacinth's, from 
what Crane had told him; Crane had merely had her keep it, feeling 
that her rooms were less likely to be searched than his own. Crane 
himself had received it from an unnamed Idlanum in Trivigaunte 
who had intended it as a gift for Blood. Was it Blood's, then? If so, 
it must be turned over to Blood without fail. There must be no more 

theft from Blood; he had gone too far in that direction on Phaesday. 
	On the other hand, if Crane had been authorized to dispose of it 
(as it seemed he had), it was his, since Crane had given it to him as 
Crane lay dying. It might be sold for thousands of cards and the 
money put to good use--but a moment's self-examination convinced 
him that he could never exchange it for money if he had any right to 
it. 
Someone in the crowd beyond the garden wall had seen him 
standing at the window. People were cheering, nudging each other, and pointing. He stepped back, closed the curtains, and examined Hyacinth's azoth again, an object of severe beauty and a weapon worth a company of the Civil Guard--the weapon with which he had slain the talus in the tunnels, and the one she had threatened him with when he would not lie with her. 
Had her need really been so great? Or had she hoped to make 
him love her by giving herself to him, as he had hoped  (he 
recognized the kernel of truth in the thought) to make her love him by refusing? Hyacinth was a prostitute, a woman rented for a night 
for a few cards--that was to say, for the destruction of the mind of some forsaken, howling monitor like the one in the buried tower. 
He was an augur, a member of the highest and holiest of professions. So he had been taught. 
An augur ready to steal to get just such cards as her body sold 
for. 
An augur ready to steal by night from the man from whom he had 
already bullied three cards at noon. One of those cards had bought Oreb and a cage to keep him in. Would three have bought 
Hyacinth? Brought her to this old three-sided cage of a manse, with its bolted doors and barred windows? 
He placed the azoth on his bureau, put Hyacinth's needler and his beads beside it, and removed his trousers. They were muddier even 
than the tunic, the knees actually plastered with mud, though their 
color made their state less obvious. Seeing them, it struck him that augurs might wear black not in order that they might eavesdrop on 
the gods while concealed by the color of Tartaros, but because it 
made a dramatic background for fresh blood, and masked stains 
that could not be washed out. 
His shorts, cleaner than the trousers but equally rain-soaked, followed them into the hamper. 
Rude people called augurs butchers for good reason, and there 
was butchery enough waiting for him. Leaving aside his proclivity 
toward theft, were augurs really any better in the eyes of a god such 
as the Outsider than a woman like Hyacinth? Could they be better 
than the people they represented before the gods and still represent 
them? Bios and chems alike were contemptible creatures in the eyes 
of the gods, and ultimately those were the only eyes that mattered. 
	Eyes in the foggy little mirror in which he shaved caught his. As 
be stared, Mucor's deathly grin coalesced below them; in a travesty 
of coquetry, she simpered, "This isn't the first time I've seen you 
with no clothes on." 
He spun around, expecting to see her seated on his bed; she was not there. 
"I wanted to tell you about my window and my father. You were 
going to tell him to lock my window so I couldn't get out and bother you any more." 
By that time he had recovered his poise. He got clean undershorts from the bureau and pulled them on, then shook his head. "I wasn't. I hoped that I wouldn't have to." 
From beyond the bedroom door: '_My Calde?_" "I'll be down in a moment, Captain." 
"_I heard voices, My Calde. You are in no danger?_" 
"This manse is haunted, Captain. You may come up and see for yourself if you like." 
Mucor tittered. "Isn't this how you talk to them? In the 

glasses?" 
"To a monitor, you mean?" He had been thinking of one; could 
she read his thoughts? "Yes, it's very much like this. You must have seen them." 
"They don't look the same to me." 
"I suppose not." With a considerable feeling of relief, Silk pulled 
on clean black trousers. 
"I thought I'd be one for you." 
He nodded in recognition of her consideration. "Just as you use your window and the gods their Sacred Windows. I had not thought of the parallel, but I should have." 
Unreflected, her face in his mirror bobbed up and down. "I 
wanted to tell you it's no good any more, telling my father to lock my window. He'll kill you if he sees you, now. Potto said he had to, and he said he would." 
The Ayuntamiento had learned that he was alive and in the city, 
clearly; it would learn that he was here soon, if it had not already. 
It 
would send loyal members of the Guard, might even send soldiers. 
"So it doesn't matter. My body will die soon anyway, and I'll be free like the others. Do you care?" 
"Yes. Yes, I do. Very much. Why will your body die?" 
"Because I don't cat. I used to like it, but I don't any more. 
I'd 
rather be free." 
Her face had begun to fade. He blinked, and nothing but the 
hollows that had been her eyes remained. A breath of wind stirred the curtains, and those hollows, too, were gone. 
He said, "You must eat, Mucor. I don't want you to die." Hoping for a reply, he waited. "I know you can hear me. You have to eat." He had intended to tell her that he had wronged her and her father. That he would make amends, although Blood might kill him 
afterward. But it was too late. 
Wiping his eyes, he got out his last clean tunic. His prayer beads 
and a handkerchief went into one trouser pocket, Hyacinth's 
needler into the other  (He would return it when he could, but that 
problematic moment at which they might meet again seemed 
agonizingly remote.) His waistband claimed the azoth; it was 
possible that augury would provide some hint of what he ought to do 
with it. He considered selling it again, and thought again of the 
howling face that had been so like Mucor's in his minor, and 
shuddered. 
Clean collar and cuffs on his second-best robe would have to do. And here was the captain, waiting at the foot of the stair and 
looking nearly as spruce as he had in that place--what had it been called? In the Rusty Lantern in Limna. 
"I was concerned for your safety, My Calde." 
"For my reputation, you mean. You heard a woman's voice." "A child's, I thought, My Calde." 
"You may search the upper floor if you wish, Captain. If you find 
a woman--or a child, either--please let me know." 
	"Hierax have my bones if I have thought of such a thing, My 
Calde!" 
"She is a child of Hierax's, certainly." 
The Silver Street door was barred, as it should have been; Silk rattled the handle to make certain it was locked as well. The window was shut, and locked behind its bars. 
"I can station a trooper in here, if you wish, My Calde." 
Silk shook his head. "We'll need every trooper you have and more, I'm afraid. That officer in the floater--" 
	"Major Civet, My Calde. 
"Tell Major Civet to station men to give the alarm if the 

Ayuntamiento sends its troopers to arrest me. They should be a street or two away, I suppose." 
"Two streets or more, My Calde, and there must be patrols beyond them." 
"Very well, Captain. Arrange it. I'm willing to stand trial if I must, 
but only if it will bring peace." 
"You are willing, My Calde. We are not. Nor are the gods." 
Silk shrugged and went into the sellaria. The Sun Street door was locked and barred. Two letters on the mantel, one sealed with the 
Chapter's knife and chalice, one with a flame between cupped 
hands; he dropped them into the large pocket of his robe. Both the Sun Street windows were locked. 
As they hurried through the garden again and into the street, he 
found himself thinking of Mucor. And of Blood, who had adopted 
her; then of Highest Hierax, who had dropped from the sky a few 
hours ago for Crane and the solemn young trooper with whom he 
and Crane had talked in the Rusty Lantern. Mucor wanted to die, to 
yield to Hierax; and he, Silk, would have to save her if he could. 
Had it been wrong of him, then, to call her a child of Hierax? 
	Perhaps not. Women as well as men were by adoption the 
children of the gods, and no other god so suited Mucor. 

Chapter  3  -- A Tessera for the Tunnel 

"Bad thing," Oreb muttered, watching the burning talus to see 
whether it could hear him. When it did not react, he repeated more loudly, "Bad thing!" 
"Shut up." Auk, too, watched it warily. 
Chenille addressed it, stepping forward with her launcher ready. "We'd put out the fire if we could. If we had blankets or--or 
anything we could beat it out with." 
"_I die! Hear me!_" 
"I just wanted to say we're sorry." She glanced back at the four men, and Dace nodded. 
"_I serve Scylla! You must!_" 
Incus drew himself up to his full height. "You may rely upon me
to
do everything in my power to carry out the goddess's will. I speak here for my friend Corporal Hammerstone, as well as for myself." 
	"_The Ayuntamiento has betrayed her! Destroy it!_" 
	Hammerstone snapped to attention. "Request permission to 
 speak, Talus." 
The slender black barrel of one buzz gun trembled and the gun 
fired, its burst whistling five cubits above their heads and sending screaming ricochets far down the tunnel. 
"Maybe you better not," Auk whispered. He raised his voice, 
"Scylla told us Patera Silk was trying to overthrow them, and 
ordered us to help him. We will if we can. That's Chenille and me, and his bird." 
"_Tell the Juzgado!_" 
"Right, she said to." Dace and Incus nodded. 
A tongue of flame licked the talus's cheek. "_The tessera! Thetis! 
To the subceltar..._" An interior explosion rocked it. 
Needlessly, Auk shouted, "Get back!" As they fled down the tunnel, fire veiled the great metal face. 
"She's done fer now! She's goin' down!" Dace was slower even than Auk, who tottered on legs weaker than he had known since 
infancy. 
A second muffled explosion, then silence except for the sibilation 

of the flames. Hammerstone, who had been matching strides with 
Auk, broke step to snatch up a slug gun. "This was a sleeper's," he 
told Auk cheerfully. "See how shiny the receiver is? Probably never 
been fired. I couldn't go back for mine 'cause I was supposed to 
watch you. Mine's had about five thousand rounds through it." He 
put the new slug gun to his shoulder and sighted down the barrel. 
	Oreb squawked, and Auk said, "Careful there! You might hit Jugs." 
	"Safety's on." Hammerstone lowered the gun. "You knew her 
 before, huh?" 
Auk nodded and slowed his pace enough to allow Dace to catch up. "Since spring, I guess it was." 
"I had a girl myself once," Hammerstone told him. "She was a 
housemaid, but you'd never have guessed it to look at her. Pretty as a picture." 
Auk nodded. "What happened?" 
"I had to go on reserve. I went to sleep, and when I woke up I wasn't stationed in the city any more. Maybe I should've gone 
looking for Moly." He shrugged. "Only I figured by then she'd found somebody else. Just about all of them had." 
"You'll find somebody, too, if you want to," Auk assured him. He paused to look back up the tunnel; the talus was still in view but 
seemed remote, a dot of orange fire no larger than the closest light. "You could be dead," he said. "Suppose Patera hadn't fixed you up?" 
	Hammerstone shook his head. "I can't ever pay him. I can't even 
show how much I love him, really. We can't cry. You know about that?" 
	"Poor thing!" Oreb sounded shocked. 
Auk told him, "You can't cry either, cully." "Bird cry!" 
"You meatheads are always talking about how good us chems 
have it," Hammerstone continued. "Good means not being able to 
eat, and duty seventy-four, maybe a hundred and twenty, hours at a 
stretch. Good means sleeping so long the  _Whorl_ changes, and you 
got to learn new procedures for everything. Good means seven or 
eight tinpots after every woman. You want to try it?" 
	"Shag, no!" 
Dace caught Auk's arm. "Thanks for waitin' up." 
Auk shook him off. "I can't go all that fast myself." 
More cheerfully Hammerstone said, "I could carry you both, only I'm not supposed to. Patera wouldn't like it." 
Dace's grin revealed a dark gap from which two teeth were missing. "Mama, don't put me on no boat!" 
Auk chuckled. 
"He means well," Hammerstone assured them. "He cares about me. That's one reason I'd die for him." 
Auk suppressed his first thought and substituted, "Don't you think about your old knot any more? The other soldiers?" 
	"Sure I do. Only Patera comes first." 
Auk nodded. 
"You got to consider the whole setup. Our top commander ought 
to be the calde. That's our general orders. Only there isn't one, and that means all of us are stuck. Nobody's got the right to give an 
order, only we do it 'cause we've got to, to keep the brigade 
running. Sand's my sergeant, see?" 
"Uh-huh." 
"And Schist and Shale are privates in our squad. He tells me and
I
tell them. Then they go sure, Corporal, whatever you say. Only none of us feels right about it." 
"Girl wait?" Oreb inquired. He had been eyeing Chenille's distant, 
naked back. 
"Sooner or later," Auk told him. "Snuff your jaw. This is interesting." 
"Take just the other day," Hammerstone continued, "I was 

watching a prisoner. A flap broke and I tried to handle it, and he 
got 
away from me. If everything was right, I'd've lost my stripes over 
that, see? Only it's not, so all I got was a chewing out from Sand 
and 
double from the major. Why's that?" He leveled a pipe-sized finger at Auk, who shook his head. 
"I'll tell you. "Cause both of them know Sand wasn't authorized
to
give anybody orders in the first place, and I could've told him dee-dee if I'd wanted to." 
"Dee-dee?" Oreb peered quizzically at Hammerstone. 
"You want the straight screw? I felt pretty bad when it happened, 
but it was a lot worse when I was talking to them. Not 'cause of 
anything they said. I've heard all that till I could sing it. 'Cause 
they 
didn't take my stripes. I never thought I'd say that, but that's what 
it 
was. They could've done it, only they didn't 'cause they knew they 
didn't have authority from the calde, and I kept thinking, you don't 
have to tell me to wipe them off, I'll wipe them off myself. Only 
that 
would just have made them feel worse." 
"I never liked working for anybody but me," Auk told him. 
"You got to have somebody outside. Or anyhow I do. You feeling pretty good now?" 
"Better'n I did." 
"I been watching you, 'cause that's what Patera wants. And you 
can't hardly walk. You hit your head when the talus bought it, and 
we figured you were KIA. Patera sort of liked it at first. Only then, not so much. His essential nobility of character coming out. Know 
what I'm saying?" 
Dace put in, "That big gal cryin an' yellin' at him." "Yeah, that too. Look here--" 
"Wait a minute," Auk told them. "Chenille. She cried?" Dace chuckled. "I felt sorrier fer her than fer you." "She wasn't even there when I woke up!" 
"She run off. I was over talkin' ter that talus, but I seen her." 
	"She was around when I came to," Hammerstone told Auk. "She 
 had that launcher, only it was empty. There was another one, all 
smashed up, where we were. Maybe she brought it, I don't know. 
Anyhow, after I talked to Patera about you and a couple other 
things, I showed her how to disarm the bad one's magazine and load 
the SSMs in the good one." 
Dice told Hammerstone, "She got her'n up the tunnel whilst the augur was fixin' you. This big feller, he was off watch, and didn't nobody know rightly how bad he'd got hurt. When she come back 
an' seen he wasn't comin' 'round, she foundered." 
	Auk scratched his ear. 
"You've broke your head-bone, big feller, don't let nobody tell 
you no different. I seen it afore. Feller on my boat got a rap from 
the boom. He laid in the cuddy couple nights 'fore we could fetch 
him ashore. He'd open the point an' talk, then sheer off down 
weather. We fetched him the doctor an' I guess he done all he was 
able but that feller died next day. You're in luck you wasn't hit no 
worse." 
"What makes it good luck?" Hammerstone asked him. 
"Why, stands ter reason, don't it? He don't want ter be dead, no more'n me!" 
"All you meatheads talk like that. Only look at it. No more 
trouble and no more work. No more patrols through these tunnels 
looking everywhere for nothing and lucky to get a shot at a god. No more--" 
"Shot god?" Oreb inquired. 

"Yeah," Auk said. "What the shag are you talking about?" 
"That's just what we call them," Hammerstone explained. 
"They're really animals. Kind of like a dog, only ugly where a real dog's all right, so we say it backwards." 
"I've never seen any kind of shaggy animal down here." 
"You haven't been down here long, either. You just think you 
have. There's bats and big blindworms, out under the lake especially. There's gods all around here, only there's five of us and me a 
soldier, and quite a few lights on this stretch. When we get to 
someplace darker, watch out." 
"You don't mind dyin'," Dace reminded him. "That's what you says a little back." 
"Now I do." Hammerstone pointed up the tunnel to Incus, a 
hundred cubits ahead. "That's what I was trying to tell you. Auk said 
he didn't need an outfit or a leader like Patera, or anything like 
that." 
"I don't," Auk declared. "It's the shaggy truth." 
"Then sit down right here. Go to sleep. Dace and me will keep 
going. You feel pretty sick, I can tell. You don't like walking. 
Well, 
there's no reason you've got to. I'll wait till we're about to lose sight 
of you, then I'll put a couple slugs in you." 
	"No shoot!" Oreb protested. 
"I'll wait till you've settled down, see? You won't know it's coming. You'll get to thinking I'm not going to. What do you say?" 
	"No thanks." 
"All right, here's what I been trying to get across. It doesn't 
sound that good to you. If I kept on about it, you'd say you had to take care of your girl, even when you're hurt so bad you can't 
hardly take care of yourself. Or maybe look out for your talking 
bird or something. Only it'd all be gas, 'cause you really don't 
want to, even when you know it makes more sense than what 
you're doing." 
Sick and weak, Auk shrugged. "If you say so." 
"It's not like that for us. Just sitting down somewhere down here 
and letting everything slow down till I go to sleep, and sleeping, 
with 
nobody ever coming by to wake me up, that sounds pretty good. It 
would sound all right to my sergeant, too, or the major. The reason 
we don't is we're supposed to look out for Viron. That means the 
calde, 'cause he's the one that says what's good for Viron and what's 
not." 
"Silk's supposed to be the new calde," Auk remarked. "I know him, and that's what Scylla said." 
Hammerstone nodded. "That'll be great if it happens, but it hasn't 
happened yet and maybe it never will. Only I've got Patera now, 
see? Right now I can walk in back of him like this and keep looking 
at him just about all the time, and he isn't even telling me not to 
look like he did at first. So I don't want to sit down and die any 
more 
than you do." 
Oreb bobbed his approval. "Good! Good!" 
Farther along the tunnel, Incus asked with some asperity, "Are you _sure_ that's all, my daughter?" 
"That's everything since Patera Silk shrived me, like I said," Chenille declared, "everything that I remember, anyhow." 
Apologetically 
she added, "That was Sphixday, so there wasn't time for a lot, and 
you 
said things I did when I was Kypris or Scylla don't count." 
"Nor  _do_ they. The gods  _can_ do no evil. At least, not on  _our_ 

level." 
Incus cleared his throat and made sure that he was holding his 
prayer beads correctly. "That being the case, I bring to you, my 
daughter, the pardon of all the gods. In the name of  _Lord Pas_, you 
are forgiven. In the name of  _Divine Echidna_, you are forgiven. In 
the  _glorious ever-efficacious_ name of  _Sparkling Scylla, loveliest_ 
of 
goddesses and  _firstborn of the Seven and ineffable patroness_ of _this_, 
our--" 
"I'm not her any more, Patera. That's lily." 
Incus, who had been seized by a sudden, though erroneous, 
presentiment, relaxed. "You are forgiven. In the name of  _Molpe_, 
you are forgiven. In the name of  _Tartaros_, you are forgiven. In the name of  _Hierax_, you are forgiven." 
He took a deep breath. "In the name of  _Thelxiepeia_, you are 
forgiven. In the name of  _Phaea_, you are forgiven. In the name of 
_Sphigx_, you are forgiven. And in the name of  _all lesser gods_, 
you are forgiven. Kneel now, my daughter. I must trace the sign of 
addition 
over your head." 
"I'd sooner Auk didn't see. Couldn't you just--" 
"_Kneel!_" Incus told her severely, and by way of merited discipline 
added, "_Bow_ your head!" She did, and he swung his beads forward and back, then from side to side. 
"I hope he didn't see me," Chenille whispered as she got to her feet, "I don't think he's jump for religion." 
"I dare say  _not_." Incus thrust his beads back into his pocket. "While 
you  _are_, my daughter? If that's so, you've deceived me most completely." 
"I thought I'd better, Patera. Get you to shrive me, I mean. We could've been killed back there when our talus fought the soldiers. Auk just about was, and the soldiers could have killed us afterwards. I don't think they knew we were on his back, and when he 
caught fire they were afraid he'd blow up, maybe. If they'd been 
right, we'd have got killed by that." 
"They will return for their  _dead_, eventually. I must say the 
prospect  _concerns_ me. What if we  _encounter_ them?" 
	"Yeah. We're supposed to get rid of the councillors?" 
	Incus nodded. "So  _you_, possessed by Scylla, instructed us, my 
 daughter. We are to displace  _His Cognizance_ as well." Incus 
permitted 
himself a smile, or perhaps could not resist it. "I am to have the office." 
"You know what happens to people that go up against the 
Ayuntamiento, Patera? They get killed or thrown in the pits. All of them I ever heard of." 
Incus nodded gloomily. 
"So I thought I'd better get you to do it. Shrive me. I've got a
day
left, maybe. That's not a whole lot of time." 
"Women, and  _augurs_, are usually spared the ignominy of execution, 
my daughter." 
"When they go up against the Ayuntamiento? I don't think so. 
Anyhow, I'd be locked up in the Alambrera or tossed in a pit. They eat the weak ones in the pits." 
Incus, a full head shorter than she, looked up at her. "You've 
_never_ struck me as  _weak_, my daughter. And you  _have_ struck me, you know." 
"I'm sorry, Patera. It wasn't personal, and anyhow you said it 
doesn't count." She glanced over her shoulder at Auk, Dace, and 

Hammerstone. "Maybe we'd better slow down, huh?" 
"Gladly!" He had been hard put to keep up with her. "As I said, 
my daughter, what you did to me is not to be accounted  _evil. Scylla_ has every right to strike me, as a mother her child. Contrast that with that man  _Auk's_ behavior toward me. He seized me  _bodily_ and cast me into the lake." 
"I don't remember that." 
"_Scylla_ did not order it, my daughter. He acted upon his own _evil 
impulse_, and were I to be asked to shrive him for it  _again_, I am 
_far_ 
from confident I could bring myself to do so. Do you find him attractive?" 
"Auk? Sure." 
"I confess  _I_ thought him a fine specimen when I first saw him.
His
features are  _by no means_ handsome, yet his  _muscular masculinity_ 
is 
both real and impressive." Incus sighed. "One  _dreams_...I mean  _a 
young woman_ such as yourself, my daughter, not infrequently 
dreams of such a man.  _Rough_, yet, one hopes, not entirely lacking 
inner  _sensitivity_. When the  _actual object_ is encountered, 
however, 
one is  _invariably_ disappointed." 
"He lumped me a couple of times while we were hoofing out to that shrine. Did he tell you about that?" 
"About visiting a  _shrine?_" Incus's eyebrows shot up. "Auk and yourself? No  _indeed_." 
"Lumping me, I meant. I thought maybe... Never mind. Once I 
sat down on one of those white rocks, and he kicked me. Kicked my leg, you know. I got pretty sore about that." 
Incus shook his head, dismayed at Auk's brutality. "I should 
imagine  _so_, my daughter. I, for one, am disinclined to criticize 
you 
for it." 
"Only by-and-by I figured it out. See, Kypris had--you know, 
what Scylla did. It was at Orpine's funeral. Orpine's a dell I used 
to 
know." Transfering the launcher to her other hand, Chenille wiped her eyes. "I still feel really bad about her. I always will." 
	"Your grief does you  _credit_, my daughter." 
"Now she's lying in a box in the ground, and I'm walking in this one, only mine's a whole lot deeper. I wonder whether this is what being dead seems like to her? Maybe it is." 
"Her  _spirit_ has doubtless united itself with the gods in Mainframe," 
Incus said kindly. 
"Her spirit, sure, but what about her? What do you call this tunnel 
stuff? They make houses out of it, sometimes. 
"The ignorant say  _shiprock_, the learned  _navislapis_." 
"A big shiprock box. That's what we're in, and we're just as 
buried as Orpine. What I was going to say is Kypris never told Auk, 
Patera. Not like Scylla. She told him right away, but he thought 
Kypris was me, and he liked her a lot. He gave me this ring, see? 
Then she talked to people in Limna and went in the manteion and 
went away. Went clear out of me and left me all alone in front of the 
Window. I was scared to death. I had some money and I kept buying 
red ribbon--" 
"Brandy, my daughter?" 
"Yeah. Throwing it down, trying to pretend it was rust because 
it's 
about the same color. It took a lot before I got over being scared, 
and then I still was, a little, way back in my head and deep down in 

my tripes. Then I saw Auk, this was still in Limna, so I hooked him because I was out of gelt, and I was just some drunk, some old 
drunk trull. So naturally he lumped me. He never did lump me as 
hard as Bass did once, and I'm sorry I lumped you. Aren't the gods supposed to care about us, Patera?" 
"They  _do_, my daughter." 
"Well, Scylla didn't. She could've kept me out of the sun and 
kept 
my clothes so I wouldn't get so burned. We got hot when I was 
running for her and they got in our way, so she just tore them off and threw them down. My best winter gown." 
Incus cleared his throat. "I have been meaning to speak to you 
about  _that_, my daughter. Your  _nudity_. Perhaps I ought to have 
done so when I shrove you. I foresaw, however, that you might 
misunderstand. I,  _myself_, am sunburned, and nudity  _is_ wrong, 
you know." 
"It gets bucks hot. Mine does, I mean, or Violet. I saw a buck practically jump the wall once when Violet took off her gown, and she wasn't really naked, either. She had on one of those real good bandeaus that hike up your tits when they look like they're just 
shoving them back." 
"_Nudity_, my daughter," Incus continued gamely, "is wrong not only because it engenders concupiscent thoughts in weak men, but 
because it 
is  _often_ the occasion of  _violent_ attacks. Concupiscent thoughts are wrong in themselves, as I suggested, though they are not 
_seriously_ 
evil. Violent  _attacks_, on the other hand,  _are_ seriously evil. 
In the matter of concupiscent thoughts, the fault lies with you when 
by 
_intentional_ nudity you give rise to them. In that of  _violent attacks_, the fault lies with the  _attacker_. He is obliged to 
_restrain_ 
himself, no matter  _how severe_ a provocation is offered him. But I 
ask you to consider, my daughter, whether you wish  _any_ human spirit 
to 
be rejected by the immortal gods." 
"Getting beat over the head the way they do," Chenille said 
positively, "that's the part I'd really hate." 
	Incus nodded, gratified. "There is  _that_, as well. You must 
consider 
that the  _men_ most inclined to these attacks are  _by no means_ the 
most 
noble of my sex. To the  _contrary!_ You might actually be  _killed_. Women frequently  _are_." 
"I guess you're right, Patera." 
"Oh, I  _am_, my daughter. You may  _rely_ upon it. In our present 
company, your nudity does  _little_ harm, I would say.  _I_, at least, 
am 
_proof_ against it. So is the soldier whose life I, by the grace and aid of 
_Fairest Phaea_, contrived to save. The captain of our boat--" 
	"Dace." 
"Yes,  _Dace_. Dace is  _also_ proof against it, or  _nearly_ so, I 
would 
imagine, by virtue of his advanced age.  _Auk_, of whom I had 
entertained the gravest fears for your sake has  _now_, by the 
intercession of  _Divine Echidna_, who ever strives to safeguard the 
chastity of your sex as well as  _my own_, been so severely injured 
that 
he is  _most unlikely_ to attack you or--" 
	"Auk? He wouldn't have to." 
Incus cleared his throat again. "I forbear to dispute the matter,
my

daughter. Your reason or mine, though I  _greatly_ prefer  _my own_. 
But 
consider this,  _also_. We are to enter the  _Juzgado_, using the tessera 
the talus supplied. Once there--" 
"Is that what we're supposed to do when we get back? I guess it
is,
but I haven't been thinking about it, just about getting Auk to a 
doctor and all that. I know a good one. And sitting down and getting somebody nice to wash my feet, and some powder and rouge and 
some decent perfume, and drinks and something to eat. Aren't you 
hungry, Patera? I'm starving." 
"I am not  _wholly_ unaccustomed to fasting, my daughter. To 
_revert_ to our topic, we are to enter the Juzgado, or so that 
_talus_ 
informed us as the claws of Hierax closed upon him. His 
instructions were  _Scylla's_, he said, and I credit him. He told us 
the Ayuntamiento must be  _destroyed_, as Scylla  _herself_ did upon 
that  _unforgettable_ occasion when she announced that she has 
chosen  _me_ her Prolocutor. The  _talus_ indicated that we were to 
announce her decision to the commissioners, and provided a 
_tessera_ by which we are to  _penetrate_ the subcellar for that 
purpose. I must confess  _I_ had not known that such a subcellar 
existed, but presumably it does.  _Consider_ then, my daughter, that 
you will soon--" 
"Thetis, that was it, wasn't it? I wondered what he meant when he 
said that. Does it work like a key? I've heard there are doors like 
that." 
"_Ancient_ doors," Incus informed her. "Doors constructed by _Great 
Pas_ at the time he built the whorl. The  _Prolocutor's Palace_ has 
such 
a door. Its tessera is known to me, though I may not reveal it." 
"Thetis sounds like a god's name. Is it? I don't really know very much about any of the gods except the Nine. And the Outsider. 
Patera Silk told me a little about him." 
"It is  _indeed_." Incus glowed with satisfaction. "In the _Writings_, my 
daughter, the mechanism by which we augurs are chosen is 
described in  _beautiful_ though  _picturesque_ terms. It is there said..." 
He paused. "I regret that I cannot  _quote_ the passage. I must 
paraphrase it, I'm afraid. But it is written there that  _each_ new 
year 
Pas brings is like a  _fleet_. You are familiar with boats, my daughter. 
You were upon that  _wretched_ little fishing boat with  _me_, after all." 
"Sure." 
"Each year, as I have indicated, is likened to a fleet of boats 
that 
are its days,  _gallant_ craft loaded with the  _young men_ of that year. 
Each of these day-boats is  _obliged_ to pass  _Scylla_ on its voyage 
to 
_infinity_. Some sail very near to her, while others remain at a greater 
_distance_, their youthful crews crowding the side  _most distant_ 
from 
her loving embrace. None of which  _signifies_. From each of these boats, she selects the young men who most  _please_ her." 
	"I don't see--" 
"_But_," Incus continued impressively, "how is it that these _boats_ 

pass her at all? Why do they not remain safe in harbor? Or sail 
_someplace else?_ It is because there is a minor goddess whose 
function it is to direct them to her.  _Thetis_ is that goddess, and thus a 
most suitable  _tessera_ for us. A  _key_, as you said. A  _ticket_ or _inscribed 
tile_ that will admit  _us_ to the Juzgado, and incidentally  _release_ us from 
the cold and dark of these  _horrid_ tunnels." 
"You think we might be close to the Juzgado now, Patera?" 
Incus shook his head. "I do not know, my daughter. We traveled _some distance_ on that  _unfortunate_ talus, and he went 
_very_ fast. I dare  _hope_ we are beneath the city now." 
	"I doubt if we're much past Limna," Chenille told him. 
Auk's head ached. Sometimes it seemed to him that a wedge had 
been pounded into it, sometimes it felt more like a spike; in either case, it hurt so much at times that he could think of nothing else, 
forcing himself to take one step forward like an automaton, one 
more weary step in a progression of weary steps that would never be 
over. When the ache subsided, as it did now and then, he became 
aware that he was as sick as he had ever been in his life and might 
vomit at any moment. 
Hammerstone stalked beside him, his big, rubber-shod feet 
making less noise than Auk's boots as they padded over the damp 
shiprock of the tunnel floor. Hammerstone had his needler, and 
when the pain in his head subsided, Auk schemed to recover it, 
illusory schemes that were more like nightmares. He would push 
Hammerstone from a cliff into the lake, snatching his needler as 
Hammerstone fell, trip him as they scaled a roof, break into 
Hammerstone's house, find him asleep, and take his needler from 
Hammerstone's strong room... Hammerstone falling headlong, 
somersaulting, rolling down the roof as he, Auk, fired needle after needle at him, viscous black fluid spurting from every wound to 
paint the snowy sheets and turn the water of the lake to black blood in which they drowned. 
No, Incus had his needler, had it under his black robe; but 
Hammerstone had a slug gun, and even soldiers could be killed with slugs, which could and often did penetrate the mud-brick walls of houses, the thick bodies of horses and oxen as well as men, slugs that left horrible wounds. 
Oreb fluttered on his shoulders, climbing with talon and crimson beak from one to the other. Peering though his ears Oreb glimpsed 
his thoughts; but Oreb could not know, no more than he himself 
knew, what those thoughts portended. Oreb was only a bird, and 
Incus could not take him from him, no more than his hanger, no 
more than his knife. 
Dace had a knife as well. Under his tunic Dace had the old 
thick-bladed spear-pointed knife he had used to gut and fillet the 
fish they had caught from his boat, the knife that had worked so 
quickly, so surely, though it looked so unsuited to its task. Dace 
was 
not an old man at all, but a flunky and a toady to that old knife, a 
thing that carried it as Dace's old boat had carried them all when 
there was nothing inside it to make it go, carrying them as they 
might have been carried by a child's toy, toys that can shoot or fly 
because they are the right shape though hollow and empty as Dace's 
boat, as crank as the boat or solid as a potato; but Bustard would 
see 
to Dace. 
His brother Bustard had taken his sling because he had slung 
stones at cats with it, and had refused to give it back. Nothing 
about 
Bustard had ever been fair, not his being born first though his name 

began with  _B_ and Auk's with  _A_, not his dying first either. Bustard 
had cheated to the end and past the end, cheating Auk as he always 
did and cheating himself of himself. That was the way life was, the way death was. A man lived as long as you hated him and died on 
you as soon as you began to like him. No one but Bustard had been 
able to hurt him when Bustard was around; it was a privilege that 
Bustard reserved for himself, and Bustard was back and carrying 
him, carrying him in his arms again, though he had forgotten that 
Bastard had ever carried him. Bustard was only three years older, 
four in winter. Had Bustard himself been the mother that he, 
Bustard, professed to remember, that he, Auk, could not? Never 
could, never quite, Bustard with this big black bird bobbing on his head like a bird upon a woman's hat, its eyes jet beads, twitching 
and bobbing with every movement of his head, a stuffed bird 
mocking life and cheating death. 
Bustards were birds, but bustards could fly--that was the Lily 
truth, for Bustard's mother had been Auk's mother had been Lily 
whose name had meant truth, Lily who had in truth flown away with 
Hierax and left them both; therefore he never prayed to Hierax, to 
Death or the God of Death, or anyhow very seldom and never in his 
heart, though Dace had said that he belonged to Hierax and 
therefore Hierax had snatched Bustard, the brother who had been a 
father to him, who had cheated him of his sling and of nothing else that he could remember. 
"How you feelin', big feller?" 
"Fine. I'm fine," he told Dace. And then, "I'm afraid I'm going
to
puke." 
"Figure you might walk some?" 
"It's all right, I'll carry him," Bustard declared, and by the timbre 
of his harsh baritone revealed Hammerstone the soldier. "Patera said I could." 
"I don't want to get it on your clothes," Auk said, and Hammerstone 
laughed, his big metal body shaking hardly at all, the slug gun 
slung behind his shoulder rattling just a little against his metal back. 
"Where's Jugs?" 
"Up there. Up ahead with Patera." 
Auk raised his head and tried to see, but saw only a flash of fire, a 
thread of red fire through the green distance, and the flare of the exploding rocket. 

The white bull fell, scarlet arterial blood spilling from its immaculate 
neck to spatter its gilded hooves. Now, Silk thought, watching the garlands of hothouse orchids slide from the gold leaf that covered its horns. 
He knelt beside its fallen head. Now if at all. 
She came with the thought. The point of his knife had begun the first cut around the bull's right eye when his own glimpsed the Holy Hues in the Sacred Window: vivid tawny yellow iridescent with 
scales, now azure, now dove gray, now rose and red and thunderous 
black. And words, words that at first he could not quite distinguish, words in a voice that might almost have been a crone's, had it been less resonant, less vibrant, less young. 
"Hear me. You who are pure." 
He had assumed that if any god favored them it would be Kypris. This goddess's unfamiliar features overfilled the Window, her 
burning eyes just below its top, her meager lower lip disappearing into its base when she spoke. 

"Whose city is this, augur?" There was a rustle as all who heard
her
knelt. 
Already on his knees beside the bull, Silk contrived to bow. "Your 
eldest daughter's, Great Queen." The serpents around her face--
thicker 
than a man's wrist but scarcely larger than hairs in proportion 
to her mouth, nose, and eyes, and pallid, hollow cheeks--identified her at once. "Viron is Scalding Scylla's city." 
"Remember, all of you. You most of all, Prolocutor." 
Silk was so startled that he nearly turned his head. Was it possible 
that the Prolocutor was in fact here, somewhere in this crowd of thousands? 
"I have watched you," Echidna said. "I have listened." Even the few remaining animals were silent. 
"This city must remain my daughter's. Such was the will of her father. I speak everywhere for him. Such is my will. Your remaining sacrifices must be for her. For no one else. Disobedience invites 
destruction." 
Silk bowed again. "It shall be as you have said, Great Queen." 
Momentarily he felt that he was not so much honoring a deity as 
surrendering to the threat of force; but there was no time to analyze the feeling. 
"There is one here fit to lead. She shall be your leader. Let her step forth." 
Echidna's eyes, hard and black as opals, had fastened on Maytera Mint. She rose and walked with small, almost mincing steps toward the awful presence in the Window, her head bowed. When she 
stood beside Silk, that head was scarcely higher than his own, 
though he was on his knees. 
"You long for a sword." 
If Maytera Mint nodded, her nod was too slight to be seen. 
"You are a sword. Mine. Scylla's. You are the sword of the Eight Great Gods." 
Of the thousands present, it was doubtful if five hundred had 
been able to hear most of what Maytera Marble, or Patera Gulo, or 
Silk himself had said; but everyone--from men so near the canted 
altar that their trouser legs were speckled with blood, to children 
held up by mothers themselves scarcely taller than children--could 
hear the goddess, could hear the peal of her voice and to a limited 
degree understand her, Great Echidna, the Queen of the Gods, the 
highest and most proximal representative of Twice-Headed Pas. As 
she spoke they stirred like a wheatfield that feels the coming storm. 
	"The allegiance of this city must be restored. Those who have 
suborned it must be cast out. This ruling council. Kill them. Restore my daughter's Charter. The strongest place in the city. The prison 
you call the Alambrera. Pull it down." 
Maytera Mint knelt, and again the silver trumpet sounded. "I will, 
Great Queen!" Silk could hardly believe that it had emanated from the small, shy sibyl he had known. 
At her reply the theophany was complete. The white bull lay dead beside him, one ear touching his hand; the Window was empty 
again, though Sun Street was still filled with kneeling worshippers, their faces blank or dazed or ecstatic. Far away--so distant that he, standing, could not see her--a woman screamed in an agony of rapture. 
	He raised his hands as he had when he had stood upon the 
floater's deck. "People of Viron!" 
Half, perhaps, showed some sign of having heard. 
"We have been honored by the Queen of the Whorl! Echidna herself--" 
The words he had planned died in his throat as a searing 

incandescence smashed down upon the city like a ruinous wall. His shadow, blurred and diffused as shadows had always been under the beneficent radiance of the long sun, solidified to a pitch-black silhouette as sharp as one cut from paper. 
He blinked and staggered beneath the weight of the white-hot 
glare; and when he opened his eyes again, it was no more. The dying fig  (whose upper branches could be seen above the garden wall) was on fire, its dry leaves snapping and crackling and sending up a 
column of sooty smoke. 
A gust fanned the flames, twisting and dissolving their smoke column. Nothing else seemed to have changed. A brutal-looking 
man, still on his knees by the casket before the altar, inquired, "W-was that more word from the gods, Patera?" 
Silk took a deep breath. "Yes, it was. That was word from a god who is not Echidna, and I understand him." 
Maytera Mint sprang to her feet--and with her a hundred or 
more; Silk recognized Gayfeather, Cavy, Quill, Aloe, Zoril, Horn and Nettle, Holly, Hart, Oont, Aster, Macaque, and scores of 
others. The silver trumpet that Maytera Mint's voice had become summoned all to battle. "Echidna has spoken! We have felt the wrath of Pas! To the Alambrera!" 
The congregation became a mob. 
Everyone was standing now, and it seemed that everyone was 
talking and shouting. The floater's engine roared. Guardsmen, 
some mounted, most on foot, called, "To me, everyone!" "To me!" 
"To the Alambrera!" One fired his slug gun into the air. 
Silk looked for Gulo, intending to send him to put out the burning 
tree; he was already some distance away, at the head of a hundred 
or more. Others led the white stallion to Maytera Mint; a man 
bowed with clasped hands, and she sprang onto its back in a way 
Silk would not have thought possible. It reared, pawing the wind, at the touch of her heels. 
And he felt an overwhelming sense of relief. "Maytera!  _Maytera!
_"
Shifting the sacrificial knife to his left hand and forsaking the dignity 
augurs were expected to exhibit, he ran to her, his black robe billowing in the wind. "Take this!" 
Silver, spring-green, and blood-red, the azoth Crane had given 
him flashed through the air as he flung it over the heads of the mob. The throw was high and two cubits to her left--yet she caught it, as he had somehow known she would. 
"Press the bloodstone," he shouted, "when you want the blade!" 
A moment later that endless aching blade tore reality as it swept the sky. She called, "Join us, Patera! As soon as you've completed the sacrifices!" 
He nodded, and forced himself to smile. 
The right eye first. It seemed to Silk that a lifetime had passed 
between the moment he had first knelt to extract the eye from its 
socket and the moment that he laid it in the fire, murmuring Scylla's short litany. By the time he had completed it, the congregation had dwindled to a few old men and a gaggle of small children watched by elderly women, perhaps a hundred persons in all. 
In a low and toneless voice, Maytera Marble announced, "The tongue for Echidna. Echidna has spoken to us." 
Echidna herself had indicated that the remaining victims were to be Scylla's, but Silk complied. "Behold us, Great Echidna, Mother of the Gods, Incomparable Echidna, Queen of this Whorl--"  (Were 
there others, where Echidna was not Queen? All that he had 
learned in the schola argued against it, yet he had altered her 
conventional compliment because he felt that it might be so.) 
"Nurture us, Echidna. By fire set us free." 

The bull's head was so heavy that he could lift it only with 
difficulty; he had expected Maytera Marble to help, but she did not. Vaguely he wondered whether the gold leaf on the horns would 
merely melt, or be destroyed by the flames in some way. It did not 
seem likely, and he made a mental note to make certain it was 
salvaged; thin though gold leaf was, it would be worth something. A 
few days before, he had been planning to have Horn and some of 
the others repaint the front of the palaestra, and that would mean 
buying paint and brushes. 
Now Horn, the captain, and the toughs and decent family men of 
the quarter were assaulting the Alambrera with Maytera Mint, 
together with boys whose beards had not yet sprouted, girls no 
older, and young mothers who had never held a weapon; but if they 
lived... 
He amended the thought to: if some lived. 
"Behold us, lovely Scylla, wonderful of waters, behold our love 
and our need for thee. Cleanse us, O Scylla. By fire set us free." 
	Every god claimed that final line, even Tartaros, the god of 
night, and Scylla, the goddess of water. While he heaved the 
bull's head onto the altar and positioned it securely, he reflected 
that "by fire set us free" must once have belonged to Pas alone. Or 
perhaps to Kypris--love was a fire, and Kypris had possessed 
Chenille, whose hair was dyed flaming red. What of the fires that 
dotted the skylands beneath the barren stone plain that was the 
belly of the Whorl? 
Maytera Marble, who should have heaped fresh cedar around the 
bull's head, did not. He did it himself, using as much as they would have used in a week before Kypris came. 
The right front hoof. The left. The right rear and the left, this 
last 
freed only after a struggle. Doubtfully, he fingered the edges of his blade; they were still very sharp. 
Not to read a victim as large as the bull would have been 
unthinkable, even after a theophany; he opened the great paunch 
and studied the entrails. "War, tyranny, and terrible fires." He 
pitched his voice as low as he dared, hoping that the old people 
would be unable to hear him. "It's possible I'm wrong I hope so. 
Echidna has just spoken to us directly, and surely she would have 
warned us if such calamities awaited us." In a corner of his mind, 
Doctor Crane's ghost snickered.  _Letters from the gods in the guts of a dead bull, Silk? You're getting in touch with your own 
subconscious, 
that's all_. 
"More than possible that I'm wrong--that I'm reading my own 
fears into this splendid victim." Silk elevated his voice. "Let me repeat that Echidna said nothing of the sort." Rather too late he 
realized that he had yet to transmit her precise words to the 
congregation. He did so, interspersing every fact he could recall 
about her place at Pas's side and her vital role in superintending chastity and fertility. "So you see that Great Echidna simply urged us to free our city. Since those who have left to fight have gone at her behest, we may confidently expect them to triumph." 
	He dedicated the heart and liver to Scylla. 
A young man had joined the children, the old women, and the old men. There was something familiar about him, although Silk, 
nearsightedly peering at his bowed head, was unable to place him. A small man, his primrose silk tunic gorgeous with gold thread, his black curls gleaming in the sunshine. 
The bull's heart sizzled and hissed, then burst loudly--
fulminated 
was the euchologic term--projecting a shower of sparks. It was a 
sign of civil unrest, but a sign that came too late; riot had become 
revolution, and it seemed entirely possible that the first to fall in 
this 

revolution had fallen already. 
Indeed, laughing Doctor Crane had fallen already, and the 
solemn young trooper. This morning  (only this morning!) he had 
presumed to tell the captain that nonviolent means could be 
employed to oust the Ayuntamiento. He had envisioned refusals to 
pay taxes and refusals to work, possibly the Civil Guard arresting 
and detaining officials who remained obedient to the four remaining 
councillors. Instead he had helped unleash a whirlwind; he 
reminded himself gloomily that the whirlwind was the oldest of Pas's 
symbols, and strove to forget that Echidna had spoken of "the Eight 
Great Gods." 
With a last skillful cut he freed the final flap of hide from the 
bull's haunch; he tossed it into the center of the altar fire. "The 
benevolent gods invite us to join in their feast. Freely, they return 
to 
us the food we offer them, having made it holy. I take it that the 
giver is no longer present? In that case, all those who honor the 
gods 
may come forward." 
The young man in the primrose tunic started toward the bull's 
carcass; an old woman caught his sleeve, hissing, "Let the children 
go first!" Silk reflected that the young man had probably not 
attended sacrifice since he had been a child himself. 
	For each, he carved a slice of raw bull-beef, presenting it on 
the 
point of the sacrificial knife--the only meat many of these children 
would taste for some time, although all that remained would be 
cooked tomorrow for the fortunate pupils at the palaestra. 
	If there was a tomorrow for the palaestra and its pupils. 
	The last child was a small girl. Suddenly bold, Silk cut her a 
 piece 
substantially thicker than the rest. If Kypris had chosen to possess 
Chenille because of her fiery hair, why had she chosen Maytera 
Mint as well, as she had confided to him beneath the arbor before 
they went to Limna? Had Maytera Mint loved? His mind rejected 
the notion, and yet... Had Chenille, who had stabbed Orpine in a 
nimiety of terror, loved something beyond herself? Or did self-love 
please Kypris as much as any other son? She had told Orchid flatly 
that it did not. 
He gave the first old woman an even larger slice. These women, 
then the old men, then the lone young man, and finally, to Maytera 
Marble  (the only sibyl present) whatever remained for the palaestra 
and the cenoby's kitchen. Where was Maytera Rose this morning? 
The first old man mumbled thanks, thanking him and not the 
gods; he remembered then that others had done the same thing at 
Orpine's final rites, and resolved to talk to the congregation about that next Scylsday, if he remained free to talk. 
Here was the last old man already. Silk cut him a thick slice, 
then 
glanced past him and the young man behind him to Maytera 
Marble, thinking she might disapprove--and abruptly recognized the young man. 
For a moment that seemed very long, he was unable to move. 
Others were moving, but their motions seemed as labored as the 
struggles of so many flies in honey. Slowly, Maytera Marble inched 
toward him, her face back-tilted in a delicate smile; evidently she 
felt as he did: palaestra tomorrow was worse than problematical. 
Slowly, the last old man bobbed his head and turned away, gums 
bared in a toothless grin. Ardently, Silk's right hand longed to 
enter 
his trousers pocket, where the gold-plated needler Doctor Crane 
had given Hyacinth awaited it; but it would have to divest itself of 
the sacrificial knife first, and that would take weeks if not years. 
	The flash of oiled metal as Musk drew his needler blended with 

the duller gleam of Maytera Marble's wrists. The report was 
drowned by the screech of a wobbling needle, unbalanced by its passage through the sleeve of Silk's robe. 
Maytera Marble's arms locked around Musk. Silk slashed at the 
hand that grasped the needler. The needler fell, and Musk shrieked. 
The old women were hurrying away  (they would call it running), 
some herding children. A small boy dashed past Silk and darted 
around the casket, reappearing with Musk's needler precariously 
clutched in both hands and ridiculously trained upon Musk himself. 
	Two insights came to Silk simultaneously. The first was that 
Villus 
might easily fire by accident, killing Musk. The second, that he, Silk, did not care. 
Musk's thumb dangled on a rag of flesh, and blood from his hand 
mingled with the white bull's. Still trying to comprehend the 
situation, Silk asked, "He sent you to do this, didn't he?" He 
pictured the flushed, perspiring face of Musk's employer vividly, 
although at that moment he could not recall his name. 
	Musk spat thick, yellow phlegm that clung to Silk's robe as 
Maytera Marble wrestled him toward the altar. Horribly, she bent 
him over the flames. Musk spat again, this time into her face, and 
struggled with such desperate strength that she was lifted off her 
feet. 
Villus asked, "Should I shoot him, Maytera?" When she did not answer, Silk shook his head. 
"This fine and living man," she pronounced slowly, "is presented
to
me, to Divine Echidna." Her hands, the bony blue-veined hands of a elderly bio, glowed crimson in the flames. "Mother of the Gods. 
Incomparable Echidna, Queen of the  _Whorl_. Fair Echidna! Smile 
upon us. Send us beasts for the chase. Great Echidna! Put forth thy green grass for our kine..." 
Musk moaned. His tunic was smoking; his eyes seemed ready to start from their sockets. 
An old woman tittered. 
Surprised, Silk looked for her and from her death's-head grin knew who watched through her eyes. "Go home, Mucor." 
	The old woman tittered again. 
"Divine Echidna!" Maytera Marble concluded. "By fire set us free." 
"Release him, Echidna," Silk snapped. 
Musk's silk tunic was burning; so were Maytera Marble's sleeves. "Release him!" 
The perverse self-forged discipline of the Orilla broke at last; 
Musk screamed and continued to scream, each pause and gasp 
followed by a scream weaker and more terrible. To Silk, tugging 
futilely at Maytera Marble's relentless arms, those screams seemed 
the creakings of the wings of death, of the black wings of High 
Hierax as he flapped down the whorl from Mainframe at the East 
Pole. 
Musk's needler spoke twice, so rapidly it seemed almost to 
stammer. Its needles scarred Maytera Marble's cheek and chin, and fled whimpering into the sky. 
"Don't," Silk told Villus. "You might hit me. It won't do any good." 
Villus started, then stared down in astonishment at the dusty black viper that had fastened upon his ankle. 
"Don't run," Silk told him, and turned to come to his aid, 
thereby saving himself. A larger viper pushed its blunt head from Maytera Marble's collar to strike at his neck, missing by two 
fingers' width. 
He jerked the first viper off Villus's ankle and flung it to one side, 
crouching to mark the punctures made by its fangs with the sign of 

addition, executed in shallow incisions with the point of the 
sacrificial knife. "Lie down and stay quiet," he told Villus. When 
Villus did, he applied his lips to the bleeding crosses. 
	Musk's screams ceased, and Maytera Marble faced them, her 
blazing habit slipping from her narrow shoulders; in each hand she 
brandished a viper. "I have summoned these children to me from the 
alleys and gardens of this treacherous city. Do you not know who I 
am?" 
The familiarity of her voice left Silk feeling that he had gone 
mad. 
He spat a mouthful of blood. 
"The boy is mine. I claim him. Give him to me." 
Silk spat a second time and picked up Villus, cradling him in his arms. "None but the most flawless may be offered to the gods. This 
boy has been bitten by a poisonous snake and so is clearly 
unsuitable." 
Twice Maytera Marble waved a viper before her face as if 
whisking away a fly. "Are you to judge that? Or am I?" Her burning habit fell to her feet. 
Silk held out Villus. "Tell me why Pas is angry with us, O Great Echidna." 
She reached for him, saw the viper she held as if for the first time, 
and raised it again. "Pas is dead and you a fool. Give me Auk." 
"This boy's name is Villus," Silk told her. "Auk was a boy like 
this 
about twenty years ago, I suppose." When she said nothing more, he added, "I knew you gods could possess bios like us. I didn't know you could possess chems as well." 
Echidna whisked the writhing viper before her face. "They are easier what mean these numbers? Why should we let you...? My 
husband..." 
"Did Pas possess someone who died?" 
Her head swiveled toward the Sacred Window. "The prime calcula... His citadel." 
"Get away from that fire," Silk told her, but it was too late.
Her
knees would no longer support her; she crumpled onto her burning habit, seeming to shrink as she fell. 
He laid Villus down and drew Hyacinth's needler. His first shot 
took a viper behind the head, and he congratulated himself; but the 
other escaped, lost in the scorching yellow dust of Sun Street. 
"You're to forget everything you just overheard," he told Villus 
as 
he dropped Hyacinth's needler back into his pocket. 
"I didn't understand anyway, Patera." Villus was sitting up, hands 
tight around his bitten leg. 
"That's well." Silk pulled her burning habit from under Maytera Marble. 
The old woman tittered. "I could kill you, Silk." She was holding 
the needler that had been Musk's much as Villus had, and aiming it 
at Silk's chest. "There's councillors at our house now. They'd like 
that." 
The toothless old man slapped the needler from her hand with his dripping slab of raw beef, saying sharply, "Don't, Mucor!" He put his foot on the needler. 
As Silk stared, he fished a gammadion blazing with gems from beneath his threadbare brown tunic. "I ought to have made my 
presence known earlier, Patera, but I'd hoped to do it in private. I'm an augur too, as you see. I'm Patera Quetzal." 
Auk stopped and looked back at the last of the bleared green lights. 
It was like leaving the city, he thought. You hated it--hated its 

nasty 
ugly ways, its noise and smoke and most of all its shaggy shitty itch 
for gelt, gelt for this and gelt for that until a man couldn't fart 
without paying. But when you rode away from it with the dark 
closing in on you and skylands you never noticed much in the city 
sort of floating around up there, you missed it right away and pulled 
up to look back at it from just about any place you could. All those 
tiny lights so far away, looking just like the lowest skylands after 
the 
market closed, over where it was night already. 
From the black darkness ahead, Dace called, "You comin'?" "Yeah. Don't get the wind up, old man." 
He still held the arrow someone had shot at Chenille; its shaft
was
bone, not wood. A couple long strips of bone, Auk decided, 
running his fingers along it for the tenth or twelfth time, scarfed 
and 
glued together, most likely strips from the shin bone of a big animal or maybe even a big man. The nock end was fletched with feathers 
of bone, but the wicked barbed point was hammered metal. 
Country people hunted with arrows and bows, he had heard, and 
you saw arrows in the market. But not arrows like this. 
	He snapped it between his hands and let the pieces fall, then 
hurried down the tunnel after Dace. "Where's Jugs?" 
	"Up front ag'in with the sojer." Dace sounded as though he was 
still some distance ahead. 
"Well, by Hierax! They almost got her the first time." 
"They very nearly killed  _me_." Incus's voice floated back through 
the darkness. "Have you forgotten  _that?_" 
"No," Auk told him, "only it don't bother me as much." 
"No care," Oreb confirmed from Auk's shoulder. 
Incus giggled. "Nor do  _you_ bother  _me_, Auk. When I sent Corporal 
Hammerstone ahead of us, my  _first_ thought was that you would 
have to accompany him. Then I realized that there was no harm in 
_your_ lagging behind. Hammerstone's task is not to  _nurse you_, but 
to 
protect  _me_ from your  _brutal_ treatment." 
"And thresh me out whenever you decide I need it." 
"Indeed. Oh,  _indeed_. But  _mercy_ and  _forbearance_ are much dearer 
to the  _immortal gods_ than sacrifice, Auk. If you wish to stay where 
you are,  _I_ will not seek to prevent you. Neither will my tall 
friend, 
who is, as we have seen, so much stronger than  _yourself_." 
"Chenille ain't stronger than me, not even now. I doubt she's much stronger than you." 
"But she possesses the best  _weapon_. She insisted for  _that_ reason. 
For my own part,  _I_ was glad to have her  _and_ her weapon near the 
_redoubtable_ corporal, and remote from  _yourself_." 
	Auk kicked himself mentally for having failed to realize that the 
launcher Chenille carried would flatten Hammerstone as effectively 
as any slug gun. Bitterly he mumbled, "Always thinking, ain't you." 
	"You refuse to call me  _Patera_, Auk? Even  _now_, you refuse me 
my 
title of respect?" 
Auk felt weak and dizzy, afraid for Chenille and even for himself; 
but he managed to say, "It's supposed to mean you're my father, like Maytera meant this teacher I used to have was my mother. Anytime 
you start acting like a father, I'll call you that." 
	Incus giggled again. "We  _fathers_ are expected to curb the 

violent 
behavior of our offspring, and to teach them--I  _do_ hope you'll 
excuse a trifling bit of vulgarity--to teach them to wipe their 
_dirty, 
snotty little noses_." 
Auk drew his hanger; it felt unaccustomedly heavy in his hand, 
but the weight and the cold, hard metal of the hilt were reassuring. Hoarsely, Oreb advised, "No, no!" 
Incus, having heard the hiss of the blade as it cleared the scabbard, called, "_Corporal!_" 
Hammerstone's voice came from a distance, echoing through the tunnel. "Right here, Patera. I started dropping back as soon as I heard you and him talking." 
"Hammerstone has no  _light_, I fear. He tells me he lost it when
he
was  _shot_. But he can see in the dark better than  _we_, Auk. Better than  _any_ biological person, in fact." 
Auk, who could see nothing in the pitch blackness, said, "I got eyes like a cat." 
"_Do_ you really. What have I in my  _hand_, in that case?" 
"My needler." Auk sniffed; there was a faint stench, as though someone were cooking with rancid fat. 
"You're guessing." Hammerstone sounded closer. "You can't see 
Patera's needler 'cause he's not holding it. You can't see my slug 
gun either, but I see you and I got it aimed at you. Try to stick 
Patera with that thing, and I'll shoot you. Put it up or I'll take it away from you and bust it." 
Faintly, Auk heard the big soldier's rapid steps. He was running, or at least trotting. 
"Bird see," the night chough muttered in Auk's ear. 
"You don't have to do that," Auk told Hammerstone. "I'm putting it up." To Oreb he whispered, "Where is he?" 
"Come back." 
"Yeah, I know. Is he as close as that shaggy butcher?" "Near men. Men wait." 
Auk called, "Hammerstone! Stop. Watch out!" 
The running steps halted. "This better be good." "How many men, bird?" 
"Many." The night chough's bill clacked nervously. "Gods too. Bad gods!" 
"Hammerstone, listen up! You can't see much better'n Patera. I know that." 
"Spit oil!" 
"Only I can. Between you and him, there's a bunch of culls, waiting quiet up against the wall. They got--" 
The sound that filled the tunnel was half snarl and half howl. It was followed by a boom from Hammerstone's slug gun, and the ring 
of a hard blow on metal. 
"Hit head," Oreb explained, and elaborated, "Iron man." 
Hammerstone fired twice in quick succession, the echoing thunder succeeded by a series of hard, flat reports and the tortured 
shriekings of ricocheting needles. 
"Get down!" Auk reached for a place where he thought Dace might be, but his hand met only air. 
A scream. Auk shouted, "I'm coming, Jugs!" and found that he was running already, sprinting sightless through darkness thicker than the darkest night, his hanger blade probing the blackness before him like a beggar's white stick. 
Oreb flapped overhead. "Man here!" 
Auk slashed wildly again and again, half crouched, still advancing, 
his left hand groping frantically for the knife in his boot. His 
blade struck something hard that was not the wall, then bit deep into 
flesh. Someone who was not Chenille yelped with pain and surprise. 

Hammerstone's slug gun boomed, close enough that the flash lit 
the vicinity like lightning: a naked skeletal figure reeled backward with half its face gone. Auk slashed again and again and again. The third slash met no resistance. 
"Man dead!" Oreb announced excitedly. "Cut good!" "Auk! Auk, help me! Help!" 
"I'm coming!" 
"Watch out!" Oreb warned,  _sotto voce_. "Iron man." "Get outta my way, Hammerstone!" 
From his left, Oreb croaked, "Come Auk." 
His blade rang upon metal. He ducked, certain Hammerstone would swing at him. Then he was past, and Oreb exclaiming from some distance, "Here girl! Here Auk! Big fight!" 
"Auk! Get him off me!" 
A new voice nearly as harsh as Oreb's demanded, "Auk? Auk from the Cock?" 
"Shag yes!" 
"Pas piss. Wait a minute." 
Auk halted. "Jugs, you all right?" There was no reply. 
Someone moaned, and Hammerstone fired again. Auk yelled, 
"Don't fight unless they do, anybody. Old man, where are you?" 
His own fighting frenzy had drained away, leaving him weaker and sicker than ever. "Jugs?" 
Oreb seconded him. "Girl say. All right? No die?" 
"No! I'm not all right." Chenille gasped for breath. "He hit me 
with 
something, Auk. He knocked me down and tried to... You know. 
Get it free. I'm pretty beat up, but I'm still alive, I guess." 
The darkness faded, as sudden as shadeup and as faint. A dozen 
stades along the tunnel, one of the crawling lights was slowly 
rounding a corner. As Auk watched fascinated, it came into full 
view, a gleaming pinprick that rendered plain all that had been 
concealed. 
Chenille was sitting up some distance away. Seeing Auk, the 
naked, starved-looking man standing over her raised both hands 
and backed off. Auk went to her and tried to help her up, 
discovering  (just as Silk had a moment before) that his hand was 
encumbered by his knife. Gritting his teeth against pain that seemed about to tear his head to bits, he stooped and returned the knife to his boot. 
"He grabbed my launcher in the dark. Hit me with a club or something." 
Examining her scalp in the dim light, Auk decided the dark 
splotch was a bleeding bruise. "You're shaggy lucky he didn't kill you." 
The naked man smirked. "I could of. I wasn't tryin' to." 
"I ought to kill you," Auk told him. "I think I will. Go get your launcher, Jugs." 
Behind Auk, Incus said, "He intended to take her by  _force_, I 
dare 
say. I warned her on that  _very_ point. To force any woman is wrong, 
my son. To force yourself upon a  _prophetess_--" Striding forward, 
the 
little augur leveled Auk's big needler. "I  _too_ am of half a mind to 
kill 
you, for  _Scylla's_ sake. 
"Patera got both gods," Hammerstone announced proudly. "A couple of you meatheads, too." 
"Wait up, Patera. We got to talk to him." Auk indicated the naked 
man by a jab of his gory hanger. "What's your name?" 
	"Urus. Look, Auk, we used to be a dimber knot. Remember that 
sweatin' ken? You went in through the back while I kept the street 
for you." 

"Yeah. I remember you. You got the pits. That was--" Auk tried to think, but found only pain. 
"Only a couple months ago, 'n I got lucky." Urus edged closer, 
hands supplicating. "If I'd of knowed it was you, Auk, this whole lay 
would of gone different. We'd of helped you, me 'n my crew. Only I 
never had no way to know, see? This cully Gelada, all he said was 
her 'n him." He indicated Chenille and Incus by quick gestures. "A 
tall piece out of the piece pit 'n a runt cull with her, see, Auk? He 
never said nothin' about no sojer. Nothin' about you. Soon's I 
twigged the sojer walkin', I was fit to beat hoof, only by then he 
was 
goin' back." 
Chenille began, "How come--" 
"Because you ain't got anything on, Jugs." Auk sighed. "They take their clothes before they shove 'em in. I thought everybody knew 
that. Sit down. You too, Patera, Hammerstone. Old man, you coming?" 
	Oreb added his own throaty summons. "Old man!" 
There was no reply from the ebbing darkness. 
"Sit down," Auk told them again. "We're all tired out--shaggy Hierax knows I am--and we've probably got a long way to go before we find dinner or a place to sleep. I got a few questions for Urus here. Most likely the rest of you got some too." 
"_I_ do, certainly." 
"All right, you'll get your chance." Auk seated himself gingerly
on
the cold floor of the tunnel. "First, I ought to tell you that what 
he 
said's lily, but it don't mean a lot. I know maybe a hundred culls I can trust a little, only not too much. Before they threw him in the pits, he used to be one of 'em, and that's all it ever was." 
Incus and Hammerstone had sat down together as he spoke; 
cautiously, Urus sat, too, after receiving a permissive nod. 
Auk leaned back, his eyes shut and his head spinning. "I said 
everybody'd get their chance. I only got this one first, then the 
rest 
of you can go ahead. Where's Dace, Urus?" 
	"Who's that?" 
"The old man. We had a old man with us, a fisherman. His name's Dace. You do for him?" 
"I didn't do for anybody." Urus might have been a league away. 
Hammerstone's voice: "Why'd they throw you in the pit?" Chenille's: 
"That doesn't matter now. What are you doing here, that's 
what I want to know. You're supposed to be in a pit, and you 
thought I'd been in one. Was it no clothes, like Auk said?" Incus: 
"My son, I have been  _considering_ this. You could  _hardly_ have 
foreseen that I, an augur, would be  _armed_." "I didn't even know you 
was one. That cully Gelada, he said there was this long mort, and a 
little cull with her. That's all we knew when we started pullin' 
lights 
down." "It was this  _Gelada_ who shot the bone arrow at  _me_, I take 
it." 
"Not at you, Patera. At her. She had a launcher, he said, so he shot, 
only he missed. He's got this bow pasted up out of bones, only he's 
not as good with it as he thinks. Auk, all I want's to get out, see? 
You take me up, anyplace, 'n that's it. I'll do anythin' you say." 
"I was wondering," Auk murmured. 
Incus: "I  _fired_ twenty times at least. There were  _beastly animals_, 
and  _men_ as well." Chenille: "You could've killed all of us, you 
know 
that? Just shooting Auk's needler like that in the dark. That was 
abram." Hammerstone: "Not me." "If I had  _not_, my daughter, I might 
very well have died  _myself_. Nor was I firing at  _random_. I  _knew!_ 
Though I might as well have been  _blind_. That was  _wonderful_. Truly 

_miraculous. Scylla_ must have been at my side. They  _rushed_ upon me 
to kill me, all of them, but  _I_ killed  _them_ instead." 
	Auk opened his eyes to squint into the darkness behind them. 
"They killed Dace, maybe. I dunno. In a minute I'm going to see." 
	Chenille prepared to rise. "You feel awful, don't you? I'll go." 
	"Not now, Jugs. It's still dark back there. Urus, you said your 
 culls 
took down lights. That was to make a dark stretch here so you could get behind us, right?" 
"That's it, Auk. Getada got up on my shoulders to pull four down, 'n Gaur run them on back. They spread out lookin' for dark. You 
know about that?" 
Auk grunted. 
"Only they don't go real fast. So we figured we'd wait flat to
the
side till you went by. Her, I mean, 'n this runt augur cully. That's 
all 
we figured there was." "And jump on me from in back!" "What'd you 
of done?"  (Auk sensed, though he could not see, Urus's outspread 
hands.) "You shot a rocket at Gelada. If it hadn't been for the bend, you coulda done for our whole knot." "Bad man!"  (That was Oreb.) 
	Auk opened his eyes once more. "Three or four, anyhow. 
Hammerstone, didn't you say something about a couple animals 
Patera shot?" 
"Tunnel gods," Hammerstone confirmed. "Like dogs, like I told you, only not nice like dogs." 
"I got to go back," Auk muttered. "I got to see what's happened
to
the old man, and I want to have a look at these gods. Urus, you're one, and I did for one, so that makes two. Hammerstone says Patera got a couple, that's four. Anybody else do for any?" 
Hammerstone: "Me. One. And one Patera'd shot was still flopping around, so I shot him again." 
"Yeah, I think I heard that. So that's five. Urus, don't give me clatter, I'm telling you. How many'd you have?" 
"Six, Auk, 'n the two bufes." 
"Counting you?" 
"That's right, countin' me, 'n that's the lily word." 
"I'm going back there," Auk repeated, "soon as the lights get there 
and I feel better. Anybody that wants to come with me, that's all 
right. Anybody that wants to go on, that's all right, too. But I'm 
going to look at the gods and see about Dace." He closed his eyes 
again. 
"Good man!" 
"Yeah, bird, he was." Auk waited for someone to speak, but no one did. "Urus, they threw you in the pits. Do they really throw them? I always wondered." 
"Only if you get their backs up. If you don't, you can ride down
in
the basket."
"That's how they feed you? Put your slum in this basket and let
it
down?" 
"'N water jars, sometimes. Only mostly we got to catch our own when it rains." 
"Keep talking." 
"It ain't as bad as you think. Anyhow mine ain't. Mostly we get 
along, see? 'N the new ones comin' in are stronger." 
	"Unless they get thrown. They'd have broken legs and so forth, I 
guess" 
"That's lily, Auk." 
"Then you kill 'em right off and eat 'em while they're still fat?" 

Someone  (Incus, Auk decided) gasped. 
"Not all the time, 'n that's lily. Not if it's somebody that somebody 
knows. We wouldn't of et you, see." 
"So you got stuck in a pit, riding down in this basket, and you're a 
bully cull, or used to be. Found out they'd been digging, didn't 
you?" Auk opened his eyes, resolving to keep them open. 
	"That's it. They meant to dig out, see? Over till they fetched 
the 
big wall, then down underneath, deep as they had to. Ours is about 
the deepest, see? One of the real old 'uns 'n one that's near the 
wall. 
They'd dig with bones, two culls at once, 'n more carryin' it out in their hands. The rest'd watch for Hoppy 'n tramp it down when it 
was scattered 'round. They told me all about it." 
	Hammerstone asked, "You hit this tunnel when you went to go 
under the wall?" 
Urus nodded eagerly. "They did, that's the right of it. They told 
me. And the shiprock--it's shiprock there, it is in lots of place--it 
was cracked, see? 'N they scraped the dirt out, hopin' to get 
through, 'n saw the lights. They got wild then, that's what they 
said. 
So they fetched rocks 'n chipped away at the shiprock, just a 
snowflake, like, for your wap, fill you can wiggle through." 
Incus grinned, exposing his protruding teeth more than ever. "I 
_begin_ to comprehend your plight, my son. When you had  _accessed_ 
these horrid tunnels, you found yourself  _unable_ to reach the 
_surface_. 
Is that not correct? The fact of the matter?  _Pas's_ justice on you?" 
	"Yeah, that's it, Patera." With an ingratiating grimace, Urus 
leaned toward Incus, appearing almost to abase himself. "Only look 
at it, Patera. You shot a couple friends of mine just a minute ago, 
didn't you? You didn't lend 'em no horse to Mainframe, did you?" 
	Incus shook his head, plump cheeks quivering. "I thought it best 
to let the gods judge for  _themselves_ in this instance, my son. As I would in  _yours_, as well." 
"All right, I was fixin' to kill you. That's lily, see? I'm not tryin' to 
bilk you over it. Only now you 'n me ought to forget about all that, see Patera? Put it right behind us like what Pas'd want us to do. So how about it?" Urus held out his hand. 
"My son, when you possess such a needler as  _this_, I shall consent 
to a truce  _gladly_." 
Auk chuckled. "How far you gone, Urus? Looking for a way out?" 
"Pretty far. Only there's queer cheats in these tunnels, see? 'N there's various ones, too. Some's full of water, or there's cave-ins. Some ends up against doors." 
Chenille said, "I can tell you something about the doors, Hackum, next time we're alone." 
"That's the dandy, Jugs. You do that." Painfully, Auk clambered 
to his feet. Seeing that the blade of his hanger was still fouled 
with 
blood, he wiped it on the hem of his tunic and sheathed it. "Things 
in 
these tunnels, huh? What kinds of things?" 
"There's sojers like him down this way." Urus pointed to 
Hammerstone. "They'll shoot if they see you, so you got to keep listenin' 
for 'em. That was how I knowed he was a sojer in the dark, see? 
They don't make much noise, not even when they're marchin', but 
they don't sound like you 'n me, neither, 'n sometimes you can hear 
when their guns hit up against 'em. Then there's bufes, what he calls 

gods, 'n they can be devils. Only this cull Eland caught a couple little 'uns 'n kind of tamed 'em, see? We had 'em with us. There's big machines, sometimes, too. Some's tall asses, only not all. Some won't row you if you don't rouse 'em." 
"That all?" 
"All I ever seen, Auk. There's stories 'bout ghosts 'n things, but I 
don't know." 
"All right." Auk turned to address Incus, Hammerstone, and 
Chenille. "I'm going to go back there and have a look for Dace, like I said." 
He strolled slowly along the tunnel toward the lingering darkness, 
not stopping until he reached the point at which the men and beasts shot by Incus lay. Squatting to examine them more closely, he 
contrived to glance toward the group he had left. No one had 
followed him, and he shrugged. "Just you and me, Oreb." 
	"Bad things!" 
"Yeah, they sure are. He called 'em bufes, but a bufe's a 
watchdog, and Hammerstone was right. These ain't real dogs at all." 
	A crude bludgeon, a stone lashed with sinew to a fire-blackened 
bone, lay near one of the convicts Incus had shot. Auk picked it up 
to look at, then tossed it away, wondering how close the man had 
gotten to Incus before he fell. If Incus had been killed, he, Auk, 
would have gotten his needler back. But what might Hammerstone 
have done? 
He examined more curiously the one he had cut down with his 
hanger. He had stolen the hanger originally, had worn it largely for show, had sharpened it once only because he used it now and then 
to cut rope or prize open drawers, had taken two lessons from 
Master Xiphias out of curiosity; now he felt that he possessed a 
weapon he had never known was his. 
The radiance of the creeping lights was noticeably dimmer here;
it
would be some time before the section in which he had left the old fisherman was well lit. He drew his hanger and advanced cautiously. "You sing out if you see anything, bird." 
"No see." 
"But you can see in this, can't you? Shag, I can see, too. I just can't see good." 
"No men." Oreb snapped his bill and fluttered from Auk's right shoulder to his left. "No things." 
"Yeah, I don't see much either. I wish I could be sure this was
the
spot." 
Most of all, he wished that Chenille had come. Bustard was 
walking beside him, big and brawny; but it was not the same. If 
Chenille had not cared enough to come, there was no point going--no point in anything. 
How'd you get yourself into this, sprat, Bastard wanted to know. "I dunno," Auk muttered. "I forget." 
Give me the pure keg, sprat. You want me to window you out? If I'm going to help, I got to know. 
"Well, I liked him. Patera, I mean. Patera Silk. I think the 
Ayuntamiento got him. I thought, well, I'll go out to the lake 
tonight, meet 'em in Limna, and they'll be glad to see me for the gelt, for a dimber dinner and drinks, and maybe a couple uphill rooms for us after. He won't touch her, he's a augur--" 
"Bad talk!" 
"He's a augur, and she'll have a couple with her dinner and feel 
like she owes me for it and the ring, owes for both, and it'll be 
nice." 
What'd I tell you about hooking up with some dell, sprat? 
"Yeah, sure, brother. Whatever you say. Only then he was gone 

and she was fuddled, and I got hot and lumped her and went looking. 
Only 
everybody say's he's going to be calde, the new calde--Patera. That would be somebody to know, if he pulls it off." 
"Girl come!" 
Never mind that. So now you're going back here, back the way we come, for this Silk butcher? 
"Yeah, for Silk, because he'd want me to. And for him, too, for Dace, the old man that owned our boat." 
You've snaffled a sackful like him. You don't even have his shaggy boat. 
"Patera'd want me to, and I liked him." This much? 
"Hackum? Hackum!" 
He's waitin', you know. That buck Gelada's waitin' for us in the dark next to the old man's body, sprat. He had a bow. Didn't any of em back there have no bow. 
"Girl come," Oreb repeated. 
Auk swung around to face her. "Stand clear, Jugs!" 
"Hackum, there's something I've got to tell you, but I can't yell 
it." 
"He can see us, Jugs. Only we can't see him. Not even the bird
can
see him from here where it's brighter, looking into the dark. Where's your launcher?" 
"I had to leave it with Stony. Patera didn't want me to go. I think 
he thought I might try to kill them with it once I got off a ways." 
	Auk glanced to his right, hoping to consult Bustard; but Bustard 
had gone. 
"So I said, we're not going to do anything like that. We don't 
hate 
you. But he said you did." 
Auk shook his head, the pain there a crimson haze. "He hates me, maybe. I don't hate him." 
"That's what I told him. He said very well my daughter--you 
know how he talks--leave  _that_ with us, and I shall believe you. So 
I 
did. I gave it to Stony." 
"And came after me without it to tell me about the shaggy doors." 
	"Yes!" She drew nearer as she spoke. "It's important, really 
 important, Hackum, and I don't want that cully that knocked me 
down to hear it." 
"Is it about what the tall ass said?" Chenille halted, dumbfounded. 
"I heard, Jugs. I was right there behind you, and doors are my business. Doors and windows and walls and roofs. You think I'd 
miss that?" 
She shook her head. "I guess not." 
"I guess not, too. Stay back where you'll be safe." He turned away, 
hoping she had not seen how sick and dizzy he was; the darkening 
tunnel seemed to spin as he stared into its black maw, a pinwheel 
that had burned out, or the high rear wheel of a deadcoach, all 
ebony and black iron, rolling down a tarred road to nowhere. "I 
know you're in there, Gelada, and you got the old man with you. 
You listen here. My name's Auk, and I'm a pal of Urus's. I'm not 
here for a row. Only I'm a pal of the old man's, too." 
His voice was trailing away. He tried to collect such strength as remained. "What we're going to do pretty soon now, we're going to 
go back to your pit with Urus." 
"Hackum!" 
"Shut up." He did not bother to look at her. "That's 'cause I can get you through one of these iron doors down here that you can't 

solve. I'm going to talk to 'em in your pit. I'm going to say anybody that wants out, you come with me and I'll get you out. Then we'll go to that door and I'll open it, and we'll go on out. Only that's it. I ain't coming back for anybody." 
He paused, waiting for some reply. Oreb's bill clacked nervously. 
	"You and the old man come here and you can come with us. Or let 
 him go and head back to the pit yourself, and you can come along 
with the rest if you want to. But I'm going to look for him." 
	Chenille's hand touched his shoulder, and he started. 
	"You in this, Jugs?" 
She nodded and put her arm through his. They had taken perhaps a hundred more steps into the deepening darkness when an arrow 
whizzed between their heads; she gasped and held him more tightly 
than ever. 
"That's just a warning," he told her. "He could have put it in us
if
he'd wanted to. Only he won't, because we can get him out and he can't get out himself." 
He raised his voice as before. "The old man's finished, ain't he, 
Gelada? I got you. And you think when I find out, it's all in the 
tub. 
That's not how it'll be. Everything I said still goes. We got a augur 
with us, the little cull you saw with Jugs here when you shot at her. 
Just give us the old man's body. We'll get him to pray over it and 
maybe bury it somewhere proper, if we can find a place. I never 
knew you, but maybe you knew Bustard, my brother. Buck that 
nabbed the gold Molpe Cup? You want us to fetch Urus? He'll cap 
for me." 
Chenille called, "He's telling the truth, Gelada, really he is. I don't think you're here any more, I think you ran off down the 
tunnel. That's what I'd have done. But if you are, you can trust 
Auk. You must have been down in the pit a real long time, because 
everybody in the Orilla knows Auk now." 
"Bird see!" Oreb muttered. 
Auk walked slowly into the deepening twilight of the tunnel. "He got his bow?" 
"Got bow!" 
"Put it down, Gelada. You shoot me, you're shooting the last chance you'll ever get." 
"Auk?" The voice from the darkness might have been that of 
Hierax himself, hollow and hopeless as the echo from a tomb. "That your name? Auk?" 
"That's me. Bustard's brother. He was older than me." "You got a needler? Lay it down." 
"I don't have one." Auk sheathed his hanger, pulled off his tunic, 
and dropped it to the tunnel floor. With uplifted arms, he turned in 
a complete circle. "See? I got the whin, and that's all I got." He 
drew 
his hanger again and held it up. "I'm leaving it right here on my gipon. You can see Jugs don't have anything either. She left her launcher back there with the soldier." Slowly he advanced into the darkness, his hands displayed. 
There was a sudden glimmer a hundred paces up the tunnel. "I got 
a darkee," Gelada called. "Burns bufe drippin's." 
	He puffed the flame again, and this time Auk could hear the soft 
exhalation of his breath, "I should've figured," he muttered to 
Chenille. 
"We don't like to use 'um much." Gelada stood, a stick figure not much taller than Incus. "Keep 'um shut up mostly. Wick 'bout 
snuffed. Culls bring 'um down 'n leave 'um." 
When Auk, walking swiftly through the dark, said nothing, he repeated, "Burn drippin's when the oil's gone." 
	"I was thinking you'd make 'em out of bones," Auk said 

conversationally. "Maybe twist the wicks out of hair." He was close now, near 
enough to see Dace's shadowy body lying at Gelada's feet. 
"We do that sometimes, too. Only hair's no good. We braid 'urn out o' rags." 
Auk halted beside the body. "Got him back there, didn't you? His kicks are messed some." 
"Dragged 'im far as I could. "E's a grunter." 
Auk nodded absently. Silk had once told him, as the two had sat 
at dinner in a private room in Viron, that Blood had a daughter, and 
that Blood's daughter's face was like a skull, was like talking to a 
skull though she was living and Bustard was dead  (Bustard whose 
face really was a skull now) was not like that. Her father's face, 
Blood's flabby face, was not like that either, was soft and red and 
sweating even when he was saying that this one or that one must 
pay. 
But this Gelada's too was a skull, as if he and not Blood were
the
mort Mucor's father, was as beardless as any skull or nearly, the 
grayish white of dirty bones even in the stinking yellow light of the dark lantern--a talking cadaver with a little round belly, elbows 
bigger than its arms, and shoulders like a towel horse, the dark 
lantern in its hand and its small bow, like a child's bow, of bone 
wound with rawhide, lying at its feet, with an arrow next to it, with Dace's broad-bladed old knife next to that, and Dace's old head, the old cap it always wore gone, his wild white hair like a crone's and the clean white bones of his arm half-cleaned of flesh and whiter 
than his old eyes, whiter than anything. 
"You crank, Auk?" 
"Yeah, a little." Auk crouched beside Dace's body. 
"Had the shiv on 'im." Stooping swiftly, Gelada snatched it up. "I'm keepin' it." 
"Sure." The sleeve of Dace's heavy, worn blue tunic had been cut away, and strips cut from his forearm and upper arm. Oreb hopped 
from Auk's shoulder to scrutinize the work, and Auk warned him, 
"Not your peck." 
"Poor bird!" 
"Had a couple bits, too. You can have 'um when you get me out." "Keep 'em. You'll need 'em up there." 
From the corner of his eye, Auk saw Chenille trace the sign of addition. "High Hierax, Dark God, God of Death..." 
	"He show much fight?" 
"Not much. Got behind 'im. Got my spare string 'round 'is neck. There a art to that. You know Mandrill?" 
"Lit out," Auk told him without looking up. "Palustria's what I heard." 
"My cousin. Used to work with 'im. How 'bout Elodia?" 
"She's dead. You, too." Auk straightened up and drove his knife into the rounded belly, the point entering below the ribs and 
reaching upward for the heart. 
Gelada's eyes and mouth opened wide. Briefly, he sought to 
grasp Auk's wrist, to push away the blade that had already ended his life. His dark lantern fell clattering to the naked shiprock with Dace's old knife, and darkness rushed upon them. 
"Hackum!" 
Auk felt Gelada's weight come onto the knife as Gelada's legs 
went limp. He jerked it free and wiped the blade and his right hand on his thigh, glad that he did not have to look at Gelada's blood at that moment, or meet a dead man's empty, staring eyes. 
"Hackum, you said you wouldn't hurt him!" "Did I? I don't remember." 
"He wasn't going to do anything to us." 
She had not touched him, but he sensed the nearness of her, the 
female smell of her loins and the musk of her hair. "He'd already 

done it, Jugs." He returned his knife to his boot, located Dace's 
body with groping fingers, and slung it across his shoulders. It felt no heavier than a boy's. "You want to bring that darkee? Could be 
good if we can figure away to light it." 
Chenille said nothing, but in a few seconds he heard the tinny rattle of the lantern. 
"He killed Dace. That'd be enough by itself, only he ate him 
some, too. That's why he didn't talk at first. Too busy chewing. He knew we'd want the old man's body, and he wanted to fill up." 
	"He was starving. Starving down here." Chenille's voice was 
barely above a whisper. 
"Sure. Bird, you still around?" 
"Bird here!" Feathers brushed Auk's fingers; Oreb was riding atop Dace's corpse. 
"If you were starving, you might have done the same thing, Hackum." 
Auk did not reply, and she added, "Me, too, I guess." 
"It don't signify, Jugs." He was walking faster, striding along ahead of her. 
"I don't see why not!" 
"Because I had to. He'd have done it too, like I said. We're going 
to the pit. I told him so." 
"I don't like that, either." Chenille sounded as though she were about to weep. 
"I got to. I got too many friends that's been sent there, Jugs.
If
some's in this pit and I can get 'em out, I got to do it. And 
everybody in the pit's going to find out. Maybe Patera wouldn't tell 'em, if I asked nice. Maybe Hammerstone wouldn't. Only Urus 
would for sure. He'd say this cull, he did for a pal of Auk's and ate him, too, and Auk never done a thing. When I got 'em out, it'd be 
all over the city." 
A god laughed behind them, faintly but distinctly, the meaningless, 
humorless laughter of a lunatic; Auk wondered whether 
Chenille had heard it. "So I had to. And I did it. You would've too, in my shoes." 
The tunnel was growing lighter already. Ahead, where it was 
brighter still, he could see Incus, Hammerstone, and Urus still 
seated on the tunnel floor, Hammerstone with Chenille's launcher 
across his steel lap, Incus telling his beads, Urus staring back up 
the 
tunnel toward them. 
"All right, Hackum." 
Here were his hanger and his tunic. He laid down Dace's corpse, sheathed the hanger, and put on his tunic again. 
	"Man good!" Oreb's beak snapped with appreciation. 
	"You been eating off him? I told you about that." 
	"Other man," Oreb explained. "My eyes." 
	Auk shrugged. "Why not?" 
"Let's get out of here. Please, Hackum." Chenille was already several steps ahead. 
He nodded and picked up Dace. 
"I've got this bad feeling. Like he's still alive back there or something." 
"He ain't." Auk reassured her. 
As they reached the three who had waited, Incus pocketed his 
beads. "I would gladly have brought the  _Pardon of Par_ to our late comrade. But his spirit has  _flown_." 
"Sure," Auk said. "We were just hoping you'd bury him, Patera, if we can find a place." 
"It's  _Patera_ now?" 
"And before. I was saying Patera before. You just didn't notice, 

Patera." 
"Oh, but I  _did_, my son." Incus motioned for Hammerstone and 
Urus to rise. "I would do what I  _can_ for our unfortunate comrade in any case. Not for your sake, my son, but for  _his_." 
	Auk nodded. "That's all we're asking, Patera. Gelada's dead. 
Maybe I ought to tell everybody." 
Incus was eyeing Dace's body. "You cannot bear such a weight _far_, my son. Hammerstone will have to carry him, I suppose." 
	"No," Auk said, his voice suddenly hard. "Urus will. Come're, 
Urus. Take it." 

Chapter  4  -- The Plan of Pas 

"I'm sorry you did that, Mucor," Silk said mildly. 
The old woman shook her head. "I wasn't going to kill you. But I could've." 
"Of course you could." 
Quetzal had picked up the needler; he brushed it with his fingers, 
then produced a handkerchief with which to wipe off the white bull's blood. The old woman turned to watch him, her eyes widening as 
her death's-head grin faded. 
"I'm sorry, my daughter," Silk repeated. "I've noticed you at 
sacrifice now and then, but I don't recall your name." 
	"Cassava." She spoke as though in a dream. 
	He nodded solemnly. "Are you ill, Cassava?" 
	"I..." 
"It's the heat, my daughter." To salve his conscience, he added, 
"Perhaps. Perhaps it's the heat, in part at least. We should get you 
out of the sun and away from this fire. Do you think you can walk, 
Villus?" 
"Yes, Patera." 
Quetzal held out the needler. "Take this, Patera. You may need it." It was too large for a pocket; Silk put it in his waistband 
beneath 
his tunic, where he had carried the azoth. "Farther back, I think," 
Quetral told him. "Behind the point of the hip. It will be safer 
there 
and just as convenient." 
"Yes, Your Cognizance." 
"This boy shouldn't walk." Quetzal picked up Villus. "He has 
poison in his blood at present, and that's no little thing, though we may hope there's only a little poison. May I put him in your manse, Patera? He should be lying down, and this poor woman, too." 
"Women are not--but of course if Your Cognizance--" 
"They are with my permission," Quetzal told him. "I give it. I 
also 
permit you, Patera, to go into the cenoby to fetch a sibyl's habit. Maytera here," he glanced down at Maytera Marble, "may regain 
consciousness at any moment. We must spare her as much embarrassment as we can." With Villus over his shoulder, he took 
Cassava's arm. "Come with me, my daughter. You and this boy will have to nurse each other for a while." 
Silk was already through the garden gate. He had never set foot
in
the cenoby, but he thought he had a fair notion of its plan: sellaria, 
refectory, kitchen, and pantry on the lower floor; bedrooms  (four at least, and perhaps as many as six) on the upper floor. Presumably 
one would be Maytera Marble's, despite the fact that Maytera 
Marble never slept. 
As he trotted along the graveled path, he recalled that the altar 

and Sacred Window were still in the middle of Sun Street. They 
should be carried back into the manteion as soon as possible, 
although that would take a dozen men. He opened the kitchen door 
and found himself far from certain of even that necessity. Pas was 
dead--no less a divine personage than Echidna had declared it--and 
he, Silk, could not imagine himself sacrificing to Echidna again, or 
so much as attending a sacrifice honoring her. Did it actually 
matter, 
save to those gods, if the altar of the gods or the Window through which they so rarely condescended to communicate were ground 
beneath the wheels of dung carts and tradesmen's wagons? 
	Yet this was blasphemy. He shuddered. 
The cenoby kitchen seemed almost familiar, in part, he decided, because Maytera Marble had often mentioned this stove and this 
woodbox, these cupboards and this larder; and in part because it was, although cleaner, very much like his own. 
Upstairs he found a hall that was an enlarged version of the 
landing at the top of the stair in the manse, with three faded pictures 
decorating its walls Pas, Echidna, and Tartaros bringing gifts of 
food, progeny, and prosperity  (here mawkishly symbolized by a 
bouquet of marigolds) to a wedding; Scylla spreading her beautiful 
unseen mantle over a traveler drinking from a pool in the southern 
desert; and Molpe, perfunctorily disguised as a young woman of the 
upper classes, approving a much older and poorer woman's feeding 
pigeons. 
Momentarily he paused to examine the last. Cassava might, he 
decided, have posed for the old woman; he reflected bitterly that 
the flock she fed could better have fed her, then reminded himself 
that in a sense they had--that the closing years of her life were 
brightened by the knowledge that she, who had so little left to give, could still give something. 
A door at the end of the hall was smashed. Curious, he went in. 
The bed was neatly made and the floor swept. There was water in a 
ewer on the nightstand, so this was certainly Maytera Mint's room 
or Maytera Rose's, or perhaps the room in which Chenille had spent 
Scylsday night. An icon of Scylla's hung on the wall, much darkened 
by the votive lamps of the small shrine before it. And here was--yes 
what appeared to be a working glass. This was Maytera Rose's 
room, surely. Silk clapped, and a monitor's bloodless face appeared 
in its gray depths. 
"Why has Maytera Rose never told me she had this glass?" Silk demanded. 
"I have no idea, sir. Have you inquired?" "Of course not!" 
"That may well be the reason, sir." 
"If you--" Silk rebuked himself, and found that he was smiling. What was this, compared to the death of Doctor Crane or Echidna's theophany? He must learn to relax, and to think. 
When the manteion had been built, a glass must have been 
provided for the use of the senior sibyl as well as the senior augur; 
that was natural enough, and in fact praiseworthy. The senior 
augur's glass, in what was now Patera Gulo's room, was out of order 
and had been for decades; this one, the senior sibyl's, was still 
functioning, perhaps only because it had been less used. Silk ran his 
fingers through his disorderly yellow hair. "Are there more glasses 
in 
this cenoby, my son?" 
	"No, sir." 
He advanced a step, wishing that he had a walking stick to lean upon. "In this manteion?" 
"Yes, sir. There is one in the manse, sir, but it is no longer summonable." 
Silk nodded to himself. "I don't suppose you can tell me whether 

the Alambrera has surrendered?" 
Immediately the monitor's face vanished, replaced by the turreted building and its flanking walls. Several thousand people were 
milling before the grim iron doors, where a score of men attempted to batter their way in with what seemed to be a building timber. As Silk watched, two Guardsmen thrust slug guns over the parapet of a turret on the right and opened fire. 
Maytera Mint galloped into view, her black habit billowing about her, looking no bigger than a child on the broad back of her mount. 
She gestured urgently, the newfound silver trumpet that was her 
voice apparently sounding retreat, although Silk could not 
distinguish 
her words; the terrible discontinuity that was the azoth's blade sprang from her upraised hand, and the parapet exploded in a 
shower of stones. 
"Another view," the monitor announced smoothly. 
From a vantage point that appeared to be fifteen or twenty cubits above the street, Silk found himself looking down at the mob before 
the doors; some turned and ran; others were still raging against the 
Alambrera's stone and iron. The sweating men with the timber 
gathered themselves for a new assault, but one fell before they 
began it, his face a pulpy mask of scarlet and white. 
	"Enough," Silk said. 
The monitor returned. "I think it safe to say, sir, that the 
Alambrera has not surrendered. If I may, I might add that in my 
judgement it is not likely to do so before the arrival of the relief force, sir." 
"A relief force is on the way?" 
"Yes, sir. The First Battalion of the Second Brigade of the Civil 
Guard, sir, and three companies of soldiers." The monitor paused. "I 
cannot locate them at the moment, sir, but not long ago they were 
marching along Ale Street. Would you care to see it?" 
	"That's all right. I should go." Silk turned away, then back. 
"How 
were you--there's an eye high up on a building on the other side of Cage Street, isn't there? And another over the doors of the 
Alambrera?" 
"Precisely, sir." 
"You must be familiar with this cenoby. Which room is Maytera Marble's?" 
"Less so than you may suppose, sir. There are no other glasses in this cenoby, sir, as I told you. And no eyes save mine, sir. However, from certain remarks of my mistress's, I infer that it may be the 
second door on the left, sir." 
"By your mistress you mean Maytera Rose? Where is she?" 
"Yes, sir. My mistress has abandoned this land of trials and 
sorrows for a clime infinitely more agreeable, sir. That is to say, 
for 
Mainframe, sir. My lamented mistress has, in short, joined the assembly of the immortal gods." 
"She's dead?" 
"Precisely so, sir. As to the present whereabouts of her remains, 
they are, I believe, somewhat scattered. This is the best I can do, 
sir." 
The monitor's face vanished again, and Sun Street sprang into 
view: the altar  (from which Musk's fire-blackened corpse had 
partially fallen); and beyond it, Maytera Marble's naked metal 
body, sprawled near a coffin of softwood stained black. 
"Those were her final rites," Silk muttered to himself. "Maytera Rose's last sacrifice. I never knew." 
"Yes, sir, I fear they were." The monitor sighed. "I served her
for
forty-three years, sir, eight months, and five days. Would you care 
to view her as she was in life, sir? Or the last scene it was my 

pleasure to display to her? As a species of informal memorial, sir? 
It 
may console your evident grief, sir, if I may be so bold." 
Silk shook his head, then thought better of it. "Is some god prompting you, my son? The Outsider, perhaps?" 
	"Not that I'm aware of, sir. 
"Last Phaesday I encountered a very cooperative monitor," Silk explained. "He directed me to his mistress's weapons, something that I wouldn't--in retrospect--have supposed a monitor would 
normally do. I have since concluded that he had been ordered to assist me by the goddess Kypris." 
"A credit to us all, sir." 
"He would not say so, of course. He had been enjoined to silence. Show me that scene, the last your mistress saw." 
The monitor vanished. Choppy blue water stretched to the 
horizon; in the mid-distance, a small fishing boat ran close-hauled under a lowering sky. A black bird  (Silk edged closer) fluttered in the rigging, and a tall woman, naked or neariy so, stood beside the helmsman. A movement of her left hand was accompanied by a 
faint crimson flash. 
Silk stroked his cheek. "Can you repeat the order Maytera Rose gave you that led you to show her this?" 
"Certainly, sir. It was, 'Let's see what that slut Silk foisted on us is 
doing now.' I apologize, sir, as I did to my mistress, for the meager 
image of the subject. There was no nearer point from which to 
display it, and the focal length of the glass through which I viewed 
it 
was at its maximum." 
Hearing Silk's approach, Maytera Marble turned away from the 
Window and tried to cover herself with her new hands. With averted 
eyes, he passed her the habit he had taken from a nail in the wall of her room, saying, "It doesn't matter, Maytera. Not really." 
	"I know, Patera. Yet I feel... There, it's on." 
	He faced her and held out his hand. "Can you stand up?" 
	"I don't know, Patera. I--I was about to try when you came. 
 Where is everyone?" Harder than flesh, her fingers took his. He 
heaved with all his strength, reawakening the half-healed wounds 
left by the beak of the white-headed one. 
Maytera Marble stood, almost steadily, and endeavored to shake the dust from her long, black skirt, murmuring, "Thank you, Patera. Did you get--? Thank you very much." 
He took a deep breath. "I'm afraid you must think I've acted 
improperly. I should explain that His Cognizance the Prolocutor 
personally authorized me to enter your cenoby to bring you that. 
His Cognizance is here; he's in the manse at the moment, I believe." 
	He waited for her to speak, but she did not. 
"Perhaps if you got out of the sun." 
She leaned heavily on his arm as he led her through the arched 
gateway and the garden to her accustomed seat in the arbor. 
In a voice not quite like her own, she said, "There's something I should tell you. Something I should have told you long ago." 
	Silk nodded. "There's something I should have told you long ago, 
too, Maytera--and something new that I must tell you now. Please 
let me go first; I think that will be best." 
It seemed she had not heard him. "I bore a child once, Patera. A son, a baby boy. It was... Oh, very long ago." 
"Built a son, you mean. You and your husband." 
She shook her head. "Bore him in blood and pain, Patera. Great Echidna had blinded me to the gods, but it wasn't enough. So I 
suffered, and no doubt he suffered, too, poor little mite, though he had done nothing. We nearly died, both of us." 
Silk could only stare at her smooth, metal face. 

"And now somebody's dead, upstairs. I can't remember who. It will come to me in a moment. I dreamt of snakes last night, and I hate snakes. If I tell you now, I think perhaps I won't have that dream again." 
"I hope not, Maytera," he told her. And then, "Think of something else, if you can." 
"It was... Was not an easy confinement. I was forty, and had 
never borne a child. Maytera Betel was our senior then, an excellent woman. But fat, one of those people who lose nothing when they 
fast. She became horribly tired when she fasted, but never thinner." 
	He nodded, increasingly certain that Maytera Marble was possessed 
again, and that he knew who possessed her. 
"We pretended I was becoming fat, too. She used to tease me 
about it, and our sibs believed her. I'd been such a small woman before." 
Watching carefully for her reaction, Silk said, "I would have 
carried you, Maytera, if I could; but I knew you'd be too heavy for me to lift." 
She ignored it. "A few bad people gossiped, but that was all. 
Then 
my time came. The pains were awful. Maytera had arranged for a 
woman in the Orilla to care for me. Not a good woman, Maytera 
said, but a better friend in time of need than many good women. 
She told me she'd delivered children often, and washed her hands, 
and washed me, and told me what to do, but it would not come 
forth. My son. He wouldn't come into this world, though I pressed 
and pressed until I was so tired I thought I must die." 
	Her hand--he recognized it now as Maytera Rose's--found his. 
Hoping it would reassure her, he squeezed it as hard as he could. 
	"She cut me with a knife from her kitchen that she dipped in 
boiling water, and there was blood everywhere. Horrible! Horrible! 
A doctor came and cut me again, and there he was, covered with my 
blood and dripping. My son. They wanted me to nurse him, but I 
wouldn't. I knew that she'd blinded me, Ophidian Echidna had 
blinded me to the gods for what I'd done, but I thought that if I 
didn't nurse it she might relent and let me see her after all. She 
never has." 
Silk said, "You don't have to tell me this, Maytera." 
"They asked me to name him, and I did. They said they'd find a family that wanted a child and would take him, and he'd never find out, but he did, though it must have taken him a long while. He 
spoke to Marble, said she must tell me he'd bought it, and his name. When I heard his name, I knew." 
Silk said gently, "It doesn't matter any more, Maytera. That was long ago, and now the whole city's in revolt, and it no longer 
matters. You must rest. Find peace." 
"And that is why," Maytera Marble concluded. "Why my son 
Bloody bought our manteion and made all this trouble." 
The wind wafted smoke from the fig tree to Silk's nose, and he sneezed. 
"May every god bless you, Patera." Her voice sounded normal again. 
"Thank you," he said, and accepted the handkerchief she offered. 
	"Could you bring me water, do you think? Cool water?" 
	As sympathetically as he could, he told her, "You can't drink 
 water, Maytera." 
"Please? Just a cup of cool water?" 
He hurried to the manse. Today was Hieraxday, after all; no 
doubt she wished him to bless the water for her in Hierax's name. Later she would sprinkle it upon Maytera Rose's coffin and in the corners of her bedroom to prevent Maytera's spirit from troubling her again. 
Cassava was sitting in the kitchen, in the chair Patera Pike had 
used at meals. Silk said, "Shouldn't you lie down, my daughter? It 

would make you feel better, I'm sure, and there's a divan in the sellaria." 
She stared at him. "That was a needler, wasn't it? I gave you a needler. Why'd I have a thing like that?" 
"Because someone gave it to you to give me." He smiled at her. 
"I'm going to the Alambrera, you see, and I'll need it." He worked 
the pump-handle vigorously, letting the first rusty half-bucketful 
drain away, catching the clear, cold flood that followed in a 
tumbler, 
and presenting it to Cassava. "Drink this, please, my daughter. It should make you feel better." 
"You called me Mucor," she said. "Mucor." She set the untasted tumber on the kitchen table and rubbed her forehead. "Didn't you call me Mucor, Patera?" 
"I mentioned Mucor, certainly; she was the person who gave you 
the needler to give to me." Studying her puzzled frown, Silk decided 
it would be wise to change the subject. "Can you tell me what has 
become of His Cognizance and little Villus, my daughter?" 
	"He carried him upstairs, Patera. He wanted him to lie down, like 
you wanted me." 
"Doubtless he'll be down shortly." Silk reflected that the 
Prolocutor had probably intended to bandage Villus's leg, and lost 
some 
time searching for medical supplies. "Drink that water, please. I'm sure it will make you feel better." He filled a second tumbler and carried it outside. 
Maytera Marble was sitting in the arbor just as he had left her. Pushing aside the vines, he handed her the tumbler, saying, "Would you like me to bless this for you, Maytera?" 
"It won't be necessary, Patera." 
Water spilled from the lip; rills laced her fingers, and rain 
panered upon the black cloth covering her metal thighs. She smiled. 
	"Does that make you feel better?" he asked, 
"Yes, much better. Much cooler, Patera. Thank you." 
"I'll be happy to bring you another, if you require it." 
She stood. "No. No, thank you, Patera. I'll be all right now, I think." 
"Sit down again, Maytera, please. I'm still worried about you,
and
I have to talk to you." 
Reluctantly, she did. "Aren't there others hurt? I seem to 
remember others--and Maytera Rose, her coffin," 
Silk nodded. "That's a part of what I must talk to you about. Fighting has broken out all over the city." 
She nodded hesitantly. "Riots." 
"Rebellion, Maytera. The people--some at least--are rising 
against the Ayuntamiento. There won't be any burials for several 
days, I'm afraid; so when you're feeling better, you and I must carry Maytera's coffin into the manteion. Is it very heavy?" 
	"I don't think so, Patera." 
"Then we should be able to manage it. But before we go, I ought 
to tell you that Villus and an old woman named Cassava are in the 
manse with His Cognizance. I can't stay here, nor will he be able to, 
I'm sure; so I intend to ask him to allow you to enter to care for 
them." 
Maytera Marble nodded. 
"And our altar and Window are still out in the street. I doubt 
that 
it will be possible for you to get enough help to move them back inside until the city is at peace. But if you can, please do." 
	"I certainly will, Patera." 
"I want you to stay and look after our manteion, Maytera. 
Maytera Mint's gone; she felt it her duty to lead the fighting, and 
she answered duty's call with exemplary courage. I'll have to go 

soon as well. People are dying--and killing others--to make me 
calde, and I must put a stop to that if I can." 
"Please be careful, Patera. For all our sakes." 
"Yet this manteion is still important, Maytera. Terribly 
important."  (Doctor Crane's ghost laughed aloud in a corner of Silk's mind.) "The Outsider told me so, remember? Someone must care 
for it, and there's no one left but you." 
Maytera Marble's sleek metal head bobbed humbly, oddly 
mechanical without her coif. "I'll do my best, Patera." 
"I know you will." Refilled his lungs. "I said there were two things 
I had to tell you. You may not recall it, but I did. When you began 
to speak, I found there were a great many more. Now I must tell you 
those two, and then we'll carry Maytera into the manteion, if we 
can. The first is something I should have said months ago. Perhaps I 
did; I know I've tried. Now I believe--I believe it's quite likely I 
may be killed, and I must say it now, or be silent forever." 
	"I'm anxious to hear it, Patera." Her voice was soft, her metal 
mask expressionless and compassionate; her hands clasped his, hard 
and wet and warm. 
"I want to say--this is the old thing--that I could never have stood 
it here if it hadn't been for you. Maytera Rose and Maytera Mint tried to help, I know they did. But you have been my right arm, Maytera. I want you know that." 
Maytera Marble was staring at the ground. "You're too kind, Patera." 
"I've loved three women. My mother was the first. The third..." 
He shrugged. "It doesn't matter. You don't know her, and I doubt 
that I'll ever see her again." A pillar of swirling dust rose above 
the 
top of the garden wall, to be swept away in a moment. 
"The second thing, the new one, is that I can't remain the sort 
of 
augur I've been. Pas--Great Pas, who ruled the whole Whorl like a 
father--is dead, Maytera. Echidna herself told us. Do you remember 
that?" 
Maytera Marble said nothing. 
"Pas built our whorl, as we learn from the Writings. He built it,
I
believe, to endure for a long, long time, but not to endure 
indefinitely in his absence. Now he's dead, and the sun has no 
master. I believe that the Fliers have been trying to tame it, or 
perhaps only trying to heal it. A man in the market told me once 
that his grandfather had spoken of them, saying their appearance 
presaged rain; so all my life, and my mother's, and her parents', 
too, 
have been lived under their protection, while they wrestled the sun." 
	Silk peered through the wilting foliage overhead at the dwindling 
golden line, already narrowed by the shade. "But they've failed, 
Maytera. A flier told me yesterday, with what was almost his final 
breath. I didn't understand then; but I do now, or at least I believe 
I 
may. Something happened in the street that made it unmistakable. 
Our city, and every other, must help if it can, and prepare for worse times than we've ever known." 
Quetzal's tremulous old voice came from outside the arbor. 
"Excuse me, Patera. Maytera." The wilting vines parted, and he 
stepped inside. "I overheard what you said. I couldn't help it, it's 
so 
quiet. You'll pardon me, I hope?" 
"Of course, Your Cognizance." Both rose. 
"Sit down, my daughter. Sit, please. May I sit beside you, Patera? 

Thank you. Everyone's hiding indoors, I imagine, or gone off to 
join the fighting. I've been upstairs in your manse, Patera, and I 
looked out your window. There isn't a cart in the street, and you can hear shooting." 
Silk nodded. "A terrible thing, Your Cognizance." 
"It is, as I overheard you say earlier, Patera. Maytera, you are, from all I've heard and read in our files, a woman of sound sense. A 
woman outstanding for that valuable quality, in fact. Viron's at war 
with itself. Men and women, and even children, are dying as we 
speak. They call us butchers for offering animal blood to the gods, 
though they're only animals and die quickly for the highest of 
purposes. Now the gutters are running with wasted human blood. If 
we're butchers, what will they call themselves when it's over?" He 
shook his head. "Heroes, I suppose. Do you agree?" 
	Maytera Marble nodded mutely. 
"Then I ask you, how can it be ended? Tell me, Maytera. Tell us both. My coadjutor fears my humor, and I myself fear at times that I overindulge it. But I was never more serious." 
She muttered something inaudible. 
"Louder, Maytera." 
"Patera Silk must become our calde." 
Quetzal leaned back in the little rustic seat. "There you have
it.
Her reputation for good sense is entirely justified, Patera Calde." 
	"Your Cognizance!" 
Maytera Marble made Quetzal a seated bow. "You're too kind, Your Cognizance." 
"Maytera. Suppose I maintain that yours isn't the only solution. 
Suppose I say that the Ayuntamiento has governed us before and 
can govern us again. We need only submit. What's wrong with that?" 
	"There'd be another rebellion, Your Cognizance, and more riots." 
Maytera Marble would not meet Silk's eyes. "More fighting, new 
rebellions every few years until the Ayuntamiento was overthrown. 
I've watched discontent grow for twenty years, Your Cognizance, 
and now they're killing, Patera says. They'll be quicker to fight 
next 
time, and quicker again until it never really stops. And--and..." 
	"Yes?" Quetzal motioned urgently. "Tell us." 
"The soldiers will die, Your Cognizance, one by one. Each time 
the people rise, there will be fewer soldiers." 
	"So you see." His head swung about on its wrinkled neck as he 
spoke to Silk. "Your supporters must win, Patera Calde. Stop 
wincing when I call you that, you've got to get used to it. They 
must, 
because only their victory will bring Viron peace. Tell Loris and the rest they can save their lives by surrendering now. Lemur's dead, 
did you know that?" 
Swallowing, Silk nodded. 
"With Lemur gone, a few smacks of your quirt will make the rest trot anywhere you want. But you must be calde, and the people 
must see you are." 
"If I may speak, Your Cognizance?" 
"Not to tell me that you, an anointed augur, will not do what I, your Prolocutor, ask you to, I trust." 
"You've been Prolocutor for many years, Your Cognizance. Since 
long before I was born. You were Prolocutor in the days of the last calde." 
Quetzal nodded. "I knew him well. I intend to know you better, Patera Calde." 
"I was a child when he died, Your Cognizance, a child just 
learning to walk. A great many things must have happened then that 
I've never heard of. I mention it to emphasize that I'm asking out of ignorance. If you would prefer not to answer, no more will be said about the matter." 

Quetzal nodded. "If it were Maytera here inquiring, or your 
acolyte, let's say, or even my coadjutor, I might refuse exactly as you suggest. I can't imagine a question asked by our calde that I wouldn't feel it was my duty to answer fully and clearly, however. What's troubling you?" 
Silk ran his fingers through his hair. "When the calde died, Your Cognizance, did you--did anyone--protest the Ayuntamiento's 
decision not to hold an election?" 
Quetzal nodded, as if to himself, and passed a trembling hand 
across his hairless scalp, a gesture similar to Silk's yet markedly 
different. "The short answer, if I intended nothing more than a 
short answer, would be yes. I did. So did various others. You 
deserve more than a short answer, though. You deserve a 
complete explanation. In the meantime, that lucky young man's 
body lies half consumed on the altar. I saw it from your window. 
You indicate that you're not inclined to plead your office to 
excuse disobedience. Will you follow me into the street and help 
me do what can be done there? When we're finished, I'll answer 
you fully." 
Crouched behind the remaining wall of a fire-gutted shop, Maytera 
Mint studied her subordinates' faces. Zoril looked fearful, Lime 
stunned, and the big, black-bearded man  (she found she had 
forgotten his name, if she had ever heard it) resolute. "Now, then," she said. 
Why it's just like talking to the class, she thought. No different at 
all. I wish I had a chalkboard, 
"Now then, we've just had news, and it's bad news, I don't intend to deny that. But it isn't unexpected news. Not to me, and I hope to none of you. We've got Guards penned up in the Alambrera, where 
they're supposed to pen up other people." 
She smiled, hoping they appreciated the irony. "Anyone would 
expect that the Ayuntamiento would send its people help. Certainly 
I expected it, though I hoped it wouldn't be quite so prompt. But 
it's 
come, and it seems to me that we can do any of three things." She 
held up three fingers. "We can go on attacking the Alambrera, 
hoping we can take it before they get here." One finger down. "We 
can withdraw." Another finger down. "Or we can leave the Alambrera 
as it is and fight the reinforcements before they can get inside." 
The last finger down. "What do you suggest, Zoril?" 
	"If we withdraw, we won't be doing what the goddess said for us 
to." 
The black-bearded man snorted. 
"She told us to capture the Alambrera and tear it down," Maytera Mint reminded Zoril. "We've tried, but we haven't been able to. 
What we've got to decide, really, is should we go on trying until 
we're interrupted? Or rest awhile until we feel stronger, knowing 
that they'll be stronger too? Or should we see to it that we're not 
interrupted. Lime?" 
She was a lank woman of forty with ginger-colored hair that 
Maytera Mint had decided was probably dyed. "I don't think we can 
think  _only_ about what the goddess said. If she just wanted it torn 
down, she could have done it herself. She wants us to do it." 
	Maytera Mint nodded. "I'm in complete agreement." 
	"We're mortals, so we've got to do it as mortals." Lime gulped. 
 "I 
don't have as many people following me as the rest of you, and most of mine are women." 
"There's nothing wrong with that," Maytera Mint assured her. "So 
am I. So is the goddess, or at least she's female like us. We know 
she's Pas's wife and seven times a mother. As for your not having 
lots of followers, that's not the point. I'd be happy to listen to 

somebody who didn't have any, if she had good, workable ideas." 
	"What I was trying to say--" A gust of wind carried dust and 
smoke into their council; Lime fanned her face with one long, flat 
hand. "Is most of mine don't have much to fight with. Just kitchen 
knives, a lot of them. Eight, I think it is, have needlers, and 
there's 
one who runs a stable and has a pitchfork." 
	Maytera Mint made a mental note. 
"So what I was going to say is they're feeling left out. Discouraged, 
you know?" 
Maytera Mint assured her that she did. 
"So if we go home, I think some will stay there. But if we can 
beat 
these new Hoppies that're coming, they could get slug guns. They'd feel better about themselves, and us, too." 
"A very valid point." 
"Bison here--" 
Maytera Mint made another note: "Bison" was clearly the blackbearded 
man; she resolved to use his name whenever she could until it was fixed in her memory. 
"Bison thinks they won't fight. And they won't, not the way he 
wants them to. But if they had slug guns, they'd shoot all day if you told them to, Maytera. Or if you told them to go someplace and 
Hoppies tried to stop them." 
"You're for attacking the relief column, Lime?" Lime nodded. 
Bison said, "She's for it as long as somebody else does the 
fighting. I'm for it, too, and we'll do the fighting." 
	"The fighting among ourselves, you mean, Bison?" Maytera Mint 
shook her head. "That sort of fighting will never bring back the 
Charter, and I'm quite sure it isn't what the goddess intended. But 
you're in favor of attacking the relief column? Good, so am I! I'm 
not sure I know what Zoril wants, and I'm not sure he knows. Even 
so, that's a clear majority. Where would you suggest we attack it, 
Bison?" 
He was silent, fingering his beard. 
"We'll lose some stragglers. I realize that. But there are steps
we
can take to keep from losing many, and we might pick up some new people as well. Zoril?" 
"I don't know, Maytera. I think you ought to decide." 
"So do I, and I will. But it's foolish to make decisions without listening to advice, if there's time for it. I think we should attack right here, when they reach the Alambrera." 
Bison nodded emphatically. 
"In the first place, we don't have much time to prepare, and that will give us the most." 
Bison said, "People are throwing stones at them from the rooftops. 
The messenger told us that, too, remember? Maybe they'll kill 
a few Hoppies for us. Let's give them a chance." 
"And perhaps some of their younger men will come over to us. 
We ought to give them as much opportunity as we can to do that." 
Inspired by the memory of games at the palaestra, she added, 
"When somebody changes sides, it counts twice, one more for us and 
one fewer for them. Besides, when they get here the Guards in the 
Alambrera will have to open those big doors to let them in." Their 
expressions showed that none of them had thought of that, and she 
concluded, "I'm not saying that we'll be able to get inside 
ourselves. 
But we might. Now them, how are we going to attack?" 
"Behind and before, with as many men as we can," Bison rumbled. 

Lime added, "We need to take them by surprise, Maytera." 
"Which is another reason for attacking here. When they get to the Alambrera, they'll think they've reached their goal. They may relax a little. That will be the time for us to act." 
"When the doors open." Bison drove a fist into his palm. "Yes, I think so. What is it, Zoril?" 
"I shouldn't say this. I know what everybody's going to think,
but
they've been shooting down on us from the walls and the high 
windows. Just about everybody we've lost, we've lost like that." He waited for contradiction, but there was none. 
"There's buildings across the street as high as the wall, Maytera, 
and one just a little up the street that's higher. I think we ought 
to 
have people in there to shoot at the men on the wall. Some of mine that don't have needlers or slug guns could be on the roofs, too, throwing stones like the messenger talked about. A chunk of 
shiprock falling that far ought to hit as hard as a slug, and these Hoppies have got armor." 
Maytera Mint nodded again. "You're right. I'm putting you in 
charge of that. Get some people--not just your own, some of the 
older boys and girls particularly--busy right away carrying stones 
and bricks up there. There must be plenty around after the fires. 
	"Lime, Your women are no longer fighters unless they've got 
needlers or slug guns. We need people to get our wounded out of 
the fight and take care of them. They can use their knives or 
whatever they have on anyone who tries to interfere with them. And 
that woman with the pitchfork? Go get her. I want to talk to her." 
	A fragment of broken plaster caught Maytera Mint's eye. "Now, 
Bison, look here." Picking it up, she scratched two widely spaced 
lines on the fire-blackened wall behind her. "This is Cage Street." 
With speed born of years of practice, she sketched in the Alambrera 
and the buildings facing it. 
There was still a good deal of cedar left, and the fire on the altar 
had 
not quite gone out. Silk heaped fresh wood on it and let the wind fan it for him, sparks streaking Sun Street. 
Quetzal had taken charge of Musk's corpse, arranging it decently beside Maytera Rose's coffin. Maytera Marble, who had gone to the cenoby for a sheet, had not yet returned. 
"He was the most evil man I've ever known." Silk had not 
intended to speak aloud, but the words had come just the same. 
"Yet I can't help feeling sorry for him, and for all of us, as well, because he's gone." 
Quetzal murmured, "Does you credit, Patera Calde," and wiped 
the blade of the manteion's sacrificial knife, which he had rescued from the dust. 
Vaguely, Silk wondered when he had dropped it. Maytera Rose 
had always taken care of it, washing and sharpening it after each sacrifice, no matter how minor; but Maytera Rose was gone, as 
dead as Musk. 
After he had cut the sign of addition in Villas's ankle, of course, 
when he had knelt to suck out the poison. 
When he had met Blood on Phaesday, Blood had said that he had 
promised someone--had promised a woman--that he would pray at 
this manteion for her. Suddenly Silk knew  (without in the least 
understanding how he knew) that the "woman" had been Musk. Was 
Musk's spirit lingering in the vicinity of Musk's body and prompting 
him in some fashion? Whispering too softly to be heard? Silk traced 
the sign of addition, knowing that he should add a prayer to 
Thelxiepeia, the goddess of magic and ghosts, but unable to do so. 

Musk had bought the manteion for Blood with Blood's money; 
and Musk must have felt, in some deep part of himself that all his evil actions had not killed, that he had done wrong--that he had by his purchase offended the gods. He had asked Blood to pray for 
him, or perhaps for them both, in the manteion that he had bought; and Blood had promised to do it. 
Had Blood kept his promise? 
"If you'd help with the feet, Patera Calde?" Quetzal was standing at the head of Maytera Rose's coffin. 
"Yes, of course, Your Cognizance. We can carry that in." 
Quetzal shook his head. "We'll lay it on the sacred fire, Patera Calde. Cremation is allowed when burial is impractical. If you 
would...?" 
Silk picked up the foot of the coffin, finding it lighter than he
had
expected. "Shouldn't we petition the gods, Your Cognizance? On her behalf?" 
"I already have, Patera Calde. You were deep in thought. Now 
then, as high as you can, then quickly down upon the fire. Without dropping it, please. One, two,  _three!_" 
Silk did as he was told, then stepped hurriedly away from the lengthening flames. "Possibly we ought to have waited for Maytera, Your Cognizance." 
Quetzal shook his head again. "This way is better, Patera Calde.
It
would be better for you to keep from looking at the fire, too. Do you know why coffins have that peculiar shape, by the way? Look at me, Patera Calde." 
"To allow for the shoulders, Your Cognizance, or so I've heard." 
Quetzal nodded. "That's what everyone's told. Would this sibyl of 
yours need extra room for her shoulders? Look at me, I said." 
	Already the thin, stained wood was blackening honestly, charring 
as the flames that licked it brought forth new flames. "No," Silk 
said, 
and looked away again.  (It was strange to think that this bent, bald old man was in fact the Prolocutor.) "No, Your Cognizance. Nor 
would most women, or many men." 
There was a stench of burning flesh. 
"They do it so that we, the living, will know at which end the 
head 
lies, when the lid's on. Coffins are sometimes stood on end, you see. Patera!" 
Silk's gaze had strayed to the fire again. He turned away and covered his eyes. 
"I would have saved you that if I could," Quetzal told him, and Maytera Marble, arriving with the sheet, inquired, "Saved him from what, Your Cognizance?" 
"Saved me from seeing Maytera Rose's face as the flames 
consumed it," Silk told her. He rubbed his eyes, hoping that she would think he had been rubbing them before, that he had gotten smoke in them. 
She held out one end of the sheet. "I'm sorry I took so long, Patera. I--I happened to see my reflection. Then I looked for 
Maytera Mint's mirror. My cheek is scratched." 
Silk took corners of the sheet in tear-dampened fingers; the wind tried to snatch it from him, but he held it fast. "So it is, Maytera. How did you do it?" 
"I have no idea!" 
To his surprise, Quetzal lifted Musk's half-consumed body easily. Clearly, this venerable old man was stronger than he appeared. 
"Spread it flat and hold it down," he told them. "We'll lay him on it and fold it over him." 
A moment more, and Musk, too, rested among the flames. 

"It's our duty to tend the fire until both have burned. We don't have to watch, and I suggest we don't." Quetzal had positioned 
himself between Silk and the altar. "Let us pray privately for the repose of their spirits." 
Silk shut his eyes, bowed his head, and addressed himself to the 
Outsider, without much confidence that this most obscure of gods 
heard him or cared about what he said, or even existed. 
	"_And yet I know this_."  (His lips moved, although no sound 
issued 
from them.) "_You are the only god for me. It is better for me that I 
should give you all my worship, though you are not, than that I 
should worship Echidna or even Kypris, whose faces l have seen. 
Thus I implore your mercy on these, our dead. Remember that I, 
whom once you signally honored, ought to have loved them both but 
could not, and so failed to provide the impetus that might have 
brought them to you before Hierax claimed them. Mine therefore is 
the guilt for any wrong they have done while they have known me. I 
accept it, and pray you will forgive them, who burn, and forgive me 
also, whose fire is not yet lit. Obscure Outsider, be not angry with 
us, 
though we have never sufficiently honored you. All that is outcast, 
discarded, and despised is yours. Are this man and this woman, who 
have been neglected by me, to be neglected by you as well? Recall the 
misery of our lives and their deaths. Are we never to find rest? I 
have 
searched my conscience, Outsider, to discover that in which l have 
displeased you. I find this: That I avoided Maytera Rose whenever I 
could, though she might have been to me the grandmother I have 
never known; and that I hated Musk, and feared him too, when he 
had not done me the least wrong. Both were yours, Outsider, as I 
now see; and for your sake I should have been loving with both. I 
renounce my pride, and I will honor their memories. This I swear. 
My life to you, Outsider, if you will forgive this man and this woman whom we burn today_." 
Opening his eyes he saw that Quetzal had already finished, if he 
had ever prayed. Soon Maytera Marble raised her head as well, and 
he inquired, "Would Your Cognizance, who knows more about the 
immortal gods than anyone else in the whorl, instruct me regarding 
the Outsider? Though he's enlightened me, as I informed your 
coadjutor, I would be exceedingly grateful if you could tell me 
more." 
"I have no information to give, Patera Calde, regarding the 
Outsider or any other god. What little I have learned in the course of a long life, regarding the gods, I have tried to forget. You saw Echidna. After that, can you ask me why?" 
"No, Your Cognizance." Silk looked nervously at Maytera Marble. 
"I didn't, Your Cognizance. But I saw the Holy Hues and heard her voice, and it made me wonderfully happy. I remember that she exhorted all of us to purity and confirmed Scylla's patronage, nothing else. Can you tell me what else she said?" 
	"She told your sib to overthrow the Ayuntamiento. Let that be 
enough for you, Maytera, for the present." 
"Maytera Mint? But she'll be killed!" 
Quetzal's shoulders rose and fell. "I think we can count on it, 
Maytera. Before Kypris manifested here on Scylsday, the Windows 
of our city had been empty for decades. I can't take credit for that, 
it 
wasn't my doing. But I've done everything in my power to prevent theophanies. It hasn't been much, but I've done what I could. I proscribed human sacrifice, and got it made law, for one thing. I admit I'm proud of that." 
He turned to Silk. "Patera Calde, you wanted to know if I 
protested when the Ayuntamiento failed to hold an election to 

choose a new calde. You were right to ask, more right than you knew. If a new calde had been elected when the last died, we wouldn't have had that visit from Echidna today." 
"If Your Cognizance--" 
"No, I want to tell you. There are many things you have to know as calde, and this is one. But the situation wasn't as simple as you may think. What do you know about the Charter?" 
"Next to nothing, Your Cognizance. We studied when I was a boy--
that 
is to say, our teacher read it to us and answered our questions. I was ten, I think." 
Maytera Marble said, "We're not supposed to teach it now. It was dropped from all the lesson plans years ago." 
"At my order," Quetzal told them, "when even mentioning it 
became dangerous. We have copies at the Palace, however, and I've 
read it many times. It doesn't say, Patera Calde, that an election 
must be held on the death of the calde, as you seem to believe. What 
it really says is that the calde is to hold office for life, that he 
may 
appoint his successor, and that a successor is to be elected if he 
dies 
without havmg done it. You see the difficulty?" 
Uneasily, Silk glanced up and down the street, seeing no one near enough to overhear. "I'm afraid not, Your Cognizance. That sounds 
quite straightforward to me." 
"It does  _not_ say that the calde must announce his choice, you'll notice. If he wants to keep it secret, he can do it. The reasons are 
so obvious I hesitate to explain them." 
Silk nodded. "I can see that it would put them both in an uncomfonable position." 
"In a very dangerous one, Patera Calde. Partisans of the successor 
might assassinate the calde, while those who'd hoped to become 
calde would be tempted to murder the successor. When the last 
calde's will was read, it was found to designate a successor. I 
remember the exact wording. It said, 'Though he is not the son of 
my body, my son will succeed me.' What do you make of that?" 
	Silk stroked his cheek. "It didn't name this son?" 
	"No. I've given you the entire clause. The calde had never 
 married, as I should have told you sooner. As far as anybody knew, 
he had no sons." 
Maytera Marble ventured, "I never knew about this, Your Cognizance. Didn't the son tell them?" 
"Not that I know of. It's possible he did and was killed secretly
by
Lemur or one of the other councillors, but I doubt it." Quetzal 
selected a long cedar split and poked the sinking fire. "If they'd 
done 
that, I'd have heard about it by this time. Probably much sooner. No public announcement was made, you understand. If there'd been 
one, pretenders would have put themselves forward and made 
endless trouble. The Ayuntamiento searched in secret. To be frank, 
I doubt that the boy would have lived if they'd found him." 
	Silk nodded reluctantly. 
"If it had been a natural son, they could've used medical tests.
As
it was, the only hope was turn up a record. The monitors of every 
glass that could be located were queried. Old documents were read 
and reread, and the calde's relatives and associates interrogated, 
all 
without result. An election should have been held, and I urged one 
repeatedly because I was afraid we'd have a theophany from Scylla 
unless something was done. But an election would have been illegal, 

as I had to admit. The calde had designated his successor. They simply couldn't find him." 
"Then I'll have no right to office if it's forced on me." 
"Hardly. In the first place, that was a generation ago. It's likely 
the adopted son's dead if he ever existed. In the second, the Charter was written by the gods. It's a document expressing their will 
regarding our governance nothing more. It's clear they're displeased with the present state of things, and you're the only 
alternative, as Maytera told you." 
Quetzal handed the sacrificial knife to Maytera Marble. "I think 
we can go now, Maytera. You must stay. Watch the fire until it goes 
out. When it does, carry the ashes into your manteion and dispose 
of them as usual. You may notice bones or teeth among them. Don't 
touch them, or treat them differently from the rest of the ashes in 
any way." 
Maytera Marble bowed. 
"Purify the altar as usual. If you can get people to help you, take it 
back into the manteion. Your Sacred Window, too." 
She bowed again. "Patera has already instructed me to do so, Your Cognizance." 
"Fine. You're a good sensible woman, Maytera, as I said. I was 
glad to see that you had resumed your coif when you went back to 
your cenoby. You've my permission to enter the manse. There's an 
old woman there. I think you'll find she's well enough to go home. 
There's a boy on one of the beds upstairs. You can leave him there 
or carry him into your cenoby to nurse, if that will be more 
convenient. See to it that he doesn't exert himself, and that he drinks a lot of water. Get him to eat, if you can. You might cook some of this meat for him." 
Quetzal turned to Silk. "I want to look in on him again, Patera, 
while Maytera's busy with the fire. I'm also going to borrow a spare 
robe I saw up there, your acolyte's, I suppose. It looked too short 
for you, but it should fit me, and when we meet the rebels--perhaps 
we should call them servants of the Queen of the Whorl, some such. 
When we meet them, it may help if they know who I am as well as 
who you are." 
Silk said, "I feel certain Patera Gulo would want you to have anything that can be of any assistance whatsoever to you, Your 
Cognizance." 
As Quetzal tottered away, Maytera Marble asked, "Are you going 
to help Maytera Mint, Patera? You'll be in frightful danger, both of you. I'll pray for you." 
"I'm much more worried about you than about myself," Silk told 
her. "More, even, than I am about her--she must be under 
Echidna's protection, in spite of what His Cognizance said." 
	Maytera Marble lifted her head in a slight, tantalizing smile. 
"Don't fret about me. Maytera Marble's taking good care of me." 
Unexpectedly, she brushed his cheek with warm metal lips. "If you 
should see my boy Bloody, tell him not to worry either. I'll be all 
right." 
"I certainly will, Maytera." Silk took a hasty step back. "Good-
bye, 
Maytera Rose. About those tomatoes--I'm sorry, truly sorry about everything. I hope you've forgiven me." 
"She passed away yesterday, Patera. Didn't I tell you?" "Yes," Silk mumbled. "Yes, of course." 
Auk lay on the floor of the tunnel. He was tired--tired and weak 
and dizzy, he admitted to himself. When had he slept last? Dayside 
on Molpsday, after he'd left Jugs and Patera, before he went to the 
lake, but he'd slept on the boat a dog's right before the storm. Her 
and the butcher had been tired, too, tireder than him though they 

hadn't been knocked on the head. They'd helped in the storm, and 
Dace was dead. Urus hadn't done anything, would kill him if he got 
the chance. He pictured Urus standing over him with a bludgeon 
like the one he had seen, and sat up and stared around him. 
	Urus and the soldier were talking quietly. The soldier called, 
"I'm 
keeping an eye out. Go back to sleep, trooper." 
Auk lay down again, though no soldier could be a friend to 
somebody like him, though he'd sooner trust Urus though he didn't trust Urus at all. 
What day was it? Thelxday. Phaesday, most likely. Grim Phaea, 
for food and healing. Grim because eating means killing stuff to eat, and it's no good pretending it don't. Stuff like Gelada'd killed Dace with his bad arm and the string around his neck. That's why you 
ought to go to manteion once in a while. Sacrifice showed you, 
showed the gray ram dying and its blood thrown in the fire, and 
poor people thanking Phaea or whatever god it was for "this good 
food." Grim because healing hurts more than dying, the doctor cuts 
you to make you well, sets the bone and it hurts. Dace said a bone in his head was broken, was cracked or something, he was cracked for 
sure and it was probably true because he got awful dizzy sometimes, 
couldn't see good sometimes, even stuff right in front of him. A 
white ram, Phaea, if I get over this. 
It should've been a black ram. He'd promised Tartaros a black 
ram, but the only one in the market had cost more than he had, so 
he'd bought the gray one. That was before last time, before Kypris had promised them it'd be candy, before the ring for Jugs, the 
anklet for Patera. It had been why his troubles started, maybe, 
because his ram had been the wrong color. They dyed those black 
rains anyhow... 
Up the tree and onto the roof, then in through the attic window, but 
he was dizzy, dizzy and the tree already so high its top touched the 
shade, brushed the shaggy shade with dead leaves rustling, rustling, 
and the roof higher, Urus whistling, whistling from the corner 
because the Hoppies were practically underneath this shaggy tree 
now. 
He stood on a limb, walked out on it watching the roof sail away 
with all the black peaked roofs of Limna as the old man's old boat 
put out with Snarling Scylla at the helm, Scylla up in Jugs's head 
not 
taking up room but pulling her strings, jerking her on reins, digging 
spurred heels in, Spurred Scylla a gamecock spurring Jugs to make 
her trot. A little step and another and the roof farther than ever, 
higher than the top of the whole shaggy tree and his foot slipped 
where Gelada's blood wet the slick silvery bark and he fell. 
He woke with a start, shaking. Something warm lay beside him, 
dose but not quite touching. He rolled over, bringing his legs up 
under her big soft thighs, his chest against her back, an arm around her to warm her and it, cupping her breast. "By Kypris, I love you, Jugs I'm too sick to shag you, but I love you. You're all the woman I'll ever want." 
She didn't talk, but there'd been a little change in her breathing, 
so he knew she wasn't asleep even if she wanted him to think so. 
That was dimber by him, she wanted to look at it and he didn't 
blame her, wouldn't want a woman who wouldn't look because a 
woman like that got you nabbed sooner or later even if she didn't 
mean to. 
Only he'd looked at it already, had looked all that he'd ever need to while he was rolling over. And he slept beside her quite 
content. 

"I shocked you, Patera Calde. I know I did. I could see it in your face. My eyes aren't what they were, I'm afraid. I'm no longer good at reading expressions. But I read yours." 
"Somewhat, Your Cognizance." Together, they were walking up a 
deserted Sun Street, a tall young augur and a stooped old one 
side-by-side, Silk taking a slow step for two of Quetzal's lame and unsteady ones. 
"Since you left the schola, Patera Calde, since you came to this quarter, you've prayed that a god would come to your Window, 
haven't you? I feel sure you have. All of you do, or nearly all. Who did you hope for? Pas or Scylla?" 
"Scylla chiefly, Your Cognizance. To tell the truth, I scarcely 
thought about the minor gods then. I mean the gods outside the 
Nine--no god is truly minor, I suppose. Scylla seemed the most 
probable. It was only on Scylsdays that we had a victim, for one 
thing; and she's the patroness of the city, after all." 
	"She'd tell you what to do, which was what you wanted." Quetzal 
squinted up at Silk with a toothless smile he found disconcerting. 
"She'd fill your cash box, too. You could fix up those old buildings, 
buy books for your palaestra, and sacrifice in the grand style every 
day." 
Reluctantly, Silk nodded. 
"I understand. Oh, I understand. It's perfectly normal, Patera 
Calde. Even commendable. But what about me? What about me, 
not wanting gods to come at all? That isn't, is it? It isn't, and 
it's 
bothering you." 
Silk shook his head. "It's not my place to judge your acts or 
your 
words, Your Cognizance." 
"Yet you will." Quetzal paused to peer along Lamp Street, and 
seemed to listen. "You will, Patera Calde. You can't help it. That's why I've got to tell you. After that, we're going to talk about 
something you probably think that you learned all about when you 
were a baby. I mean the Plan of Pas. Then you can go off to Maytera 
what'shername." 
"Mint, Your Cognizance. 
"You can go off to help her overthrow the Ayuntamiento for 
Echidna, and I'll be going off to find you more people to do it with, and better weapons. To begin--" 
"Your Cognizance?" Silk ran nervous fingers through his haystack hair, unable to restrain himself any longer. "Your Cognizance, did 
you know Great Pas was dead? Did you know it already, before she 
told us today?" 
"Certainly. We can start there, Patera Calde, if that's troubling you. Would you have talked about it from the ambion of the Grand 
Manteion if you'd been in my place? Made a public announcement? 
Conducted ceremonies of mourning and so forth?" 
"Yes," Silk said firmly. "Yes, I would." 
"I see. What do you suppose killed him, Patera Calde? You're an intelligent young fellow. You studied hard at the schola, I know. Your instructors' reports are very favorable. How could the Father of the Gods die?" 
Faintly, Silk could hear the booming of slug guns, then a long, 
concerted roar that might almost have been thunder. 
	"Building falling," Quetzal told him. "Don't worry about that 
now. 
Answer my question." 
"I can't conceive of such a thing, Your Cognizance. The gods are immortal, ageless. It's their immortality that makes them gods, 
really, more than anything else." 
"A fever," Quetzal suggested. "We mortals die of fevers every 
day. 
Perhaps he caught a fever?" 

"The gods are spiritual beings, Your Cognizance. They're not subject to disease." 
"Kicked in the head by a horse. Don't you think that could have been it?" 
Silk did not reply. 
"I'm mocking you, Patera Calde, of course I am. But not idly. 
My question's perfectly serious. Echidna told you Pas is dead, 
and you can't help believing her. I've known it for thirty years, 
since shortly after his death, in fact. How did he die? How could 
he?" 
Silk combed his disorderly yellow hair with his fingers again. 
	"When I was made Prolocutor, Patera Calde, we had a vase at the 
 Palace 
that had been thrown on the Short Sun Whorl, a beautiful thing. They told me 
it was five hundred years old. Almost inconceivable. Do you agree?" 
	"And priceless, I would say, Your Cognizance." 
"Lemur wanted to frighten me, to show me how ruthless he could 
be. I already knew, but he didn't know I did. I think he thought that if I did I'd never dare oppose him. He took that vase from its stand and smashed it at my feet." 
Silk stared down at Quetzal. "You--you're serious, Your Cognizance? 
He actually did that?" 
"He did. Look, now. That vase was immortal. It didn't age. It was 
proof against disease. But it could be destroyed, as it was. So could 
Pas. He couldn't age, or even fall sick. But he could be destroyed, 
and he was. He was murdered by his family. Many men die like that, 
Patera Calde. When you're half my age, you'll know it. Now a god 
has, too." 
"But, Your Cognizance..." 
"Viron's isolated, Patera Calde. All the cities are. He gave us floaters and animals. No big machines that could carry heavy loads. He thought that would be best for us, and I dare say he was right. But the Ayuntamiento's not isolated. The calde wasn't either, when we had one. Did you think he was?" 
Silk said, "I realize we have diplomats, Your Cognizance, and there are traveling traders and so forth--boats on the rivers, and even spies." 
"That's right. As Prolocutor, I'm no more isolated than he was. Less, but I won't try to prove that. I'm in contact with religious leaders in Urbs, Wick, and other cities, cities where his children have boasted of killing Pas." 
"It was the Seven, then, Your Cognizance? Not Echidna? Was 
Scylla involved?" 
Quetzal had found prayer beads in a pocket of Gulo's robe; he ran them through his fingers. "Echidna was at the center. You've seen her, can you doubt it? Scylla, Molpe, and Hierax were in it. They've said so at various times." 
"But not Tartaros, Thelxiepeia, Phaea, or Sphigx, Your Cognizance?" 
Silk felt an irrational surge of hope. 
"I don't know about Tartaros and the younger gods, Patera 
Calde. But do you see why I didn't announce it? There would 
have been panic. There will be, if it becomes widely known. The 
Chapter will be destroyed and the basis of morality gone. 
Imagine Viron with neither. As for public observances, how do 
you think Pas's murderers would react to our mourning him?" 
"We--" Something tightened in Silk's throat. "We, you and I, 
Your Cognizance. Villus and Maytera Marble, all of us are--were 
his children too. That is to say, he built the whorl for us. Ruled us like a father. I..." 
"What is it, Patera Calde?" 
"I just remembered something, Your Cognizance. Kypris--you 

must know there was a theophany of Kypris at our manteion on Scylsday." 
"I've had a dozen reports. It's the talk of the city." 
"She said she was hunted, and I didn't understand. Now I believe I may." 
Quetzal nodded. "I imagine she is. The wonder is that they 
haven't been able to corner her in thirty years. She can't be a tenth as strong as Pas was. But it can't be easy to kill even a minor 
goddess 
who knows you're trying to. Not like killing a husband and father 
who trusts you. Now you see why I've tried to prevent theophanies, 
don't you, Patera Calde? If you don't, I'll never be able to make it 
clear." 
"Yes, Your Cognizance. Of course. It's--horrible. Unspeakable. But you were right. You are right." 
"I'm glad you realize it. You understand why we go on sacrificing to Pas? We must. I've tried to downgrade him somewhat. Make him 
seem more remote than he used to. I've emphasized Scylla at his 
expense, but you're too young to have realized that. Older people 
complain, sometimes." 
Silk said nothing, but stroked his cheek as he walked. 
"You have questions, Patera Calde. Or you will have when you've 
digested all this. Don't fear you may offend me. I'm at your disposal whenever you want to question me." 
"I have two," Silk told him. "I hesitate to pose the first, which verges upon blasphemy." 
"Many necessary questions do." Quetzal cocked his head. "This isn't one, but do you hear horses?" 
"Horses, Your Cognizance? No." 
"I must be imagining it. What are your questions?" 
Silk walked on in silence for a few seconds to collect his thoughts. 
At length he said, "My original two questions have become three, 
Your Cognizance. The first, for which I apologize in advance, is, 
isn't it true that Echidna and the Seven love us just as Pas did? 
I've 
always felt, somehow, that Pas loved them, while they love us; and 
if that is so, will his death--terrible though it is--make a great 
deal 
of difference to us?" 
"You have a pet bird, Patera Calde. I've never seen it, but so 
I've 
been told." 
"I had one, Your Cognizance, a night chough. I've lost him, I'm afraid, although it may be that he's with a friend. I'm hoping he'll return to me eventually." 
"You should have caged him, Patera Calde. Then you'd still have him." 
"I liked him too much for that, Your Cognizance." 
Quetzal's small head bobbed upon its long neck. "Just so. There are people who love birds so much they free them. There are others who love them so much they cage them. Pas's love of us was of the 
first kind. Echidna's and the Seven's is of the other. Were you going to ask why they killed Pas? Is that one of your questions?" 
	Silk nodded, "My second, Your Cognizance." 
"I've answered it. What's the third?" 
"You indicated that you wished to discuss the Plan of Pas with
me,
Your Cognizance. If Pas is dead, what's the point of discussing his plan?" 
Hoofbeats sounded faintly behind them. 
"A god's plans do not die with him, Patera Calde. He is dead, as 
Serpentine Echidna told us. We are not. We were to carry Pas's plan 
out. You said he ruled us as a father. Do a father's plans benefit 

him? Or his children?" 
"Your Cognizance, I just remembered something? Another god, the Outsider--" 
"_Pateras!_" The horseman, a lieutenant of the Civil Guard in mottled green conflict armor, pushed up his visor. "Are you--you there, Patera. The young one. Aren't you Patera Silk?" 
"Yes, my son," Silk said. "I am." 
The lieutenant dropped the reins. His hand appeared slow as it jerked his needler from the holster, yet it was much too quick to permit Silk to draw Musk's needler. The flat crack of the shot 
sounded an instant after the needle's stinging blow. 

Chapter  5  -- Mail 

They had insisted she not look for herself, that she send one of them 
to do it, but she felt she had already sent too many others. This 
time 
she would see the enemy for herself, and she had forbidden them to 
attend her. She straightened her snowy coif as she walked, and held 
down the wind-tossed skirt of her habit--a sibyl smaller and younger 
than most, gowned  (like all sibyls) in black to the tops of her worn 
black shoes, out upon some holy errand, and remarkable only for 
being alone. 
The azoth was in one capacious pocket, her beads in the other; she got them out as she went around the corner onto Cage Street, wooden beads twice the size of those Quetzal fingered, smoothed and oiled by her touch to glossy chestnut. 
First, Pas's gammadion: "_Great Pas, Designer and Creator of the Whorl, Lord Guardian of the Aureate Path, we_--" 
The pronoun should have been  _I_, but she was used to saying them 
with Maytera Rose and Maytera Marble; and they, praying together 
in the sellaria of the cenoby, had quite properly said "we." She 
thought: But I'm praying for all of us. For all who may die this 
afternoon, for Bison and Patera Gulo and Bream and that man who 
let me borrow his sword. For the volunteers who'll ride with me in a 
minute, and Patera Silk and Lime and Zoril and the children. 
Particularly for the children. For all of us, Great Pas. 
	"_We acknowledge you the supreme and sovereign_..." 
	And there it was, an armored floater with all its hatches down 
 turning onto Cage Street. Then another, and a third. A good big 
space between the third and the first rank of marching Guardsmen 
because of the dust. A mounted officer riding beside his troopers. 
The soldiers would be in back  (that was what the messenger had 
reported) but there was no time to wait until they came into view, 
though the soldiers would be the worst of all, worse even than the 
floaters. 
Beads forgotten, she hurried back the way she had come. 
Scleroderma was still there, holding the white stallion's reins. 
"I'm 
coming too, Maytera. On these two legs since you won't let me have 
a horse, but I'm coming. You're going, and I'm bigger than you." 
Which was true. Scleroderma was no taller, but twice as wide. 
"Shout," she told her. "You're blessed with a good, loud voice. Shout 
and make all the noise you can. If you can keep them from seeing 
Bison's people for one second more, that may decide it." 
	A giant with a gape-toothed grin knelt, hands clasped to help her 
mount; she put her left foot in them and swung into the saddle, and 
although she sat a tall horse, the giant's head was level with her 
own. She had chosen him for his size and ferocious appearance. 
(Distraction--distraction would be everything). Now it struck her 
that she did not know his name. "Can you ride?" she asked. "If you 
can't, say so." 

"Sure can, Maytera." 
He was probably lying; but it was too late, too late to quiz him
or
get somebody else. She rose in her stirrups to consider the five 
riders behind her, and the giant's riderless horse. "Most of us will 
be 
killed, and it's quite likely that all of us will be." 
The first floater would be well along Cage Street already, halted 
perhaps before the doors of the Alambrera; but if they were to 
succeed, their diversion would have to wait until the marching men 
behind the third floater had closed the gap. It might be best to fill 
the time. 
"Should one of us live, however, it would be well for him--or her--to 
know the names of those who gave their lives. Scleroderma, I 
can't count you among us, but you are the most likely to live. Listen carefully." 
Scleroderma nodded, her pudgy face pale. 
"All of you. Listen, and try to remember." 
The fear she had shut out so effectively was seeping back now. 
She bit her lip; her voice must not quaver. "I'm Maytera Mint, from the Sun Street manteion. But you know that. You," she pointed to 
the rearmost rider. "Give us your name, and say it loudly." 
	"Babirousa!" 
"Good. And you?" 
"Goral!" 
"Kingcup!" The woman who had supplied horses for the rest. "Yapok!" 
"Marmot!" 
"Gib from the Cock," the giant grunted, and mounted in a way 
that showed he was more accustomed to riding donkeys. 
	"I wish we had horns and war drums," Maytera Mint told them. 
"We'll have to use our voices and our weapons instead. Remember, 
the idea is to keep them, the crews of the floaters especially, 
looking 
and shooting at us for as long as we can." 
The fear filled her mind, horrible and colder than ice; she felt 
sure 
her trembling fingers would drop Patera Silk's azoth if she tried to take it from her pocket; but she got it out anyway, telling herself that it would be preferable to drop it here, where Scleroderma could hand it back to her. 
Scleroderma handed her the reins instead. 
"You have all volunteered, and there is no disgrace in reconsidering. 
Those who wish may leave." Deliberately she faced forward, so that she would not see who dismounted. 
At once she felt that there was no one behind her at all. She 
groped for something that would drive out the fear, and came upon 
a naked woman with yellow hair--a wild-eyed fury who was not 
herself at all--wielding a scourge whose lashes cut and tore the gray sickness until it fled her mind. 
Perhaps because she had urged him forward with her heels, 
perhaps only because she had loosed his reins, the stallion was 
rounding the corner at an easy canter. There, still streets ahead 
though not so far as they had been, were the floaters, the third 
settling onto the rutted street, with the marching troopers closing behind it. 
"For Echidna!" she shouted. "The gods will it!" Still she wished
for
war drums and horns, unaware that the drumming hooves echoed 
and re-echoed from each shiprock wall, that her trumpet had shaken the street. "Silk is Calde!" 
She jammed her sharp little heels in the stallion's sides. Fear 

was gone, 
replaced by soaring joy. "_Silk is Calde!_" At her right the giant was firing two needlers as fast as he could pull their triggers. 
	"_Down the Ayuntamiento! Silk is Calde!_" 
The shimmering horror that was the azoth's blade could not be 
held on the foremost floater. Not by her, certainly not at this 
headlong gallop. Slashed twice across, the floater wept silvery metal as the street before it erupted in boiling dust and stones exploded from the gray walls of the Alambrera. 
Abruptly, Yapok was on her right. To her left, Kingcup flailed a leggy bay with a long brown whip, Yapok bellowing obscenities, 
Kingcup shrieking curses, a nightmare witch, her loosed black hair streaming behind her. 
The blade again, and the foremost floater burst in a ball of orange 
flame. Behind it, the buzz guns of the second were firing, the flashes 
from their muzzle mere sparks, the rattle of their shots lost in pandemonium. "Form up," she shouted, not knowing what she 
meant by it. Then, "_Forward! Forward!_" 
Thousands of armed men and women were pouring from the 
buildings, crowding through doorways and leaping from windows. 
Yapok was gone, Kingcup somehow in front of her by half a length. Unseen hands snatched off her coif and plucked one flapping black sleeve. 
The shimmering blade brought a gush of silver from the second 
floater, and there were no more flashes from its guns, only an 
explosion that blew off the turret--and a rain of stones upon the 
second floater, the third, and the Guardsmen behind it, and lines of 
slug guns booming from rooftops and high windows. But not 
enough, she thought. Not nearly enough, we must have more. 
	The azoth was almost too hot to hold. She took her thumb off the 
demon and was abruptly skyborn as the white stallion cleared a slab 
of twisted, smoking metal at a bound. The guns of the third floater 
were firing, the turret gun not at her but at the men and women 
pouring out of the buildings, the floater rising with a roar and a 
cloud of dust and sooty smoke that the wind snatched away, until 
the blade of her azoth impaled it and the floater crashed on its 
side, 
at once pathetic and comic. 

To Silk's bewilderment, his captors had treated him with consideration, 
bandaging his wound and letting him lie unbound in an 
outsized bed with four towering posts which only that morning had belonged to some blameless citizen. 
He had not lost consciousness so much as will. With mild surprise, 
he discovered that he no longer cared whether the Alambrera had surrendered, whether the Ayuntamiento remained in power, or 
whether the long sun would nourish Viron for ages to come or burn it to cinders. Those things had mattered. They no longer did. He was aware that he might die, but that did not matter either; he would surely die, whatever happened. If eventually, why not now? It would be over--over and done forever. 
He imagined himself mingling with the gods, their humblest 
servitor and worshipper, yet beholding them face-to-face; and found that there was only one whom he desired to see, a god who was not 
among them. 

"Well, well, well!" the surgeon exclaimed in a brisk, professional voice. "So you're Silk!" 
He rolled his head on the pillow. "I don't think so." 
"That's what they tell me. Somebody shoot you in the arm, too?" 

"No. Something else. It doesn't matter." He spat blood. 
"It does to me: that's an old dressing. It ought to be changed." 
The 
surgeon left, returning at once  (it seemed) with a basin of water and a sponge. "I'm taking that ultrasonic diathermic wrapping on your 
ankle. We've got men who need it a lot more than you do." 
	"Then take it, please," Silk told him. 
The surgeon looked surprised. 
"What I mean is that 'Silk' has become someone a great deal bigger than I am--that I'm not what is meant when people say, 
'Silk.'" 
"You ought to be dead," the surgeon informed him somewhat 
later. "Your lung's collapsed. Probably better to enlarge the exit wound instead of going in this way. I'm going to roll you over. Did you hear that? I'm going to turn you over. Keep your nose and 
mouth to the side so you can breathe." 
He did not, but the surgeon moved his head for him. 
Abruptly he was sitting almost upright with a quilt around him, while the surgeon stabbed him with another needle. "It's not as bad as I thought, but you need blood. You'll feel a lot better with more blood in you." 
A dark flask dangled from the bedpost like a ripe fruit. 

Someone he could not see was sitting beside his bed. He turned his 
head and craned his neck to no avail. At last he extended a hand 
toward the visitor; and the visitor took it between his own, which 
were large and hard and warm. As soon as their hands touched, he 
knew. 
You said you weren't going to help, he told the visitor. You said
I
wasn't to expect help from you, yet here you are 
The visitor did not reply, but his hands were clean and gentle 
and 
full of healing. 
*	*	*
"Are you awake, Patera?" 
Silk wiped his eyes. "Yes." 
"I thought you were. Your eyes were closed, but you were crying." "Yes," Silk said again. 
"I brought a chair. I thought we might talk for a minute. You don't mind?" The man with the chair was robed in black. 
	"No. You're an augur, like me." 
"We were at the schola together, Patera. I'm Shell--Patera Shell now. You sat behind me in canonics. Remember?" 
"Yes. Yes, I do. It's been a long time." 
Shell nodded. "Nearly two years." He was thin and pale, but his small shy smile made his face shine. 
"It was good of you to come and see me, Patera--very good." Silk paused for a moment to think. "You're on the other side, the 
Ayuntamiento's side. You must be. You're taking a risk by talking 
to me. I'm afraid." 
"I was." Shell coughed apologetically. "Perhaps--I don't know, Patera. I--I haven't been fighting, you know. Not at all." 
	"Of course not." 
"I brought the Pardon of Pas to our dying. To your dying, too, 
Patera, when I could. When that was done, I helped nurse a little. 
There aren't enough doctors and nurses, not nearly enough, and 
there was a big battle on Cage Street. Do you know about it? I'll 
tell 
you if you like. Nearly a thousand dead." 
	Silk shut his eyes. 
"Don't cry, Patera. Please don't. They've gone to the gods. All
of
them, from both sides, and it wasn't your fault, I'm sure. I didn't 

see 
the battle, but I heard a great deal about it. From the wounded, you know. If you'd rather talk about something else--" 
"No. Tell me, please." 
"I thought you'd want to know, that I could describe it to you
and
it would be something that I could do for you. I thought you might want me to shrive you, too. We can close the door. I talked to the captain, and he said that as long as I didn't give you a weapon it would be all right." 
Silk nodded. "I should have thought of it myself. I've been 
involved with so many secular concerns lately that I've been getting lax, I'm afraid." There was a bow window behind Shell; noticing that it displayed only black night and their own reflected images, Silk asked, "Is this still Hieraxday, Patera?" 
"Yes, but its after shadelow. It's about seven thirty, I think. There's a clock in the captain's room, and it was seven twenty-five when I went in. Seven twenty-five by that clock, I mean, and I 
wasn't there long. He's very busy." 
"Then I haven't neglected Thelxiepeia's morning prayers." 
Briefly, he wondered whether he could bring himself to say them 
when morning came, and whether he should. "I won't have to ask 
forgiveness for that when you shrive me. But first, tell me about the battle." 
"Your forces have been trying to capture the Alambrera, Patera. Do you know about that?" 
"I knew they had gone to attack it. Nothing more." 
"They were trying to break down the doors and so on. But they didn't, and everybody inside thought they had gone away, probably to try to take over the Juzgado." 
Silk nodded again. 
"But before that, the government--the Ayuntamiento, I mean--had sent a lot of troopers, with floaters and so on and a company of 
soldiers, to drive them away and help the Guards in the Alambrera." 
	"Three companies of soldiers," Silk said, "and the Second Brigade 
of the Guard. That's what I was told, at any rate." 
	Shell nearly bowed. "Your information will be much more accurate 
than mine, I'm sure, Patera. They had trouble getting through 
the city, even with soldiers and floaters, although not as much as 
they expected. Do you know about that?" 
Silk rolled his head from side to side. 
"They did. People were throwing things. One man told me he was hit by a slop jar thrown out of a fourth-floor window." Shell 
ventured an apologetic laugh. "Can you imagine? What will the 
people who live up there do tonight I wonder? But there wasn't 
much serious resistance, if you know what I mean. They expected 
barricades in the street, but there was nothing like that. They 
marched through the city and stopped in front of the Alambrera. 
The troopers were supposed to go in while the soldiers searched the buildings along Cage Street." 
Silk allowed his eyes to close again, visualizing the column 
described by the monitor in Maytera Rose's glass. 
"Then," Shell paused for emphasis, "General Mint herself charged them down Cage Street, riding like a devil on a big white horse. 
From the other way, you see. From the direction of the market." 
	Surprised, Silk opened his eyes. "_General_ Mint?" 
	"That's what they call her. The rebels--your people, I mean." 
 Shell cleared his throat. "The fighters loyal to the Calde. To you." 
	"You're not offending me, Patera." 
"They call her General Mint and she's got an azoth. Just imagine! 
She chopped up the Guard's floaters horribly with it. This trooper I 
talked to had been the driver of one, and he'd seen everything. Do 
you know how the Guard's floaters are on the inside, Patera?" 
	"I rode in one this morning." Silk shut his eyes again, striving 

to 
remember, "I rode inside until the rain stopped. Later I rode on it, 
sitting on the... Up on that round part that has the highest buzz 
gun. It was crowded inside, not at all comfortable, and we'd put the 
bodies in there--but it was better than being out in the rain, 
perhaps." 
Shell nodded eagerly, happy to agree. "There are two men and an 
officer. One of the men drives the floater. He was the one I talked 
to. The officer's in charge. He sits beside the driver, and there's a glass for the officer, though some don't work any more, he said. The 
officer has a buzz gun, too, the one that points ahead. There's 
another man, the gunner, up in the round thing you sat on. It's 
called the turret." 
"That's right. I remember now." 
"General Mint's azoth cut right into their floater and killed their 
officer, and stopped one of the rotors. That's what this driver said. 
It had seemed to me that if an azoth could do that, it could cut 
right 
through the doors of the Alambrera and kill everyone in there, but 
he said they won't. That's because the doors are steel and three 
fingers thick, but a floater's armor is aluminum because it couldn't 
lift that much. It couldn't float at all, if it were made out of iron 
or 
steel." 
"I see. I didn't know that." 
"There was cavalry following General Mint. About a troop is what 
he said. I asked how many that was, and it's a hundred or more. The 
others had needlers and swords and things. His floater had fallen on 
its side, but he crawled out through the hatch. The gunner had 
already gotten out, he said, and their officer was dead, but as soon 
as he got out himself, someone rode him down and broke his arm. 
That's why he's here, and without the gods' favor he would've been 
killed. When he got up again, there were rebels--I mean--" 
	"I know what you mean, Patera. Go on, please." 
	"They were all around him. He said he would have climbed back 
 in their floater, but it was starting to burn, and he knew that if 
the 
fire didn't go out their ammunition would explode, the bullets for 
the buzz guns. He wasn't wearing armor like the troopers outside, 
just a helmet, so he pulled it off and threw it away, and the--your 
people thought he was one of them, most of them. He said that 
sometimes swords would cut the men's armor. It's polymeric, did 
you know that, Patera? Sometimes they silver it, private guards and 
so on do, like a glazier silvers the back of a mirror. But it's still 
polymeric under that, and the troopers' is painted green like a 
soldier." 
"It will stop needles, won't it?" 
Shell nodded vigorously. "Mostly it will. Practically always. But 
sometimes a needle will go through the opening for the man's eyes, 
or where he breathes. when it does that, he's usually killed, they 
say. And sometimes a sword will cut right through their armor, if 
it's 
a big heavy sword, and the man's strong. Or stabbing can split the 
breastplate. A lot of your people had axes and hatchets. For 
firewood, you know. And some had clubs with spikes through them. 
A big club can knock down a trooper in armor, and if there's a spike 
in it, the spike will go right through." Shell paused for breath. 
	"But the soldiers aren't like that at all. Their skin's all 
metal, steel 
in the worst places. Even a slug from a slug gun will bounce off a 
soldier sometimes, and nobody can kill or even hurt a soldier with a club or a needler." 
Silk said, I know, I shot one once, then realized that he had not 

spoken aloud. I'm like poor Mamelta, he thought--I have to 
remember to speak, to breathe out while I move my lips and tongue. 
"One told me she saw two men trying to take a soldier's slug gun. 
They were both holding onto it, but he lifted them right off their 
feet 
and threw them around. This wasn't the driver but a woman I talked 
to, one of your people, Patera. She had her washing stick, and she 
got behind him and hit him with it, but he shook off the two men 
and hit her with the slug gun and broke her shoulder. A lot of your 
people had gotten slug guns from troopers by then, and they were 
shooting at the soldiers with them. Somebody shot the one fighting 
her. She would've been killed if it hadn't been for that she said. 
But 
the soldiers shot a lot of them, too, and chased them up Cheese 
Street and a lot of other streets. She tried to fight, but she didn't 
have a slug gun, and with her shoulder she couldn't have shot one if 
she'd had it. A slug hit her leg, and the doctors here had to cut it 
off." 
"I'll pray for her," Silk promised, "and for everyone else who's 
been killed or wounded. If you see her again, Patera, please tell her how sorry I am that this happened. Was Maytera--was General 
Mint hurt?" 
"They say not. They say she's planning another attack, but 
nobody really knows. Were you wounded very badly, Patera?" 
"I don't believe I'm going to die." For seconds that grew to a 
minute or more, Silk stared in wonder at the empty flask hanging 
from the bedpost. Was life such a simple thing that it could be 
drained from a man as red fluid, or poured into him? Would he 
eventually discover that he held a different life, one which longed 
for a wife and children, in a house that he had never seen? It had 
not 
been his own blood--not his own life--surely. "I believed I was, not long ago. Even when you came, Patera. I didn't care. Consider the wisdom and mercy of the god who made us so that when we're about 
to die we no longer fear death!" 
"If you don't think you're going to die--" 
"No, no. Shrive me. The Ayuntamiento certainly intends to kill me. They can't possibly know I'm here; if they did, I'd be dead already." Silk pushed aside his quilt. 
Hurriedly, Shell replaced it. "You don't have to kneel, Patera. 
You're still ill, terribly ill. You've been badly hurt. Turn your 
head 
toward the wall, please." 
Silk did so, and the familiar words seemed to rise to his lips of their own volition. "Cleanse me, Patera, for I have given offense to Pas and to other gods." It was comforting, this return to ritual 
phrases he had memorized in childhood; but Pas was dead, and the 
well of his boundless mercy gone dry forever. 
"Is that all, Patera?" 
"Since my last shriving, yes." 
"As penance for the evil you have done, Patera Silk, you are to 
perform a meritorious act before this time tomorrow." Shell paused 
and swallowed. "I'm assuming that your physical condition will 
permit it. You don't think it's too much? The recitation of a prayer 
will do." 
"Too much?" With difficulty, Silk forced himself to keep his eyes 
averted. "No, certainly not. Too little, I'm sure." 
	"Then I bring to you, Patera Silk, the pardon of all the god--" 
	Of  _all_ the gods. He had forgotten that aspect of the Pardon, 
 fool 
that he was! Now the words brought a huge sense of relief. In 
addition to Echidna and her dead husband, in addition to the Nine 
and truly minor gods like Kypris, Shell was empowered to grant 

amnesty for the Outsider. For all the gods. Hence he, Silk, was forgiven his doubt. 
He turned his head so that he could see Shell. "Thank you, Patera. 
You don't know--you can't--how much this means to me." 
Shell's hesitant smile shone again. "I'm in a position to do you another favor, Patera. I have a letter for you from His Cognizance." Seeing Silk's expression, he added quickly, "It's only a circular 
letter, I'm afraid. All of us get a copy." He reached into his robe. "When I told Patera Jerboa you had been captured, he gave me 
yours, and it's about you." 
The folded sheet Shell handed him bore the seal of the Chapter in mulberry-colored wax; beside it, a clear, clerkly hand had written: "Silk, Sun Street." 
"It's a very important letter, really," Shell said. 
	Silk broke the seal and unfolded the paper. 
 <blockquote> 
_30th Nemesis  332_<br> 
To the Clergy of the Chapter,<br> 
Both Severally and Collectively<br> 
Greetings in the name of Pas, in the name of Scylla, and in the names of all gods! Know that you are ever in my 
thoughts, as in my heart. 
The present disturbed state of Our Sacred City obliges us to be even more conscious of our sacred duty to minister to 
the dying, not only to those amongst them with whose recent 
actions we may sympathize, but to all those to whom, as we 
apprehend, Hierax may swiftly reveal his compassionate 
power. Thus it is that I implore you this day to cultivate the perpetual and indefatigable--
</blockquote> 
Patera Remora composed this, Silk thought; and as though Remora 
sat before him, he saw Remora's long, sallow, uplifted face, the tip of the quill just brushing his lips as he sought for a complexity of syntax that would satisfy his insatiate longing for caution and 
precision. 
<blockquote> 
The perpetual and indefatigable predisposition toward 
mercy and pardon whose conduit you so frequently must be. 
Many of you have appealed for guidance in these most 
disturbing days. Nay, many appeal so still, even hourly. 
Most of you will have learned before you read this epistle of 
the lamented demise of the presiding officer of the Ayuntamiento. 
	The late Councillor Lemur was a man of extraordinary 
gifts, and his passing cannot but leave a void in every heart. 
How I long to devote the remainder of this necessarily 
curtailed missive to mourning his passing. Instead, for such 
are the exactions of this sad whorl, the whorl that passes, my 
duty to you requires that I forewarn you without delay 
against the baseless pretexts of certain vile insurgents who 
would have you to believe that they act in the late Councillor 
Lemur's name. 
Let us set aside, my beloved clergy, all fruitless debate 
regarding the propriety of an intercaldean caesura spanning 
some two decades. That the press of unhappy events then 
rendered an interval of that kind, if not desirable, then 
unquestionably attractive, we can all agree. That it represented, to judgements not daily schooled to the nice discriminations 
of the law, a severe strain upon the elasticity of 
our Charter, we can agree likewise, can we not? The 
argument is wholly historical now. O beloved, let us resign it 
to the historians. 
What is inarguable is that this caesura, to which I have had 
reason to refer above, has attained to its ordained culmination. 

It cannot, O my beloved clergy, as it should not, 
survive the grievous loss which it has so recently endured. 
What, then, we may not illegitimately inquire, is to succeed that just, beneficent and ascendant government so sadly 
terminated? 
Beloved clergy, let us not be unmindful of the wisdom of 
the past, wisdom which lies in no less a vehicle than our own 
Chrasmologic Writings. Has it not declared, "_Vox poputi, 
vox dei_"? which is to say, in the will of the masses we may 
discern words of Pas's. At the present critical moment in the 
lengthy epic of Our Sacred City, Pas's grave words are not to 
be mistaken. With many voices they cry out that the time has 
arrived for a precipitate return to that Charteral guardianship which once our city knew. Shall it be said of us that we 
stop our ears to Pas's words? 
Nor is their message so brief, and so less than mistakable. 
From forest to lake, from the proud crown of the Palatine to 
the humblest of alleys they proclaim him. O my beloved 
clergy, with what incommunicable joy shall I do so additionally. For Supreme Pas has, as never previously, espoused for 
our city a calde from within our own ranks, an anointed 
augur, holy, pious, and redolent of sanctity. 
	May I name him? I shall, yet surely I need not. There is 
not one amongst you, Beloved Clergy, who will not know 
that name prior to mine overjoyed acclamation. It is Patera 
Silk. Again I say, Patera Silk! 
How readily here might I inscribe, let us welcome him and obey him as one of ourselves. With what delight shall I 
inscribe in its place, let us welcome him and obey him, for he is one of ourselves! 
May every god favor you, beloved clergy. Blessed be you 
in the Most Sacred Name of Pas, Father of the Gods, in that 
of Gradous Echidna, His Consort, in those of their Sons and 
their Daughters alike, this day and forever, in the name of 
their eldest child, Scylla, Patroness of this, Our Holy City of Viron. Thus say I, Pa. Quetzal, Prolocutor. 
</blockquote> 
As Silk refolded the letter, Shell said, "His Cognizance has come 
down completely on your side, you see, and brought the Chapter 
with him. You said--I hope you were mistaken in this, Patera, really 
I do. But you said a minute ago that if the Ayuntamiento knew you 
were here they'd have you shot. If that's true--" He cleared his 
throat nervously. "If it's true, they'll have His Cognizance shot 
too. 
And--and some of the rest of us." 
"The coadjutor," Silk said, "he drafted this. He'll die as well,
if
they can get their hands on him." It was strange to think of Remora, 
that circumspect diplomatist, tangled and dead in his own web of 
ink. 
Of Remora dying for him. 
"I suppose so, Patera." Shell hesitated, plainly ill at ease. "I'd call 
you--use the other word. But it might be dangerous for you." 
	Silk nodded slowly, stroking his cheek. 
"His Cognizance says you're the first augur, ever. That--it came as a shock to--to a lot of us, I suppose. To Patera Jerboa, he said. He says it's never happened before in his lifetime. Do you know 
Patera Jerboa, Patera?" 
Silk shook his head. 
"He's quite elderly. Eighty-one, because we had a little party
for
him just a few weeks ago. But then he thought, you know, sort of 

getting still and pulling at his beard the way he does, and then he 
said it was sensible enough, really. All the others, the previous--
the 
previous--" 
"I know what you mean, Patera." 
"They'd been chosen by the people. But you, Patera, you were chosen by the gods, so naturally their choice fell upon an augur, since augurs are the people they've chosen to serve them." 
"You yourself are in danger, Patera," Silk said. "You're in nearly 
as much danger as I am, and perhaps more. You must be aware of it." 
	Shell nodded miserably. 
"I'm surprised they let you in here after this." "They--the captain, Patera. I--I haven't..." 
"They don't know." 
"I don't think so, Patera. I don't think they do. I didn't tell 
them." 
"That was wise, I'm sure." Silk studied the window as he had 
before, but as before saw only their reflections, and the night. 
"This 
Patera Jerboa, you're his acolyte? Where is he?" 
	"At our manteion, on Brick Street." 
Silk shook his head. 
"Near the crooked bridge, Patera." "Way out east?" 
"Yes, Patera." Shell fidgeted uncomfortably. "That's where we are now, Patera. On Basket Street. Our manteion's that way," he 
pointed, "about five streets." 
"I see. That's right, they lifted me into something--into some 
sort 
of cart that jolted terribly. I remember lying on sawdust and trying 
to cough. I couldn't, and my mouth and nose kept filling with 
blood." Silk's index finger drew small circles on his cheek. "Where's my robe?" 
"I don't know. The captain has it, I suppose, Patera." 
"The battle, when General Mint attacked the floaters on Cage Street, was that this afternoon?" 
Shell nodded again. 
"About the time I was shot, perhaps, or a little later. You brought 
the Pardon to the wounded. To all of them? All those in danger of death, I mean?" 
"Yes, Patera." 
"Then you went back to your manteion--?" 
"For something to eat, Patera, a bite of supper." Shell looked apologetic. "This brigade--it's the Third. They're in reserve, they say. They don't have much. Some were going into people's houses, you know, and taking any food they could find. There's supposed to be food coming in wagons, but I thought--" 
"Of course. You returned to your manse to eat with Patera Jerboa, and this letter had arrived while you were gone. There would have been a copy for you, too, and one for him." 
Shell nodded eagerly. "That's right, Patera." 
"You would have read yours at once, of course. My copy--this one--it was there as well?" 
"Yes, Patera." 
"So someone at the Palace knew I had been captured, and where 
I'd been taken. He sent my copy to Patera Jerboa instead of to my 
own manteion in the hope that Patera Jerboa could arrange to get to 
me, as he did. His Cognizance was with me when I was shot; there's 
no reason to conceal that now. While my wounds were being 
treated, I was wondering whether he had been killed. The officer 
who shot me may not have recognized him, but if he did..." Silk 
let the thought trail away. "If they don't know about this already--

and 
I think you're right, they can't know yet, not here at any rate--
they're 
bound to find out soon. You realize that?" 
	"Yes, Patera." 
"You must leave. It would probably be wise for you and Patera 
Jerboa to leave your manteion, in fact--to go to a part of the city controlled by General Mint, if you can." 
"I--" Shell seemed to be choking. He shook his head desperately. "You what, Patera?" 
"I don't want to leave you as long as I can be of--of help to 
you. 
Of service. It's my duty." 
"You have been of help," Silk told him. "You've rendered 
invaluable service to me and to the Chapter already. I'll see you're 
recognized for it, if I can." He paused, considering. 
	"You can be of further help, too. On your way out, I want you to 
speak to this captain for me. There were two letters in a pocket of 
my robe. They were on the mantel this morning; my acolyte must 
have put them there yesterday. I haven't read them, and your giving 
me this one has reminded me of them." Somewhat tardily, he thrust 
the letter under his quilt. "One had the seal of the Chapter. It may 
have been another copy of this, though that doesn't seem very 
likely, since this one has today's date. Besides, they wouldn't have 
sent this to Patera Jerboa this evening, in that case." 
	"I suppose not, Patera." 
"Don't mention them to the captain. Just say I'd like to have my 
robe--all of my clothes. Ask for my clothes and see what he gives 
you. Bring them to me, my robe particularly. If he mentions the 
letters, say that I'd like to see them. If he won't give them to you, 
try 
to find out what was in them. If he won't tell you, return to your manteion. Tell Patera Jerboa that I, the calde, order him to get himself and you--are there sibyls, too?" 
Shell nodded. "There's Maytera Wood--" 
"Never mind their names. That you and he and they are to lock up the manteion and leave as quickly as possible." 
"Yes, Patera." Shell stood, very erect. "But I won't go back to
our
manteion straight away, no matter what the captain says. I--I'm 
coming back. Back here to see you and tell you what he said, and try to do something more for you, if I can. Don't tell me not to, please, Patera. I'll only disobey." 
To his surprise, Silk found that he was smiling. "Your disobedience 
is better than the obedience of many people I've known, 
Patera Shell. Do what you think right; you will anyway, I feel certain." 
Shell left, and the room seemed empty as soon as he was out the 
door. Silk's wound began to throb, and he made himself think of 
something else. How proudly Shell had announced his intention to 
disobey, while his lip trembled! It reminded Silk of his mother, her 
eyes shining with team of joy at some only too ordinary childhood 
feat.  _Oh, Silk! My son, my son!_ That was how he felt now. These 
boys! 
Yet Shell was no younger. They had entered the schola together, and Shell had sat at the desk in front of his own when an instructor insisted on alphabetical seating; they had been anointed on the same day, and both had been assigned to assist venerable augurs who 
were no longer able to attend to all the demands of their manteions. 
	Shell, however, had not been enlightened by the Outsider--or 
had not had a vein burst in his head, as Doctor Crane would have 
had it. Shell had not been enlightened, had not hurried to the 
market, had not encountered Blood... 

He had been as young as Shell when he had talked to Blood and 
plucked three cards out of Blood's hand, not knowing that somewhere 
below a monitor was mad and howling for want of those cards--as young 
or nearly, because Shell might have done it, too. Again 
Silk smelled the dead dog in the gutter and the stifling dust raised 
by 
Blood's floater, saw Blood wave his stick, tall, red faced, and perspiring. Silk coughed, and felt that a poker had been plunged into his chest. 
Somewhat unsteadily, he crossed the room to the window and raised 
the sash to let in the night wind, then surveyed his naked torso in 
the 
minor over the bureau, a much larger one than his shaving mirror back at the manse. 
A dressing half concealed the multicolored bruise left by Musk's 
hilt. From what little anatomy he had picked up from the victims he 
had sacrificed, he decided that the needle had missed his heart by 
four fingers. Still, it must have been good shooting by a mounted 
man. 
With his back to the mirror, he craned his neck to see as much as 
possible of the dressing on his back; it was larger, and his back 
hurt 
more. He was conscious of a weak wrongness deep in his chest, and of the effort he had to make to breathe. 
Clothing in the drawers of the bureau: underwear, tunics, and carelessly folded trousers--under these last, a woman's perfumed scarf. This was a young man's room, a son's; the couple who owned the house would have a bedroom on the ground floor, a corner 
room with several windows. 
Chilled, he returned to the bed and drew up the quilt. The son 
had left without packing, otherwise the drawers would be half 
empty. Perhaps he was fighting in Maytera Mint's army. 
	Some part of Kypris had entered her, and that fragment had made 
the shy sibyl a general--that, and Echidna's command. For a 
moment he wondered what fragment it had been, and whether 
Kypris herself had known she possessed it. It was the element that 
had freed Chenille from rust, presumably; they would be part and 
parcel of the same thing. Kypris had told him she was hunted, and 
His Cognizance had called it a wonder that she had not been killed 
long ago. Echidna and her children, hunting the goddess of love, 
must soon have learned that love is more than perfumed scarves and 
thrown flowers. That there is steel in love. 
A young woman had thrown that scarf from a balcony, no doubt. 
Silk tried to visualize her, found she wore Hyacinth's face, and 
thrust the vision back. Blood had wiped his face with a peach-colored handkerchief, a handkerchief more heavily perfumed than 
the scarf. And Blood had said... 
Had said there were people who could put on a man like a tunic. 
He had been referring to Mucor, though he, Silk, had not known it 
then--had not known that Mucor existed, a girl who could dress her 
spirit in the flesh of others just as he, a few moments before, had 
been considering putting on the clothes of the son whose room this 
was. 
Softly he called, "Mucor? Mucor?" and listened; but there was no 
phantom voice, no face but his own in the mirror above the bureau. 
Closing his eyes, he composed a long formal prayer to the Outsider, 
thanking him for his life, and for the absence of Blood's daughter. 
When it was complete, he began a similar prayer to Kypris. 
Beyond the bedroom door, a sentry sprang to attention with an audible clash of his weapon and click of his heels. 
Shadeup woke Auk, brilliant beams of the long sun piercing his 
tasseled awnings, his gauze curtains, his rich draperies of puce 

velvet, and the grimed glass of every window in the place, slipping past his lowered blinds of split bamboo, the warped old boards 
someone else had nailed up, his colored Scylla, and his shut and bolted shutters; through wood, paper, and stone. 
He blinked twice and sat up, rubbing his eyes. "I feel better,"
he
announced, then saw that Chenille was still asleep, Incus and Urus both sleeping, Dace and Bustard sound asleep as well, and only big Hammerstone the soldier already up, sitting crosslegged with Oreb on his shoulder and his back against the tunnel wall. "That's good, trooper," Hammerstone said. 
"Not good," Auk explained. "I don't mean that. Better. Better 
than I did, see? That feels better than good, 'cause when you're 
feeling good you don't even think about it. But when you feel the 
way I do, you pay more attention than when you're feeling good. 
I'm a dimberdamber nanny nipper." He nudged Chenille with the 
toe of his boot. "Look alive, Jugs. Time for breakfast!" 
	"What's the matter with  _you?_" Incus sat up as though it had 
been 
he and not Chenille who had been thus nudged. 
"Not a thing," Auk told him. "I'm right as rain." He considered
the
matter. "If it does, I'll go to the Cock. If    it don't, I'll do some 
business on the hill. Slept with my boots on." He seated himself 
beside Chenille. "You too? You shouldn't do that, Patera. Bad on 
the feet." 
Untying their laces, he tugged off his boots, then pulled off his 
stockings. "Feel how wet these are. Still wet from the boat. Wake 
up, old man! From the boat and the rain. If we had that tall ass 
again, I'd make him squirt fire for me so I could dry 'em. Phew!" He 
hung the stockings over the tops of his boots and pushed them away. 
	Chenille sat up and began to take off her jade earrings. "Ooh, 
did 
I dream!" She shuddered. "I was lost, see? All alone down here, and this tunnel I was in kept going deeper both ways. I'd walk one way for a long, long while, and it would just keep going down. So I'd turn around and walk the other way, only that way went down, too, deeper and deeper all the time." 
"Recollect that the  _immortal gods_ are always with you, my daughter," Incus told her. 
"Uh-huh. Hackum, I've got to get hold of some clothes. My 
sunburn's better. I could wear them, and it's too cold down here 
without any." She grinned. "A bunch of new clothes, and a double 
red ribbon. After that, I'll be ready for ham and half a dozen eggs scrambled with peppers." 
"Watch out," Hammerstone warned her, "I don't think your friend's ready for inspection." 
Auk rose, laughing. "Look at this," he told Hammerstone, and 
kicked Urus expertly, bending up his bare toes so that Urus's ribs received the ball of his foot. 
Urus blinked and rubbed his eyes just as Auk had, and Auk 
realized that he himself was the long sun. He had awakened himself with his own light, light that filled the whole tunnel, too 
dazzlingly 
bright for Urus's weak eyes. 
"The way you been carrying the old man," he told Urus, "I don't like it." He wondered whether his hands were hot enough to burn 
Urus. It seemed possible; they were ordinary when he wasn't 
looking at them, but when he did they glowed like molten gold. 
Stooping, he flicked Urus's nose with a forefinger, and when Urus did not cry out, jerked him to his feet. 
"When you carry the old man," Auk told him, "you got to do it 
like 
you love him. Like you were going to kiss him." It might be a good 

idea to make Urus really kiss him, but Auk was afraid Dace might not like it. 
"All right," Urus said. "All right." 
Bustard inquired, How you feelin', sprat? 
Auk pondered. "There's parts of me that work all right," he 
declared at length, "and parts that don't. A couple I'm not set 
about. 
Remember old Marble?" 
	Sure. 
"She told us she could pull out these lists. Out of her sleeve, like. 
What was right and what wasn't. With me, it's one thing at a time." 
	"I can do that," Hammerstone put in. "It's perfectly natural." 
	Chenille had both earrings off, and was rubbing her ears. "Can 
 you put these in your pocket, Hackum? I got no place to carry them." 
	"Sure," Auk said. He did not turn to look at her. 
"I could get a couple cards for them at Sard's. I could buy a 
good 
worsted gown and shoes, and eat at the pastry cook's till I was ready to split." 
"Like, there's this dimber punch," Auk explained to Urus. "I 
learned it when I wasn't no bigger than a cobbler's goose, and I 
always did like it a lot. You don't swing, see? Culls always talk 
about swinging at you, and they do. Only this is better. I'm not sure it still works, though." 
His right fist caught Urus square in the mouth, knocking him 
backward into the shiprock wall. Incus gasped. 
"You sort of draw your arm up and straighten it out," Auk 
explained. Urus slumped to the tunnel floor. "Only with your weight 
behind it, and your knuckles level. Look at them." He held them 
out. "If your knuckles go up and down, that's all right, too. Only 
it's 
a different punch, see?" Not as good, Bustard said. "Only not as good," Auk confirmed. 
I kin walk, big feller, he don't have to carry me, nor kiss me neither. 
The dead body at his feet, Auk decided, must be somebody else. Urus, maybe, or Gelada. 
Maytera Marble tried to decide how long it had been since she had done this, entering  _roof_ and when that evoked only a flood of dripping ceilings and soaked carpets,  _attic_. 
A hundred and eighty-four years ago. 
She could scarcely believe it--did not wish to believe it. A 
graceful girl with laughing eyes and industrious hands had climbed 
this same stair, as she still did a score of times every day, walked 
along this hall, and halted beneath this odd-looking door overhead, 
reaching up with a tool that had been lost now for more than a 
century. 
She snapped her new fingers in annoyance, producing a loud and 
eminently satisfactory clack, then returned to one of the rooms that had been hers and rummaged through her odds-and-ends drawer 
until she found the big wooden crochet hook that she had sometimes 
plied before disease had deprived her of her fingers. Not these 
fingers, to be sure. 
Back in the hall, she reached up as the girl who had been herself had and hooked the ring, wondering whimsically whether it had 
forgotten how to drop down on its chain. 
It had not. She tugged. Puffs of dust emerged from the edges of the door above her head. The hall would have to be swept again. 
She hadn't been up there, no one had--
A harder tug, and the door inclined reluctantly downward, 
exposing a band of darkness. "Am I going to have to swing on you?" 
she asked. Her voice echoed through all the empty rooms, leaving 

her sorry she had spoken aloud. 
Another tug evoked squeals of protest, but brought the bottom of 
the door low enough for her to grasp it and pull it down; the folding 
stair that was supposed to slide out when she did yielded to a hard 
pull. 
I'll oil this, she resolved. I don't care if there isn't any oil. I'll cut 
up some fat from that bull and boil it, and skim off the grease and strain 
it, and use that. Because this  _isn't_ the last time. It is  _not_. 
She trotted up the folding steps in an energetic flurry of black bombazine. 
Just look how good my leg is! Praise to you, Great Pas! 
The attic was nearly empty. There was never much left when a 
sibyl died; what there was, was shared among the rest in accordance with her wishes, or returned to her family. For half a minute, 
Maytera Marble tried to recall who had owned the rusted trunk next to the chimney, eventually running down the whole list--every sibyl who had ever lived in the cenoby--without finding a single tin trunk arnong the associated facts. 
The little gable window was closed and locked. She told herself that she was being foolish even as she wrestled its stubborn catch. Whatever it was that she had glimpsed in the sky while crossing the playground was gone, must certainly be gone by this time if it had 
ever existed. 
Probably it had been nothing but a cloud. 
She had expected the window to stick, but the dry heat of the 
last 
eight months had shrunk its ancient wood. She heaved at it with all her strength, and it shot up so violently that she thought the glass must break. 
Silence followed, with a pleasantly chill wind through the window. 
She listened, then leaned out to peer up at the sky, and at last 
(as she had planned the whole time, having a lively appreciation of the difficulty of proving a negative after so many years of teaching small boys and girls) she stepped over the sill and out onto the thin old shingles of the cenoby roof. 
Was it necessary to climb to the peak? She decided that it was, necessary for her peace of mind at least, though she wondered what 
the quarter would say if somebody saw her there. Not that it 
mattered, and most were off fighting anyhow. It wasn't as noisy as it had been during the day, but you could still hear shots now and 
then, like big doors shutting hard far away. Doors shutting on the 
past, she thought. The cold wind flattened her skirt against her legs as she climbed, and would have snatched off her coif had not one 
hand clamped it to her smooth metal head. 
There were fires, as she could see easily from the peak, one just
a
few streets away. Saddle Street or String Street, she decided, 
probably Saddle Street, because that was where the pawnbrokers 
were. More fires beyond it, right up to the market and on the other side, as was to be expected. Darkness except for a few lighted 
windows up on Palatine Hill. 
Which meant, more surely than any rumor or announcement, that 
Maytera Mint had not won. Hadn't won yet. Because the Hill would 
burn, would be looted and burned as predictably as the sixth term in a Fibonacci series of ten was an eleventh of the whole. With the 
Civil Guard beaten, nothing--
Before she could complete the thought, she caught sight of it,
way
to the south. She had been looking west toward the market and 
north to the Palatine, but it was over the Orilla... No, leagues 
south of that, way over the lake. Hanging low in the southern sky 

and, yes, opposing the wind in some fashion, because the wind was 
in the north, was blowing cold out of the north where night was new, 
because the wind must have come up, now that she came to think of 
it, only a few minutes before while she had been in the palaestra 
cutting up the last of the meat and carrying it down to the root 
cellar. She had come upstairs again and found her hoarded wrapping 
papers blown all over the kitchen, and shut the window. 
	So this thing--this huge thing, whatever it might be--had been 
over the city or nearly over it when she had glimpsed it above the 
back wall of the ball court. And it wasn't being blown south any 
more, as a real cloud would be; if anything, it was creeping north 
toward the city again, was creeping ever so slowly down the sky. 
	She watched for a full three minutes to make sure. 
	Was creeping north like a beetle exploring a bowl, losing heart 
 at 
times and retreating, then inching forward again. It had been here, 
had been over the city, before. Or almost over it, when the wind had 
risen--had been taken unawares, as it seemed, and blown away over 
the lake; and now it had collected its strength to return, wind or no 
wind. 
So briefly that she was not sure she had really seen it, something 
flashed from the monstrous dark flying bulk, a minute pinprick of light, as though someone in the shadowy skylands behind it had squeezed an igniter. 
Whatever it might be, there was no way for her to stop it. It would 
come, or it would not, and she had work to do, as she always did. 
Water, quite a lot of it, would have to be pumped to fill the wash 
boiler. She picked her way back to the gable, wondering how much 
additional damage she had done to a roof by no means tight to begin 
with. 
She would have to carry wood in, enough for a big fire in the 
stove. Then she could wash the sheets from the bed she had died in 
and hang them out to dry. If Maytera Mint came back  (and Maytera 
Marble prayed very fervently that she would) she could cook 
breakfast for her on the same fire, and Maytera Mint might even 
bring friends with her. The men, if there were any, could eat in the garden; she would carry one of the long tables and some chairs out 
of the palaestra for them. Luckily there was still plenty of meat, 
though she had cooked some for Villus and given more to his family 
when she had carried him home. 
She stepped back into the attic and closed the window. 
Her sheets would be dry by shadeup. She could iron them and put them back on her bed. She was still senior sibyl--or rather, was again senior sibyl, so both rooms were hers, though she probably ought to move everything into the big one. 
Descending the folding steps, she decided that she would leave 
them down until she oiled them. She could cut off some fat and boil 
it in a saucepan while the wash water was getting hot; the boiler 
wouldn't take up the whole stove. By shadeup, the thing in the air 
would be back, perhaps; if she stood in the middle of Silver Street 
she might be able to see it quite clearly then, if she had time. 
Auk felt sure they had been tramping through this tunnel forever, 
and that was funny because he could remember when they had 
turned off the other one to go down this one that they had been 
going down since Pas built the Whorl, Urus spitting blood and 
carrying the body, himself behind them in case Urus needed 
winnowing out, Dace and Bustard so they could talk to him, then 
Patera with the big soldier with the slug gun who had told them how to walk and made him do it, and last Chenille in Patera's robe, with Oreb and her launcher. Auk would rather have walked with her and 
had tried to, but it was no good. 

He looked around at her. She waved friendly, and Bustard and 
Dace had gone. He thought of asking Incus and the soldier what had 
become of them but decided he didn't want to talk to them, and she 
was too far in back for a private chat. Bustard had most likely gone on ahead to look things over and taken the old man with him. It 
would be like Bustard, and if Bustard found something to eat he'd 
bring him back some. 
Pray to Phaea, Maytera Mint instructed him. Phaea is the food 
goddess. Pray to her, Auk, and you will surely be fed. He grinned at her. "Good to see you, Maytera! I been worried about you." May 
every god smile upon you, Auk, this day and every day. Her smile 
turned the cold damp tunnel into a palace and replaced the watery 
green glow of the crawling light with the golden flood that had 
awakened him. Why should you worry about me, Auk? I have 
served the gods faithfully since I was fifteen. They will not abandon me. No one has less reason to worry than I. "Maybe you could get 
some god to come down here and walk with us," Auk suggested. 
	Behind him, Incus protested, "_Auk_, my son!" 
He made a rude noise and looked around for Maytera Mint, but 
she was gone. For a minute he thought she might have run ahead to 
talk to Bustard, then realized that she had gone to fetch a god to 
keep him company. That was the way she'd always been. The least 
little thing you happened to mention, she'd jump up and do it if she 
could. 
He was still worried about her, though. If she was going to 
Mainframe to fetch a god, she'd have to pass the devils that made 
trouble for people on the way, telling lies and pulling them off the 
Aureate Path. He should have asked her to go get Phaea. Phaea and 
maybe a couple pigs. Jugs would like some ham, and he still had his 
hanger and knife. He could kill a pig and cut it up, and dish up her 
ham. Shag, he was hungry himself and Jugs couldn't eat a whole pig. 
They'd save the tongue for Bustard, he'd always liked pig's tongue. 
It was Phaesday, so Maytera would most likely bring Phaea, and 
Phaea generally brought at least one pig. Gods generally brought 
whatever animal theirs was, or anyhow, pretty often. 
	Pigs for Phaea.  (You had to get them all right if you wanted to 
learn the new stuff next year.) Pigs for Phaea and lions or anyhow 
cats for Sphinx. Who'd eat a cat? Fish for Scylla, but some fish 
would be all right. Little birds for Molpe, and the old 'un had limed 
perches for 'em, salted 'em, and made sparrow pie when he'd got 
enough. Bats for Tartaros, and owls and moles. 
Moles? 
Suddenly and unpleasantly it struck Auk that Tartaros was the 
underground god, the god for mines and caves. So this was his 
place, only Tartaros was supposed to be a special friend of his and 
look what had happened to him down here, he had made Tartaros 
shaggy mad at him somehow because his head hurt, his head wasn't 
right, something kept sliding and slipping up there like a needler 
that wouldn't chamber right no matter how much you oiled it and 
made sure every last needle was as straight as the sun. He reached 
under his tunic for his, but it wasn't right at all--was so wrong, in 
fact, that it wasn't there, though Maytera Mint was his mother and 
in need of him and it. 
"Poor Auk! Poor Auk!" Oreb circled above his head. The wind from his laboring wings stirred Auk's hair, but Oreb would not settle on his shoulder, and soon flew back to Chenille. 
It wasn't there any more and neither was she. Auk wept. 
The captain's salute was much smarter than his torn and soiled 
green uniform. "My men are in position, My General. My floater is patrolling. To reinforce the garrison by stealth is no longer 
possible. 
Nor will reinforcement at the point of the sword be possible, until we are dead." 

Bison snorted, tilting back the heavy oak chair that was temporarily his. 
Maytera Mint smiled. "Very good, Captain. Thank you. Perhaps you had better get some rest now." 
"I have slept, My General, though not long. I have eaten as well, as you, I am told, have not. Now I inspect my men at their posts. 
When my inspection is complete, perhaps I shall sleep another hour, with my sergeant to wake me." 
"I'd like to go with you," Maytera Mint told him. "Can you wait five minutes?" 
"Certainly, My General. I am honored. But..." 
She looked at him sharply. "What is it, Captain? Tell me, please." 
"You yourself must sleep, My General, and eat as well. Or you will be fit for nothing tomorrow." 
"I will, later. Please sit down. We're tired, all of us, and you 
must 
be exhausted." She turned back to Bison. "We have a principle in the 
Chapter, for sibyls like me and augurs like Patera Silk. Discipline, 
it's called, and it comes from an old word for pupil or student. If 
you're a teacher, as I am, you must have discipline in the classroom 
before you can teach anything. If you don't, they'll be so busy 
talking among themselves that they won't hear a thing that you say, 
and draw pictures instead of doing the assignment." 
	Bison nodded. 
Recalling an incident from the year before, Maytera Mint smiled again. "Unless you've  _told_ them to draw pictures. If you've told them to draw, they'll write each other notes." 
The captain smoothed his small mustache. "My General. We have 
discipline also, we officers and men of the Civil Guard. The word is 
the same. The practice, I dare say, not entirely different." 
	"I know, but I can't use you to patrol the streets and stop the 
looting. I wish I could, Captain. It would be very convenient, and no doubt effective. But to many people the Guard is the enemy. There 
would be a rebellion against our rebellion, and that's exactly what 
we cannot afford." 
She turned back to Bison. "You understand why this is needed, don't you? Tell me." 
"We're robbing ourselves," he said. 
His beard made it difficult to read his expression, but she tried and decided he was uncomfortable. "What you say is true. The 
people whose houses and shops are being looted are our people, 
too, and if they have to stay there to defend them, they can't fight 
for us. But that isn't all, is it? What else did you want to say?" 
	"Nothing, General." 
"You must tell me everything." She wanted to touch him, as she 
would have touched one of the children at that moment, but decided 
it might be misconstrued. "Telling me everything when I ask you to 
is discipline as well, if you like. Are we going to let the Guard be better than we are?" 
Bison did not reply. 
"But it's really more important than discipline. Nothing is more 
important to us now than my knowing what you think is important. 
You and the captain here, and Zoril, and Kingcup, and all the rest." 
	When he still said nothing, she added, "Do you want us to fail, 
so 
you won't be embarrassed, Bison? That is what is going to happen if 
we won't share concerns and information: we will fail the gods and 
die. All of us, probably. Certainly I will, because I will fight 
until 
they kill me. What is it?" 
"They're burning, too," he blurted. "The burning's worse than the 
looting, a lot worse. With this wind, they'll burn down the city if 
we 

don't stop them. And--and..." 
"And what?" Maytera Mint nibbled her underlip. "And put out the fires that are raging all around the city already, of course. You're right, Bison. You always are." She glanced at the door. "Teasel? Are you still out there? Come in, please. I need you." 
"Yes, Maytera." 
"We're telling one another we should rest, Teasel. It seems to be 
the convention of this night. You're not exempt. You were quite ill 
only a few days ago. Didn't Patera Silk bring you the Peace of Pas?" 
Teasel nodded solemnly; she was a slender, pale girl of thirteen, 
with delicate features and lustrous black hair. "On Sphixday, 
Maytera, and I started getting better right away." 
	"Sphixday, and this is Hieraxday." Maytera Mint glanced at the 
blue china clock on the sideboard. "Thelxday in a few hours, so we'll 
call it Thelxday. Even so, less than a week ago you were in 
imminent danger of death, and tonight you're running errands for 
me when you ought to be in bed. Can you run one more?" 
	"I'm fine, Maytera." 
"Then find Lime. Tell her where I am, and that I want to see her just as soon as she can get away. Then go home and go to bed. 
_Home_, I said. Will you do that, Teasel?" 
Teasel curtsied, whirled, and was gone. 
"She's a good, sensible girl," Maytera Mint told Bison and the captain. "Not one of mine. Mine are older, and they're off fighting or nursing, or they were. Teasel's one of Maytera Marble's, very likely the best of them." 
Both men nodded. 
"Captain, I won't keep you waiting much longer. Bison, I had 
begun to talk about discipline. I was interrupted, which served me 
right for being so long-winded. I was going to say that out of twenty 
boys and girls, you can make eighteen good students with discipline. 
I can, and you could too. In fact you would probably be better at it 
than I am, with a little practice." She sighed, then forced herself 
to 
sit up straight with her shoulders back. 
"Of the remaining, two one will never be a good student. He doesn't have it in him, and all you can do is stop him from 
unsettling 
the others. The other one doesn't need discipline at all, or at least 
that's how it seems. Pas's own truth is that he's already disciplined 
himself before you ever called the class to order. Do you understand 
me?" 
Bison nodded. 
"You're one of those. If you weren't, you wouldn't be my 
surrogate now. which you are, you know. If I am killed, you must take charge of everything." 
Bison grinned, big white teeth flashing in the thicket of his black 
beard. "The gods love you, General. Your getting killed's one thing I don't have to worry about." 
She waited for a better answer. 
"Hierax forbid," Bison said at last. "I'll do my best if it happens." 
"I know you will, because you always do. What you have to do is find others like yourself. We don't have enough time to establish 
real discipline, though I wish very much that we did. Choose men 
with needlers, won't need slug guns for this--older men, who won't 
loot themselves when they're sent to stop looters. Organize them in groups of four, designate a leader for each group, and have to tell--
	"Don't forget this, it's extremely important. Have them tell 
everyone they meet that the looting and burning have to stop, and 
they'll shoot anyone they find doing either." 
She rose. "We'll go Captain. I want to see how you've arranged 
this. I've a great deal to learn and very little time to learn it 

in." 
Horn and Nettle, he with a captured slug gun and she with a needler, had stationed themselves outside the street door. 
	"Horn, go in the house and find yourself a bed," Maytera Mint 
told him. "That is an order. When you wake up, come back here and relieve Nettle if she's still here. Nettle, I'm going around the Alambrera with the captain. I'll be back soon." 
The wind that chilled her face seemed almost supernatural 
after so many months of heat; she murmured thanks to Molpe, 
then recalled that the wind was fanning the fires Bison feared, 
and that it might--that in some cases it most certainly would--spread fire from shop to stable to manufactory. That there was a 
good chance the whole city would burn while she fought the 
Ayuntamiento for it. 
"The Ayuntamiento. They aren't divine, Captain." 
"I assure you, I have never imagined that they were, My 
General." He guided her down a crooked street whose name she 
had forgotten, if she had ever known it; around its shuttered store fronts, the wind whispered of snow. 
"Since they aren't," she continued, "they can't possibly resist
the
will of the gods for long. It is Echidna's will, certainly. I think 
we 
can be sure it's Scylla's too." 
"Also that of Kypris," he reminded her. "Kypris spoke to me, My General, saying that Patera Silk must be calde. I serve you because you serve him, him because he serves her." 
She had scarcely heard him. "Five old men. Four, if His Cognizance 
is right, and no doubt he is. What gives them the courage?" 
"I cannot guess, My General. Here is our first post. Do you see 
it?" 
She shook her head. 
"Corporal!" the captain called. Hands clapped, and lights kindled 
across the street; a gleaming gun barrel protruded from a second-
floor 
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 Maytera Mint, might tilt the balance. 
Or so Silk hoped. 
Oosik looked up. "This says Lemur's dead." Silk nodded. 
"There have been rumors all day. What    if your Prolocutor is simply repeating them?" 
"He's dead." Silk made the statement as forceful as he could, 
fortified by the knowledge that for once there was no need to hedge the truth. "You've got a glass, Colonel. You must. Ask it to find Lemur for you." 
"You saw him die?" 
Silk shook his head, saying, "I saw his body, however," and Oosik returned to the letter. 
Too much boldness could ruin everything; it would be worse than useless to try to make Oosik say or do anything that could be 
brought up against him later. 
Oosik put down the letter. "The Chapter is behind you, Calde. I 
suspected as much, and this makes it very plain." 
	"It is now, apparently." Here was a chance for Oosik to declare 
himself. "If you suspected it before you read that letter, Colonel, 
it 
was doubly kind of you to let Patera Shell in to see me." 
	"I didn't, Calde. Captain Gecko did." 
"I see. But you'll keep your promise?" 
"I am a man of honor, Calde." Oosik refolded the letter and put
it
in his pocket with his glasses. "I will also keep this. Neither of us 

would want anyone else to read it. One of my officers, particularly." 
	Silk nodded. "You're welcome to." 
"You want your clothes back. No doubt you would like to have 
the contents of your pockets as well. Your beads are in there, I 
think. I imagine you would like to tell them as you lie here." 
"I would, yes. Very much." 
"There are needlers, too. One is like the one with which you were shot. There is also a smaller one that seems to have belonged to a woman named Hyacinth." 
"Yes," Silk said again. 
"I see I know her, if she is the Hyacinth I'm thinking of. An amiable girl, as well as a very beautiful one. I lay with her on Phaesday." 
Silk shut his eyes. 
"I did not set out to give you pain, Calde. Look at me. I'm old enough to be your father, or hers. Do you imagine she sends me 
love letters?" 
"Is that...?" 
"What one of the letters in your pocket is?" Oosik nodded solemnly "Captain Gecko told me the seals had not been broken when he found them. Quite frankly, I doubted him. I see that I should not have. You have not read them." 
"No," Silk said. 
"Captain Gecko has, and I. No one else. Gecko can be discreet 
if I order it, and a man of honor must be a man of discretion, also. 
Otherwise he is worse than useless. You did not recognize her seal?" 
	Silk shook his head. "I've never gotten a letter from her 
before." 
"Calde, I have never gotten one at all." Oosik tugged his 
mustache. "You would be well advised to keep that before you. Many letters from women over the years, but never one from her. I say again, I envy you." 
"Thank you," Silk said. 
"You love her." Oosik leaned back in his chair. "That is not a 
question. You may not know it, but you do." His voice softened. "I 
was your age once, Calde. Do you realize that in a month it may be 
over?" 
"In a day it may be over," Silk admitted. "Sometimes I hope it will be." 
"You fear it, too. You need not say so. I understand. I told you
I
knew her and it gave you pain, but I do not want you to think, later, that I have been less than honest. I am being equally honest now. 
Brutally honest with myself. My pride. I am nothing to her." 
	"Thank you again," Silk said. 
"You are welcome. I do not say that she is nothing to me. I am
not
a man of stone. But there are others, several who are much more.
To explain would be offensive."
"Certainly you don't have to go into details unless you want me
to
shrive you. May I see her letter?"
"In a moment, Calde. Soon I will give it to you to keep. I think
so,
at least. There is one further matter to be dealt with. You chanced to mention a woman called Chenille. I know a woman of that name, too. She lives in a yellow house." 
Silk smiled and shook his head. 
"That does not pain you at all. She is not the Chenille you took
to
the lake?" 
"I was amused at myself--at my stupidity. She told me she had 
entertained colonels; but until you said you knew her, it had never 
entered my mind that you were almost certain to be one of them. 

There can't be a great many." 
"Seven besides myself." Oosik rummaged in the bundle of clothing and produced Musk's big needler and Hyacinth's small, gold-plated 
one. After holding them up so that Silk could see them, he laid them on the windowsill. 
"The little one is hers," Silk said. "Hyacinth's. Could you see 
that 
it's returned to her?" 
Oosik nodded. "I shall send it by a mutual acquaintance. What about the large one?" 
"The owner's dead. I suppose it's mine now." 
"I am too well mannered to ask if you killed him, but I hope he was not one of our officers." 
"No," Silk said, "and no. I confess I was tempted to kill him several 
times--as he was undoubtedly tempted to kill me--but I didn't. I've 
only killed once, in self-defense. May I read Hyacinth's letter now?" 
	"If I can find it." Oosik fumbled through Silk's clothes again, 
then 
held up both the letters Silk had taken from the mantel in the manse that morning. "This other is from another augur. You have no 
interest in it?" 
"Not as much, I'm afraid. Who is it?" 
"I have forgotten." Oosik extracted the letter from its envelope and unfolded it. "'Patera Remora, Coadjutor.' He wishes to see 
you, or he did. You were to come to his suite in the Prolocutor's 
Palace yesterday at three. You are more than a day late already, 
Calde. Do you want it?" 
"I suppose so," Silk said; and Oosik tossed it on the bed. 
Oosik rose, holding out Hyacinth's letter. "This one you will not wish to read while I watch, and I have urgent matters to attend to. I may look in on you again, later this evening. Much later. If I am too busy, I will see you in the morning, perhaps." He tugged his 
mustache. "Will you think me a fool if I say I wish you well, Calde? 
That if we were no longer opponents I should consider your 
friendship an honor?" 
"I'd think you were an estimable, honorable man," Silk told him, "which you are." 
"Thank you, Calde!" Oosik bowed, with a click of his booted heels. 
"Colonel?" 
"Your beads. I had forgotten. You will find them in a pocket of 
the robe, I feel sure." Oosik turned to go, but turned back. "A 
matter of curiosity. Are you familiar with the Palatine, Calde?" 
	Silk's right hand, holding Hyacinth's letter, had begun to 
tremble; 
he pressed it against his knee so that Oosik would not see it. "I've been there." By an effort of will, he kept his voice almost steady. "Why do you ask?" 
"Often, Calde?" 
"Three times, I believe." It was impossible to think of anything
but
Hyacinth; he could as easily have said fifty, or never. "Yes, three 
times--once to the Palace, and twice to attend sacrifice at the Grand Manteion." 
"Nowhere else?" 
Silk shook his head. 
"There is a place having a wooden figure of Thelxiepeia. As an augur, you may know where it is." 
"There's an onyx image in the Grand Manteion--" 
Oosik shook his head. "In Ermine's, to the right as one enters 
the 
sellaria. One sees an arch with greenery beyond it At the rear, 
there is a pool with goldfish. She stands by it holding a mirror. The 

lighting is arranged so that the pool is reflected in her mirror, and her mirror in the pool. It is mentioned in that letter." Oosik turned upon his heel. 
"Colonel, these needlers--" 
He paused at the door. "Do you intend to shoot your way to freedom, Calde?" Without waiting for Silk's reply he went out, leaving the door ajar behind him. Silk heard the sentry come to attention, and Oosik say, "You are dismissed. Return to the 
guardroom immediately." 
Silk's hands were still shaking as he unfolded Hyacinth's letter;
it
was on stationery the color of heavy cream, scrawled in violet ink, with many flourishes. 
<blockquote> 
O My Darling Wee Flea: 
I call you so not only because of the way you sprang from my window, but because of the way you hopped into my 
bed! How your lonely bloss has longed for a note from you!!! You might have sent one by the kind friend who brought you 
my gift, you know! 
</blockquote> 

That had been Doctor Crane, and Doctor Crane was dead--had died in his arms that very morning. 
<blockquote> 
Now you have to tender me your thanks and so much more, 
when next we meet! Don't you know that little place up on the Palatine where Thelx holds up a mirror?  _Hieraxday_. <p class=r>Hy 
</blockquote> 
Silk closed his eyes. It was foolish, he told himself. Utterly foolish. 
The semiliterate scribbling of a woman whose education had ended 
at fourteen, a girl who had been given to her father's superior as a 
household servant and concubine, who had scarcely read a book or 
written a letter, and was trying to flirt, to be arch and girlish and 
charming on paper. How his instructors at the schola would have 
sneered! 
Utterly foolish, and she had called him darling, had said she longed for him, had risked compromising herself and Doctor Crane to send him this. 
He read it again, refolded it, and returned it to its envelope, 
then 
pushed aside the quilt and got up. 
Oosik had intended him to go, of course--had intended him to 
escape, or perhaps to be killed escaping. For a few seconds he tried to guess which. Had Oosik been insincere in speaking of friendship? Oosik was capable of any quantity of double-dealing, if he was any 
judge of men. 
It did not matter. 
He took his clothing from the chair and spread it on the bed. If Oosik intended him to escape, he must escape as Oosik intended. If Oosik intended him to be killed escaping, he must escape just the same, doing his best to remain alive. 
His tunic was crusted with his own blood and completely 
unwearable; he threw it down and sat on the bed to pull on his 
undershorts, trousers, and stockings. When he had tied his shoes, he rose and jerked open a drawer of the bureau. 
Most of the tunics were cheerful reds and yellows; but he found a 
blue one, apparently never worn, so dark that it might pass for black 
under any but the closest scrutiny. He laid it on the pillow beside 
the 
letters, and put on a yellow one. The closet yielded a small 

traveling 
bag. Slipping both letters into a pocket, he rolled up his robe, 
stuffed it into the bag, and put the dark blue tunic on top of it. 
	The magazine status pin of the big needler indicated it was 
loaded; he opened the action anyway trying to recall how Auk had 
held his that night in the restaurant, and remembering at the last 
moment Auk's adjuration to keep his finger off the trigger. The 
magazine appeared to be full of long, deadly-looking needles, or 
nearly full. Auk had said his needler held how many? A hundred or 
more, surely; and this big needler that had been Musk's must hold at 
least as many if not more. It was possible, of course, that it had 
been 
disabled in some way. 
There was no one in the hall outside. Silk closed the door, and after a moment's thought put the quilt against its bottom and shut the window, then sat down on the bed, sick and horribly weak. 
When had he eaten last? 
Very early that morning, in Limna, with Doctor Crane and that 
captain whose name he had never learned or had forgotten, and the 
captain's men. Kypris had granted another theophany, had 
appeared to them, and to Maytera Marble and Patera Gulo, and 
they had been full of the wonder of it, all three of them newly come to religious feeling, and feeling that no one had ever come to it 
before. He had eaten a very good omelet, then several slices of hot, fresh bread with country butter, because the cook, roused from 
sleep by a trooper, had popped the loaves that had been rising 
overnight into the oven. He had drunk hot, strong coffee, too; 
coffee lightened with cream the color of Hyacinth's stationery and 
sweetened with honey from a white, blue-flowered bowl passed to 
him by Doctor Crane, who had been putting honey on his bread. 
Now Doctor Crane was dead, and so was one of the troopers, the 
captain and the other trooper most likely dead too, killed in the 
fighting before the Alambrera. 
Silk lifted the big needler. 
Someone had told him that he, too, should be dead--he could not remember whether it had been the surgeon or Colonel Oosik. 
Perhaps it had been Shell, although it did not seem the sort of thing that Shell would say. 
The needler would not fire. He tugged its trigger again and 
returned it to the windowsill, congratulating himself on having 
resolved to test it; saw that he had left the safety catch on, pushed 
it 
off, took aim at a large bottle of cologne on the dresser, and 
squeezed the trigger. The needler cracked in his hand like a 
bullwhip and the bottle exploded, filling the room with the clean scent of spruce. 
He reapplied the safety and thrust the needler into his waistband under the yellow tunic. If Musk's needler had not been disabled, 
there was no point in testing Hyacinth's small one, too. He made 
sure its safety catch was engaged, forced himself to stand, and 
dropped it into his trousers pocket. 
One thing more, and he could go. Had the young man whose 
bedroom this was never written anything here? Looking around, he saw no writing materials. 
What of the owner of the perfumed scarf? She would write to 
him, almost certainly. A woman who cared enough to drop a silk 
scarf from her window would write notes and letters. And he would 
keep them, concealing them somewhere in this room and replying in 
notes and letters of his own, though perhaps less frequently. The 
study, if there was one, would belong to his father. Even a library would not be sufficiently private. He would write to her here, 
surely, sitting--where? 
There had been no chair in the room until Shell brought one. The 
occupant could only have sat on the bed or the floor, assuming that 

he had sat at all. Silk sat down again, imagined that he held a quill, 
pushed aside the chair Shell had put in front of the little night table, 
and pulled it over to him. Its shallow drawer held a packet of notepaper, a discolored scrap of flannel, a few envelopes, four quills, and a small bottle of ink. 
Choosing a quill, he wrote: 
<blockquote> 
Sir, events beyond my control have forced me to occupy 
your bedchamber for several hours, and I fear I have broken 
a bottle of your cologne, and stained your sheets. In extreme 
need, I have, in addition, appropriated two of your tunics 
and your smallest traveling bag. I am heartily sorry to have 
imposed on you in this fashion. I am compelled, as I 
indicated. 
When peace and order return to our city, as I pray that 
they soon will, I will endeavor to locate you, make restitution, 
and return your property. Alternately, you may apply 
to me, at any time you find convenient. I am Pa. Silk, of Sun Street </blockquote> 

For a long moment he paused, considering, the feathery end of the gray goose-quill tickling his lips. Very well. 
With a final dip into the ink, he added a comma and the word _Calde_ after "Sun Street," and wiped the quill. 
Restoring the quilt to the bed, he opened the door. The hall was 
still empty. Back stairs brought him to the kitchen, in which it 
appeared at least a company had been foraging for food. The back 
door opened on what seemed, from what he could see by skylight, 
to be a small formal garden; a white-painted gate was held shut by a 
simple hook. 
Outside on Basket Street, he stopped to look back at the house he had left. Most of its windows were lit, including one on the second 
floor whose lights were dimming; his, no doubt. Distant explosions 
indicated the center of the city as well as anything could. 
	An officer on horseback who might easily have been the one who 
had shot him galloped past without taking the least notice. Two 
streets nearer the Palatine, a hurrying trooper carrying a dispatch 
box touched his cap politely. 
The box might contain an order to arrest every augur in the city, Silk mused; the galloping officer might be bringing Oosik word of 
another battle. It would be well, might in fact be of real value, for him to read those dispatches and hear the news that the galloping 
officer brought. 
But he had already heard, as he walked, the most important 
news, news pronounced by the muzzles of guns: the Ayuntamiento 
did not occupy all the city between this remote eastern quarter and 
the Palatine. He would have to make his way along streets in which 
Guardsmen and Maytera Mint's rebels were slaughtering each 
other, return to the ones that he knew best--and then, presumably, 
cross another disputed zone to reach the Palatine. 
	For the Guard would hold the Palatine if it held anything, and in 
fact the captain had indicated only that morning that a full brigade 
had scarcely sufficed to defend it Molpsday night. Combatants on 
both sides would try to prevent him; he might be killed, and the 
exertions he was making this moment might kill him as surely as any 
slug. Yet he had to try, and if he lived he would see Hyacinth 
tonight. 
His free hand had begun to draw Musk's needler. He forced it 
back to his side, reflecting grimly that before shadeup he might 
learn some truths about himself that he would not prefer to 
ignorance. Unconsciously, he increased his pace. 
Men thought themselves good or evil; but the gods--the Outsider 

especially--must surely know how much depended upon circumstance. Would Musk, whose needler he had nearly drawn a few 
seconds before, have been an evil man if he had not served Blood? Might not Blood, for that matter, be a better man with Musk gone? He, Silk, had sensed warmth and generosity in Blood beneath his cunning and his greed, potentially at least. 
Something dropped from the sky, lighting on his shoulder so heavily he nearly fell. "Lo Silk! Good Silk!" 
	"Oreb! Is it really you?" 
"Bird back." Oreb caught a lock of Silk's hair in his beak and 
gave 
it a tug. 
"I'm very glad--immensely glad you've returned. Where have you been? How did you get here?" 
"Bad place. Big hole!" 
"It was I who went into the big hole, Oreb. By the lake, in that shrine of Scylla's, remember?" 
Oreb's beak clattered. "Fish heads?" 

Chapter  6  -- The Blind God 

Oreb had eyed Dace's corpse hopefully when Urus let it fall to the 
tunnel floor and spun around to shout at Hammerstone. "Why we 
got to find him? Tell me that! Tell me, an' I'll look till I can't 
shaggy 
walk, till I got to crawl--" 
"Pick it up, you." Without taking his eyes off Urus, Hammerstone 
addressed Incus. "All right if I kill him, Patera? Only I won't be 
able 
to carry them both and shoot." 
Incus shook his head. "He has a  _point_, my son, so let us consider 
it.  _Ought_ we, as he inquires, continue to search for our friend Auk?" 
"I'll leave it up to you, Patera. You're smarter than all of us, smarter than the whole city'd be if you weren't living there. I'd do anything you say, and I'll see to it these bios do, too." 
"_Thank_ you, my son." Incus, who was exceedingly tired already, 
lowered himself gratefully to the tunnel floor. "Sit  _down_, all of 
you. 
We shall discuss this." 
"I don't see why." Tired herself, Chenille grounded her launcher. 
"Stony there does whatever you tell him to, and he could do for me 
and Urus like swatting flies. You say it and we'll do it. We'll have 
to." 
"Sit  _down_. My daughter, can't you see how very  _illogical_ you're 
being? You  _maintain_ that you're forced to obey in  _all things_, yet you will not oblige even the simplest request." 
	"All right." She sat; and Hammemtone, laying a heavy hand on 
Urus, forced him to sit, too. 
"Where Auk?" Oreb hopped optimistically across the damp gray 
shiprock. "Auk where?" Although he could not have put the feeling 
into words, Oreb felt that he was nearer Silk when he was with Auk 
than in any other company. The red girl was close to Silk as well, 
but 
she had once thrown a glass at him, and Oreb had not forgotten. 
"_Where_ indeed?" Incus sighed. "My daughter, you invite me to be 
a 
_despot_, but what you say is true. I might lord it over you both if 
I 
chose. I need not lord it over our friend.  _He_ obeys me very 

willingly, 
as you have seen. But I am  _not_, by inclination, training, or _native 
character_ inclined toward despotism. A holy augur's part is to lead and to advise, to  _conduct_ the laity to rich fields and  _unfailing_ springs, if I may put it thus  _poetically_. 
"So  _let us_ review our position and take  _council_, one with another. 
Then I will lead us in prayer, a fervent and  _devout_ prayer, let it 
be, 
to all the Nine,  _imploring_ their guidance." 
	"Then we'll decide?" Urus demanded. 
"Then  _I_ will decide, my son." By an effort, Incus sat up straighter. 
"But  _first_, allow me to dispel certain fallacies that have already 
crept 
into our deliberations." He addressed himself to Chenille. "_You_, my 
daughter, seek to accuse me of despotism. It is  _impolite_, but 
courtesy itself must at times give way to the  _sacred duty_ of 
_correction_. May I remind you that  _you_, for the space of nearly 
_two 
days, tyrannized_ us all aboard that miserable boat? Tyrannized  _me_ largely by means of our unfortunate friend, for whom we have 
already searched, as I would think, for nearly half a day?" 
	"I'm not saying we ought to stop, Patera. That was him." She 
pointed to Urus. "I want to find him." 
"Be  _quiet_, my daughter. I am not yet finished with  _you_. I shall 
come to  _him_ soon enough.  _Why_, I inquire, did you so tyrannize us? 
I 
say--" 
"I was possessed! Scylla was in me. You know that." 
"No, no, my daughter. It won't  _do_. It is what you have _maintained_, 
deflecting all criticism of your conduct with the same  _shabby_ 
defense. It shall serve you no longer. You were  _domineering, 
oppressive_, and  _brutal_. Is that characteristic of  _Our Surging Scylla?_ I 
affirm that it is  _not_. As we have trudged on, I have reviewed all 
that 
is recorded of  _her_, both in the  _Chrasmologic Writings_ and in our 
traditions likewise.  _Imperious?_ One can but agree.  _Impetuous_ at 
times, perhaps. But  _never_ brutal, oppressive, or  _domineering_." 
Incus 
sighed again, removed his shoes, and caressed his blistered feet. 
	"_Those_ evil traits, I say, my daughter,  _cannot_ have been 
_Scylla's_. 
They were present  _in you_ when she arrived, and so deeply rooted 
that she found it, I dare say, quite impossible to  _expunge_ them. 
_Some_ there are, or so I have heard it said, who actually  _prefer_ 
domineering women,  _unhappy_ men twisted by nature beyond the 
natural. Our poor friend Auk, with all his manifest excellencies of 
_strength_ and  _manly_ courage, is one of those unfortunates, so it 
would seem. I am  _not_, my daughter, and I thank Sweet Scylla for it! 
Understand that for  _my_ part, and for our tall friend's here, as I 
dare 
to say, we have not sought Auk for your sake, but for  _his own_." 
	"Talk talk," Oreb muttered. 
"As for  _you_," Incus shifted his attention to Urus, "_you_ appear to 
believe that it is only because of my loyal friend  _Hammerstone_ that you obey me. It that not so?" 
Urus stared sullenly at the tunnel wall to the left of Incus's 
face. 

"You are  _silent_," Incus continued. "Talk and more talk, complains 
our small  _feathered_ companion, and again, talk, talk and  _talk_. 
Not 
impossibly you concur. No, my son, you  _deceive_ yourself, as you 
have deceived yourself throughout what I feel  _certain_ must have 
been a most unhappy life." Incus drew Auk's needler and leveled it 
at the silent Urus. "I have but little  _need_ of my tall friend 
Hammerstone, where  _you_ are concerned, and should this endless 
_talk_ that 
you complain of end, you may find yourself less pleased  _than ever_ with that which succeeds it. I invite a  _comment_." 
	Urus shook his head. Hammerstone clenched his big fists, clearly 
itching to batter him insensible. 
"Nothing? In that case, my son, I am going to take the opportunity 
to tell you something of  _myself_ because I have been pondering that, with many other things, while we walked, and it will bear upon what I mean to do, as you will see. 
"I was born to poor yet  _upright_ parents, their  _fifth_ and _final_ child. 
At the time they were  _wed_, they had made  _solemn pledge_ to Echidna 
that they would furnish the immortal gods with an augur or a sibyl, 
the ripest  _fruit_ of their union and the most  _perfect_ of all 
_thank 
offerings_ for it. Of my older brothers and sisters, I shall say nothing. 
_Nothing_, that is to say, except that there was nothing to be hoped 
for 
from  _them_. No more  _holy piety_ was to be discovered in the four of 
them than in four of those  _horrid beasts_ with which you, my son, 
proposed to attack us. I was born some  _seven years_ after my 
youngest sibling, Femur. Conceive of my parents'  _delight_, I invite 
you, when the passing  _days, weeks, months_, and  _years_ showed ever 
more plainly my  _predilection_ for a life of  _holy contemplation_, of 
_worship_ and  _ritual_, far from the  _bothersome exigencies_ that 
trouble 
the hours of most men. The schola, if I may say it, welcomed me 
with  _arms outspread_. Its  _warmth_ was no less than that with which 
I, 
in my turn, rushed to  _it_. I was together  _pious_ and  _brilliant_, a 
combination not often found._ Thus endowed_, I gained the friendship 
of  _older men_ of tastes like to  _my own_, who were to extend 
themselves  _without stint_ in my behalf following my  _designation_. 
	"I was informed, and you may conceive of my  _rapture_, my 
_delight_, 
that no less a figure than the  _coadjutor_ had agreed to make me his prothonotary. With all my heart I entered into my  _duties_, drafting and summarizing letters and depositions, stamping, filing, and 
retrieving files, managing his  _calendar of appointments_, and a 
hundred like tasks." 
Incus fell silent until Chenille said, "By Thelxiepeia I could sleep 
for a week!" She leaned back against the tunnel wall and closed her eyes. 
"Where Auk?" Oreb demanded, but no one paid him the least attention. 
"We are all  _exhausted_, my daughter. I not  _less_ than you, and perhaps with more  _reason_, because my legs are not so  _long_, nor am I, by a decade and  _more_, so young, nor so well fed." 
"I'm not even a little bit well fed, Patera." Chenille did not 
open 
her eyes. "I guess none of us are. I haven't had anything but water since forever." 

"When we were on that  _wretched_ little fishing boat, you _appropriated_ 
to yourself what food you  _wished_, and  _all_ that you wished, my 
daughter. You left to  _Auk_ and Dace, and even to  _me_, an anointed augur, only such  _scraps_ as you disdained. But you have  _forgotten_ that, or say you have. I wish that I might forget it, too." 
"Fish heads?" 
Chenille shrugged, her eyes still closed. "All right, Patera, I'm sorry. I don't suppose we'll ever find any food down here, but if we do, or when we get back home, I'll let you have first pick." 
"I would  _refuse_ it, my daughter. That is the  _point_ I am _striving_ to 
make. I became His Eminence's prothonotary, as I said. I entered the _Prolocutor's Palace_, not as an awestruck  _visitor_, but as an 
_inhabitant_. 
Each morning I sacrificed  _one squab_ in the  _Private chapel_ below 
the 
reception hall, chanting my prayers to empty chairs. Afterward, I enjoyed 
that same  _bird_ at my luncheon.  _Upon a monthly basis_, I shrove Patera 
Bull, His Cognizance's prothonotary, as  _he me_. That was the whole compass 
of my duties as an augur. 
"But from time to time, His Eminence assigned to  _me_ such 
errands as he felt, or  _feigned_ to feel, overdifficult for a  _boy_. 
One 
such brought me to that miserable village of  _Limna_, as you know. I 
was to search for  _you_, my daughter, and it was my  _ill luck_ to 
succeed. Your own life, I suppose, has been, I will not say 
_adventurous_, but  _tumultuous_. Is that not so?" 
	"It's had its ups and downs," Chenille conceded. 
	"_Mine_ had not, with the result that I had assumed myself 
 _incapable_. Had some god informed me," Incus paused to thrust 
Auk's needler back into his waistband, then contemplated his 
scabbed hands, "that I should be forced to serve as the  _entire crew_ 
of 
a fishing vessel,  _bailing, making sail, reefing_, and all the rest, 
and 
this during a  _tempest_ as severe as any the Whorl has ever seen, I 
should have called it  _quite impossible_, declaring roundly that I 
should  _die_ within an hour. I would have informed this wholly 
supposititious divinity that I was a man of  _intellect_, now largely 
affecting to be a man of prayer, for my early piety had long since 
given way to an advancing  _scepticism_. Had he suggested that I might 
_yet_ become a man of action, I would have declared it to be 
_beneath_ 
me, and thought myself profound." 
Urus said, "Well, if you didn't have a needler 'n this big chem, we'd see." 
Incus nodded his agreement, his round, plump little face serious and his protuberant teeth giving him something of the look of a 
resolute chipmunk. "We would  _indeed_. Therefore, I shall  _kill_ you, Urus my son, or order Hammerstone to, whenever it appears that I 
am liable to lose either." 
"Bad man!" It was not immediately apparent whether Oreb intended Incus or Urus. 
Chenille said, "You don't really mean that, Patera." 
"Oh, but I do, my daughter. Tell them, Corporal. Do I mean what I say?" 
"Sure, Patera. See, Chenille, Patera's a bio like you, and bios 
like 
you and him are real easy to kill. You can't take chances, or him 
either. You got a prisoner, he's got to toe the line every minute, 

cause if you let him get away with anything, that's it. If it was up 
to 
me, I'd kill him right now, and not chance something happening to Patera." 
"We need him to show us how to get to the pit, and that door that opens into the cellar of the Juzgado." 
"Only we're not going to either one now, are we? And I know 
where the Juzgado is if I can get myself located. So why shouldn't I 
quiet him down?" As if by chance, Hammerstone's slug gun was 
pointing in Urus's direction; his finger found its trigger. 
	"We  _have not_ been going to the pit, I am happy to say," Incus 
told 
them. "It was  _Auk_ who wished to go there, for no good reason that 
_I_ 
could ever understand.  _Unfortunately_, we haven't been going to the 
Juzgado,  _either_, though it was to the Juzgado that Surging Scylla 
directed us.  _I_ am the sole person present who  _recollects_ her 
instructions, possibly. But I  _assure you_ it is so." 
	"All right," Chenille said wearily, "I believe you." 
	"As you  _ought_, my daughter, because it was  _through your mouth_ 
 that Scylla spoke. That very  _fact_ brings me to another point. She 
made Auk, Dace, and  _myself_ her prophets, specifying that I am to 
replace His Cognizance as  _Prolocutor_. Dace has  _departed_ this 
whorl, 
so grievously infected by evil, for the richer life of Mainframe. Succoring Scylla might recall him  _if she chose_, perhaps. I 
_cannot_. If 
our search for  _Auk_ is to be given up, or at least  _postponed_, and 
I 
confess there is  _much_ that appeals to me in that, only  _I_ remain 
of 
Scylla's three. 
"Earlier,  _bedeviled_ by multiple interruptions, I  _strove_ to explain 
my position. Because neither of you has  _patience_ for that explanation, 
though it would occupy but a  _few moments_ at most, I shall  _state_ it. Pay  _attention_, both of you." 
Incus's voice strengthened. "I have awakened to  _myself_, both as _man_ and as augur. A servant of Men, if you will. A servant of the _gods_, most particularly. You are three. One loves, two  _hate_ me. I am not unaware of it." 
"I don't hate you," Chenille protested. "You let me wear this 
when 
I got cold. Auk doesn't hate you either. You just think that." 
"Thank you, my daughter. I was about to remark that from what 
I've learned from my brother augurs concerning manteions, the 
proportion implied is the one most frequently seen, though our 
_congregation_ is so much less numerous. Very well,  _my good people_, I accept it. I shall do my best for each and for all, nonetheless, trusting in a reward from the east." 
"See?" Hammerstone nudged Chenille. "What'd I tell you? The greatest man in the  _Whorl_." 
Oreb cocked his head at Incus. "Where Auk?" 
"Nowhere to be found in that shining city we name  _Reason_, I fear," Incus told him half humorously. "He hailed someone.  _I_ saw him do it, though there was no one to be seen. After saluting this _unseen being_, he dashed away. Our good corporal pursued him, as you saw, but lost him in the  _darkness_." 
"These green lights don't work the way people think, see, 
Chenille. People think they just crawl around all the time and don't 
care where they're at, only they're not really like that. If it's 
bright 
one way and dark the other, they'll head for the dark, see? Real 

slow, but that's how they go. It's what keeps them spread out." 
	Chenille nodded. "Urus said something about that." 
	"In a little place, they get everything worked out among 
 themselves 
after a while and don't hardly move except to get away from 
the windows in the daytime, but in a big place like this they don't ever settle down completely. Only they don't ever go down much, 
'cause if they did, they'd get stepped on and broken real fast." 
	"Lots of these tunnels slope down besides the one Auk ran down," 
she objected, "and I've seen lights in them." 
"Depends on how dark it is down there, and how steep the slope is. If it's too steep, they won't go in there at all." 
	"It was pretty steep," Chenille conceded, "and we went down it 
quite a ways, but later we took that one that went up, remember? It didn't go up as steep as the dark one went down, and it had lights, but it climbed like that for a long time." 
"I  _think_, my daughter--" 
"So what I've been wondering is would Auk have gone back up like we did? He was kind of out of it." 
"He was  _deranged_," Incus declared positively. "I would hope 
that 
condition was only temporary, but temporary or  _not_, he was not _rational_." 
"Yeah, and that's why we took the tunnel that angled back up that 
I was talking about, Patera. We're not abram and we knew we 
wanted to get back up to the surface, besides finding Auk. But if 
Auk was abram... To let you have the lily word, all you bucks 
seem pretty abram to me, mostly, so I didn't pay much attention. 
Only if he was, maybe he'd just keep on going down, because that's 
easier. He was running like you say, and it's pretty easy to run 
downhill." 
"There  _may_ be something in what you suggest, my daughter. We must keep it in mind,  _if_ our discussion concludes that we should continue our pursuit. 
"Now, may  _I_ sum up? The  _question_ is whether we are to continue, 
or to break off our search,  _at least temporarily_, and attempt to return 
to the sufface. Allow me, please, to state both cases. I shall strive 
for  _concision_. If any of you has an  _additional point_, you are 
free to 
advance it when I have  _concluded_. 
"It would seem to me that there is only one  _cogent_ reason to 
_protract_ our search, and I have touched upon that  _already_. 
It is that Auk is one of the  _triune prophets_ commissioned by 
_Scylla_. As a  _prophet_ he is a  _theodidact_ of  _inestimable_ value, 
as 
was Dace. It is for that reason, and for it alone, that I _instructed_ 
Hammerstone to pursue him following his precipitate departure. It is for that 
reason  _solely_ that I have prolonged the pursuit so far. For  _I_, also, am 
such a prophet. The only such prophet remaining, as I have said." 
"He's one of us," Chenille declared. "I was with him at Limna 
before Scylla possessed me, and I remember him a little on the boat. We can't just go off and leave him." 
"Nor do  _I_ propose to do so, my daughter. Hear me out, I beg 
you. 
We are  _exhausted and famished_. When we return to the  _surface_ with 
Scylla's messages, in  _fulfillment_ of her will, we can gain rest and 
food.  _Furthermore_, we can enlist others in the search. We will--" 
Urus interrupted. "You said we could put in stuff of our own, 
right? All right, how about me? Do I get to talk, or are you goin' to 

have the big chem shoot me?" 
Incus smiled gently. "You must understand, my son, that as your 
spiritual guide, I  _love_ you no less and no more than the others. I have threatened your life only as the  _law_ does, for your 
correction. 
_Speak_." 
"Well, I don't love Auk, only if you want to get him back it looks 
to me like you're goin' about it wrong. He wanted us to go to the 
pit, 
remember? So maybe now that he's gone off by himself that's 
where. We could go 'n see, 'n there's lots of bucks there that know these tunnels as well as me, so why not tell 'em what happened 'n get 'em to look too?" 
Incus nodded, his face thoughtful. "It is a suggestion worthy of consideration." 
"They'll eat us," Chenille declared. 
"Fish head?" Oreb fluttered to her shoulder. 
"Yeah, like you'd eat a fish head, Oreb. Only we'd have to have fish heads to do it." 
"They won't eat me," Hammerstone told her. "They won't eat 
anybody I say not to eat, either, while I'm around." 
"Now let us  _pray_." Incus was on his knees, hands clasped behind 
him. "Let us petition the  _immortal gods_, and Scylla  _particularly_, 
to 
rescue both Auk and  _ourselves_, and to guide us in the ways they would have us go." 
"I twigged you don't buy that any more." 
"I have  _encountered_ Scylla," Incus told Urus solemnly. "I have 
seen 
for myself the  _majesty_ and  _power_ of that very great goddess. How 
could I lack belief now?" He contemplated the voided cross suspended 
from his prayer beads as if he had never seen it before. "I 
have suffered, too, on that wretched boat and in these  _detestable_ 
tunnels. I have been in terror of my life. It is hunger and fear that 
direct us toward the gods, my son. I have learned that, and I wonder 
that  _you_, suffering as you clearly have, have not turned to them 
long 
ago. 
"How do you know I haven't, huh? You don't know a shaggy thing about me. Maybe I'm holier than all of you." 
	Tired as she was, Chenille giggled. 
Incus shook his head. "No, my son. It won't do. I am a  _fool_, 
perhaps. Beyond dispute I have not infrequently been a fool. But 
not such a fool as that." More loudly he added, "On your  _knees_. Bow your heads." 
"Bird pray! Pray Silk!" 
Incus ignored Oreb's hoarse interruption, his right hand making the sign of addition with the voided cross. "Behold us, lovely 
Scylla, 
_wonderful of waters_. Behold our love and our need for thee. Cleanse 
us, O Scylla!" He took a deep breath, the inhalation loud in the 
whispering silence. "Your prophet is bewildered and dismayed, 
Scylla. Wash clear my  _eyes_ as I implore you to cleanse my  _spirit_. 
Guide me in this confusion of darkling passages and obscure 
responsibilities." He looked up, mouthing: "_Cleanse us, O Scylla_." 
	Chenille, Hammerstone, and even Urus dutifully repeated, "Cleanse 
us, O 
Scylla." 
Bored, Oreb had flown up to grip a rough stone protrusion in his 
red claws. He could see farther even than Hammerstone through 
the yellow-green twilight that filled the tunnel, and clinging thus 
to 
the ceiling, his vantage point was higher; but look as he might, he 

saw neither Auk or Silk. Abandoning the search, he peered hungrily 
at Dace's corpse; its half-open eyes tempted him, though he felt sure he would be chased away. 
Below, the black human droned on: "Behold us, fair Phaea,  _lady of the larder_. Behold our love and our need for thee.  _Feed_ us, O Phaea! Famished we wander in need of your nurture." All the 
humans squawked, "Feed us, O Phaea!" 
"Talk talk," Oreb muttered to himself; he could talk as well as they, but it seemed to him that talking was of small benefit in such situations. 
"Behold us, fierce Sphigx,  _woman of war_. Behold our love and our need for thee.  _Lead_ us, O Sphigx! We are lost and dismayed, O Sphigx, hemmed  _all about_ by danger. Lead us in the ways we should go." And all the humans, "Lead us, O Sphigx!" 
The black one said, "Let us now, with heads bowed, put ourselves in  _personal communion_ with the Nine." He and the green one and 
the red one looked down, and the dirty one got up, stepped over the dead one, and trotted softly away. 
"Man go," Oreb muttered, congratulating himself on having hit on the right words; and because he liked announcing things, he 
repeated more loudly, "Man go!" 
The result was gratifying. The green one sprang to his feet and 
dashed after the dirty one. The black one shrieked and fluttered 
after the green one, and the red one jiggled after them both, faster 
than the black one but not as fast as the first two. For as long as 
it 
might have taken one of his feathers to float to the tunnel floor, Oreb preened, weighing the significance of these events. 
	He had liked Auk and had felt that if he remained with Auk, Auk 
would lead him to Silk. But Auk was gone, and the others were not looking for him any more. 
Oreb glided down to a convenient perch on Dace's face and 
dined, keeping a wary eye out. One never knew. Good came of bad, and bad of good. Humans were both, and changeable in the 
extreme, sleeping by day yet catching fish whose best parts they generously shared. 
And--so on. His crop filled, Oreb meditated on these points 
while cleaning his newly-bright bill with his feet. 
	The dead one had been good. There could be no doubt about 
that. Friendly in the reserved fashion Oreb preferred alive, and 
delicious, dead. There was another one back there, but he was no 
longer hungry. It was time to find Silk in earnest. Not just look. 
Really find him. To leave this green hole and its living and dead 
humans. 
Vaguely, he recalled the night sky, the gleaming upside-down 
country over his head, and the proper country below. 
The wind in trees. Drifting along with it looking for things of interest. It was where Silk would be, and where he could be found. Where a bird could fly high, see everything, and find Silk. 
Flying was not as easy as riding the red one's launcher, but flying 
downwind through the tunnel permitted rests in which he had only 
to keep his wings wide and sail along. There were twinges at times, reminding him of the blue thing that had been there. He had never understood what it was or why it had stuck to him. 
Downwind along this hole and that, through a little hole  (he 
landed and peered into it cautiously before venturing in himself) 
and into a big one where dirty humans stretched on the ground or 
prowled like cats, a hole lidded like a pot with the remembered sky 
of night. 

Sword in hand, Master Xiphias stood at the window looking at the 
dark and empty street. Go home. That was what they'd told him. 
	Go home, though it had not been quite so bluntly worded. That 

dunce Bison, a fool who couldn't hold a sword correctly! That dunce 
Bison, who seemed in charge of everything, had come by while he 
was arguing with that imbecile Scale. Had smiled like friend and 
admired his sword, and had only pretended--pretended!--to 
believe him when he had stated  (not boasting, just supplying a plain, 
straightforward answer in response to direct, uninvited questions) 
that he had killed five troopers in armor in Cage Street. 
	Then Bison had--the old fencing master grinned gleefully--had 
gaped like a carp when he, Xiphias, had parted a thumbthick rope 
dangling from his, Bison's, hand. Had admired his sword and waved 
it around like the ignorant boy he was, and had the gall to say in 
many sweet words, go home like Scale says, old man. We don't need 
you tonight, old man. Go home and eat, old man. Go home and 
sleep. Get some rest, old man, you've had a big day. 
	Bison's sweet words had faded and blown away, lighter and more 
fragile than the leaves that whirled up the empty street. Their 
import, bitter as gall, remained. He had been fighting--had been a 
famous fighting man--when Bison was in diapers. Had been fighting 
before Scale's mother had escaped her kennel to bump tails with 
some filthy garbage-eating cur. 
Xiphias turned his back to the window and sat on the sill, his 
head 
in his hands, his sword at his feet. He was no longer what he had been thirty years ago, perhaps. No longer what he had been before he lost his leg. But there wasn't a man in the city--not one!--who dared cross blades with him. 
A knock at the front door, floating up the narrow stair from the floor below. 
There would be no students tonight; his students would be 
fighting on one side or the other; yet somebody wanted to see him. Possibly Bison had realized the gravity of his error and come to implore him to undertake some almost suicidal mission. He'd go, but by High Hierax they'd have to beg first! 
He picked up his sword to return it to its place on the wall, 
then 
changed his mind. In times like these--
	Another knock. 
There had been somebody. A new student down for tonight, 
came with Auk, tall, left-handed. Had studied with somebody else 
but wouldn't admit it. Good though. Talented! Gifted, in fact. 
Couldn't be here for his lesson, could he? With the city like this? 
	A third knock, almost cursory. Xiphias returned to the window 
and peered out. 
Silk sighed. The house was dark; when he had been here before, the 
second floor had blazed with light. He had been foolish to think that the old man might be home after all. 
He knocked for the last time and turned away, only to hear a 
window thrown open above him. "It's you! Good! Good!" The 
window banged down. With speed that was almost comic, the door 
flew wide. "Inside! Inside! Bolt it, will you? Is that a bird? A pet bird? Upstairs!" Xiphias gestured largely with a saber, his shadow leaping beside him; whipped by the night wind, his wild white hair seemed to possess a life of its own. 
"Master Xiphias, I need your help." "Good man?" Oreb croaked. 
"A very good man," Silk assured him, hoping he was right; he caught the good man's arm as he turned away. "I know I was 
supposed to come tonight for another lesson, Master Xiphias. I haven't. I can't, but I need your advice." 
"Been called out? Have to fight? What did I tell you? What weapons?" 
"I'm very tired. Is there a place where we can sit down?" 
"Upstairs!" The old man bounded up them himself just as he had 

on Sphixday night. Wearily, Silk followed. 
"Lesson first!" Lights kindled at the sound of the old man's voice, 
brightened as he beat the wall with a foil. 
The traveling bag now held only the yellow tunic, yet it seemed
as
heavy as a full one; Silk dropped it into a corner. "Master Xiphia--" 
	He snatched down another foil and beat the wall with that as 
well. 
"Been fighting?" 
"Not really. In a manner of speaking I have, I suppose." 
"Me too!" Xiphias tossed Silk the second foil. "Killed five. Ruins 
you, fighting! Ruins your technique!" 
Oreb squawked, "Look out!" and flew as Silk ducked. 
"Don't cringe!" Another whistling cut, this one rattling on the 
bamboo blade of Silk's foil. "What do you need, lad?" 
	"A place to sit." He was tired, deadly tired; his chest throbbed 
and 
his ankle ached. He parried and parried again, sickened by the 
realization that the only way to get this mad old man to listen was 
to 
defeat him or lose to him; and to lose  (it was as if a god had 
whispered it) tonight was death: the thing in him that had kept him 
alive and functioning since he had been shot would die at his defeat, and he soon after. 
Feinting and lunging, Silk fought for his life with the bamboo sword. 
Its hilt was just long enough for him to grip it with both hands, and he did. Cut right and left and right again, beating down the old man's guard. He was still stronger than any old man, however 
strong, however active, and he drove him back and again back, 
slashing and stabbing with frenzied speed. 
"Where'd you learn that two-handed thrust, lad? Aren't you left-handed?" 
Dislodged from his waistband, Musk's needler fell to the mat. 
Silk 
kicked it aside and snatched a second foil from the wall, parrying 
with one, then the other, attacking with the free foil, right, left, 
and 
right again. A vertical cut, and suddenly Xiphias's foot was on his right-hand foil. The blunt tip of Xiphias's foil thumped his wound, bringing excruciating pain. 
"What'll you charge, lad? For the lesson?" 
Silk shrugged, trying to hide the agony that lightest of blows
had
brought. "I should pay you, sir. And you won."
"Silk win!" Oreb proclaimed from the grip of a yataghan.
Silk die, Silk thought. So be it.
"I learned, lad! Know how long it's been since I had a student
who
could teach me anything? I'll pay! Food? You hungry?" 
"I think so." Silk leaned upon his foil; in the same way that faces 
from his childhood swam into his consciousness, he recalled that he 
had once had a walking stick with the head of a lioness carved on its handle--had leaned upon it like this the last time he had been here, although he could not remember where he had acquired such a thing 
or what had become of it. 
"Bread and cheese? Wine?" 
"Wonderful." Retrieving the traveling bag, he followed the old man downstairs. 
The kitchen was at once disorderly and clean, glasses and dishes and bowls, pots and ladles anywhere and everywhere, an iron 

bread-pan already in the chair Xiphias offered, as if it fully expected 
to join in their conversation, though it found itself banished to the woodbox. Mismatched glasses crashed down on the table so violently that for a moment Silk felt sure they had broken. 
"Have some? Red wine from the veins of heroes! Care for some?" 
It was already gurgling into Silk's glass. "Got it from a student! 
Fact! 
Paid wine! Ever hear of such a thing? Swore it was all good! Not so! What do you think?" 
Silk sipped, then half emptied his glass, feeling that he was indeed 
drinking from the flask that had dangled from his bedpost, drinking new life. 
"Bird drink?" 
He nodded, and when he could find no napkin patted his mouth with his handkerchief. "Could we trouble you for a cup of water, Master Xiphias, for Oreb here?" 
The pump at the sink wheezed into motion. "You been out? City 
in an uproar! Dodging! Throwing stones! Haven't thrown stones 
since I was a sprat! Had a sling! You too? Better armed!" Crystal 
water rushed forth like the old man's words until he had filled a 
battered tankard. "This new cull, Silk! Going to show 'em! We'll 
see... Fighting, fighting! Threw stones, ducked and yelled! Five 
with my sword. I tell you? Know how to make a sling?" 
	Silk nodded again, certain that he was being gulled but 
unresentful. 
"Me too! Used to be good with one!" The tankard arrived with a cracked green plate holding a shapeless lump of white-rinded cheese only slightly smaller than Silk's head. "Watch this!" Thrown from across the room, a big butcher knife buried its blade in the cheese. 
	"You asked whether I'd been out much tonight." 
"Think there's any real fighting now?" Abruptly, Xiphias found 
himself siding with Bison. "Nothing! Nothing at all! Snipers shooting 
shadows to keep awake." He paused, his face suddenly thoughtful. 
"Can't see the other man's blade in the dark, can you? Interesting. 
Interesting! Have to try it! A whole new field! What do you think?" 
	The sight and the rich, corrupt aroma of the cheese had awakened 
Silk's appetite. "I think that I'll have a piece," he replied with 
sudden 
resolution. He was about to die--very well, but no god had 
condemned him to die hungry. "Oreb, you like cheese, too, I know. 
It was one of the first things you told me, remember?" 
	"Want a plate?" It came with a quarter of what must have been a 
gargantuan loaf on a nicked old board, and a bread knife nearly as 
large as Auk's hanger. "All I've got! You eat at cookshops, mostly? I do! Bad now! All shut!" 
Silk swallowed. "This is delicious cheese and wonderful wine. I 
thank you for it, Master Xiphias and Feasting Phaea." Impelled by 
habit, the last words had left his lips before he discovered that he 
did 
not mean them. 
"For my lesson!" The old man dropped into a chair. "Can you throw, lad? Knives and whatnot? Like I just did?" 
	"I doubt it. I've never tried." 
"Want me to teach you? You're an augur?" 
Silk nodded again as he sliced bread. 
"So's this Silk! You know Bison? He told me! Told us all!" 
Xiphias raised his glass, discovered he had neglected to fill it, and did so. "Funny, isn't it? An augur! Heard about him? He's an 
augur too!" 
Although his mouth watered for the bread, Silk managed, "That's what they say." 
"He's here! He's there! Everybody knows him! Nobody knows 

where he is! Going to do away with the Guard! Half's on his side 
already! Ever hear such nonsense in your life? No taxes, but he'll dig canals!" Master Xiphias made a rude noise. "Pas and the rest! Could they do all that people want by this time tomorrow? You 
know they couldn't!" 
Oreb hopped back onto Silk's shoulder. "Good drink!" 
He chewed and swallowed. "You should have some of this cheese, too, Oreb. It's marvelous." 
"Bird full." 
Xiphias chortled. "Me too, Oreb! That's his name? Ate when I got home! Ever see a shoat? Like that! All the meat, half the bread, and two apples! Why'd you go out?" 
Silk patted his lips. "That was what I came to talk to you about, Master Xiphias. I was on the East Edge--" 
"You walked?" 
"Walked and ran, yes." 
"No wonder you're limping! Wanted to sit, didn't you? I remember!" 
"There was no other way by which I might hope to reach the 
Palatine," Silk explained, "but there were Guardsmen all along one side of Box Street, and the rebels--General Mint's people--had 
three times as many on the other, young men mostly, but women 
and even children, too, though the children were mostly sleeping. I had trouble getting across." 
"I'll lay you did!" 
"Maytera--General Mint's people wanted to take me to her when 
they found out who I was. I had a hard time getting away from 
them, but I had to. I have an appointment at Ermine's." 
"On the Palatine? You should've stayed with the Guard! Thousands there! Know Skink? Tried about suppertime! Took a pounding! Two 
brigades! 
Taluses, too!" 
Silk persevered. "But I must go there, without fighting if I can.
I
must get to Ermine's." Before he could rein in his tongue he added, "She might actually be there." 
"See a woman, eh, lad?" Xiphias's untidy beard rearranged itself in a smile. "What if I tell old whatshisname? Old man, purple robe?" 
"I had hoped--" 
"I won't! I won't! Forget everything anyhow, don't I? Ask anybody! We going tomorrow? Need a place to sleep?" 
	"Day sleep," Oreb advised. 
"Tonight," Silk told the old man miserably, "and only I am going. But it has to be tonight. Believe me, I would postpone it until 
morning if I could." 
"Drinking wine? No more for us!" Xiphias recorked the bottle and set it on the floor beside his chair. "Watch your bird! Watch and learn! Knows more than you, lad!" 
"Smart bird!" 
"Hear that? There you are!" Xiphias bounced out of his chair. "Have an apple? Forgot 'em! Still a few." He opened the oven door and banged it shut. "Not in there! Had to move 'em! Cooked the 
meat! Where's Auk?" 
"I've no idea, I'm afraid." Silk cut himself a second, smaller piece 
of cheese. "I hope he's home in bed. May I put that apple you're 
looking for in my pocket? I appreciate it very much--I feel a great deal better--but I must go. I wanted to ask whether you knew a 
route to the Palatine that might be safer than the principal 
street--" 
"Yes, lad! I do, I do!" Triumphantly, Xiphias displayed a bright red apple snatched from the potato bin. 
"Good man!" 

"And whether you could teach me a trick that might get me past 
the fighters on both sides. I knew there must be such things, and 
Auk would certainly know them; but it's a long way to the Orilla, 
and I wasn't sure that I'd be able to find him. It occurred to me 
that 
he'd probably learned many from someone else, and that you were a likely source." 
"Need a teacher? Yes, you do! Glad you know it! Where's your needler, lad?" 
For a moment Silk was nonplussed. "My--? Right here in my 
pocket." He held it up much as Xiphias had the apple. "It isn't 
actually mine, however. It belongs to the young woman I'm to meet at Ermine's." 
"Big one! I saw it! Fell out of your pants! Left it upstairs! Want me 
to get it? Eat your cheese!" 
Xiphias darted through the kitchen door, and Silk heard him 
clattering up the stair. "We must go, Oreb." He rose and dropped 
the apple into a pocket of his robe. "He intends to go with us, and I can't permit it." For a second his head spun; the walls of the 
kitchen 
shook like jelly and revolved like a carousel before snapping back into place. 
A dark little hallway beyond the kitchen door led to the stair,
and
the door by which they had entered the house. He steadied himself 
against the newel post, half hoping to hear the old man on the floor 
above or even to see him descending again, but the old house could 
not have been more silent if he and Oreb had been alone in it; it 
puzzled him until he recalled the canvas mats on the floor of the 
salon. 
Unbolting the door, he stepped into the empty, skylit street. The 
tunnels through which he had trudged for so many weary hours 
presumably underlay the Palatine, as they seemed to underlie 
everything; but they would almost certainly be patrolled by soldiers 
like the one from whom he had escaped. He knew of no entrance 
except Scylla's lakeshore shrine in any case, and was glad at that 
moment that he did not. A big hole, Oreb had said. Was it possible 
that Oreb, also, had wandered in those dread-filled tunnels? 
	Shuddering at the memories he had awakened, Silk limped away 
toward the Palatine with renewed determination, telling himself 
that his ankle did not really hurt half so much as he believed it 
did. 
His gaze was on the rutted potholed street, for he knew that despite 
what he might tell himself, twisting his ankle would put an end to 
walking; but regardless of all the self-discipline he brought to 
bear, 
his thoughts threaded the tunnels once more, and hand-in-hand with 
Mamelta reentered that curious structure  (not unlike a tower, but a 
tower thrust into the ground instead of rising into the air) that she had called a ship, and again beheld below it emptiness darker than 
any night and gleaming points of light that the Outsider--at his 
enlightenment!--had indicated were whorls, whorls outside the 
whorl, to which dead Pas and deathless Echidna, Scylla and her 
siblings had never penetrated. 
You was goin' to get me out. Said you would. Promised. 
Auk, who could not quite see Gelada, heard him crying in the 
wind that filled the pitch-black tunnel, while Gelada's tears dripped from the rock overhead. The two-card boots he had always kept 
well greased were sodden above the ankle now. "Bustard?" he called hopefully. "Bustard?" 
Bustard did not reply. 
You had the word, you said. Get me out O' here. "I saw you that 

time, off to one side." Unable to remember when or where he had said it last, Auk repeated, "I got eyes like a cat." 
	It was not quite true because Gelada had vanished when he had 
turned his head, yet it seemed a good thing to say. Gelada might walk wide if he thought he was being watched. 
Auk? That your name? Auk? "Sure. I told you." Where's the 
Juzgado, Auk? Lot o' doors down here. Which 'uns that 'un, Auk? "I dunno. Maybe the same word opens 'em all." 
This was the widest tunnel he had seen, except he couldn't see 
it. The walls to either side were lost in the dark, and he might, for 
all he knew, be walking at a slant, might run into the wall 
slantwise with any step. From time to time he waved his arms, 
touching nothing. Oreb flapped ahead, or maybe it was a bat, or 
nothing. 
(Far away a woman's voice called, "_Auk? Auk?_") 
The tunnel wall was aglow now, but still dark, dark with a 
peculiar sense of light--a luminous blackness. The toe of one boot kicked something solid, but his groping fingers found nothing. 
	"Auk, my noctolater, are you lost?" 
The voice was near yet remote, a man's, deep and laden with sorrow. 
"No, I ain't. Who's that?" 
"Where are you going, Auk? Truthfully." 
"Looking for Bustard." Auk waited for another question, but none 
came. The thing he had kicked was a little higher than his knees, 
flat 
on top, large and solid feeling. He sat on it facing the luminous 
dark, drew up his legs, and untied his boots. "Bustard's my brother, older than me. He's dead now, took on a couple Hoppies and they 
killed him. Only he's been down here with me a lot, giving me 
advice and telling me stuff, I guess because this is under the ground and it's where he lives on account of being dead." 
"He left you." 
"Yeah, he did. He generally does that if I start talking to 
somebody else." Auk pulled off his right boot; his foot felt colder than Dace had after Gelada killed him. "What's a noctolater?" 
	"One who worships by night, as you worship me." 
	Auk looked up, startled. "You a god?" 
"I am Tartaros, Auk, the god of darkness. I have heard you invoke me many times, always by night." 
Auk traced the sign of addition in the air. "Are you standing 
over 
there in the dark talking to me?" 
"It is always dark where I stand, Auk. I am blind." 
"I didn't know that." Black rams and lambs, the gray ram when 
Patera Silk got home safely, once a black goat, first of all the pair 
of 
bats he'd caught himself, surprised by day in the dark, dusty attic 
of 
the palaestra and brought to Patera Pike, all for this blind god. "You're a god. Can't you make yourself see?" 
"No." The hopeless negative seemed to fill the tunnel, hanging in the blackness long after its sound had faded. "I am an unwilling god, Auk. The only unwilling god. My father made me do this. If, as a 
god, I might have healed myself, I would have obeyed very 
willingly, I believe." 
"I asked my mother... Asked Maytera to bring a god down here to walk with us. I guess she brought you." 
"No," Tartaros said again; then, "I come here often, Auk. It is
the
oldest altar we have." 
"This I'm sitting on? I'll get off." 
(Again the woman's voice: "_Auk? Auk?_") 
"You may remain. I am also the sole humble god, Auk, or nearly." 

"If it's sacred..." 
"Wood was heaped upon it, and the carcasses of animals. You 
profane it no more than they. When the first people came, Auk, 
they were shown how we desired to be worshiped. Soon, they were 
made to forget. They did, but because they had seen what they had 
seen, a part of them remembered, and when they found our altars 
on the inner surface, they sacrificed as we had taught them. First of all, here." 
"I haven't got anything," Auk explained. "I used to have a bird, 
but he's gone. I thought I heard a bat a little while ago. I'll try 
to 
catch one, if you'd like that." 
"You think me thirsty for blood, like my sister Scylla." 
"I guess. I was with her awhile." Auk tried to remember when that had been; although he recalled incidents--seeing her naked on a 
white stone and cooking fish for her--the days and the minutes 
slipped and slid. 
"What is it you wish, Auk?" 
Suddenly he was frightened. "Nothing really, Terrible Tartaros." 
	"Those who offer us sacrifice always wish something, Auk. Often, 
 many things. Rain, in your city and many others." 
	"It's raining down here already, Terrible Tartaros." 
	"I know, Auk." 
"If you're blind..." 
"Can you see it, Auk?" 
He shook his head. "It's too shaggy dark." 
"But you hear it. Hear the slow splash of the falling drops kissing 
the drops that fell." 
"I feel it, too," Auk told the god. "Every once in a while one 
goes 
down the back of my neck." 
"What is it you wish, Auk?" 
"Nothing, Terrible Tartaros." Shivering, Auk wrapped himself in his own arms. 
"All men wish for something, Auk. Most of all, those who say they wish for nothing." 
"I don't, Terrible Tartaros. Only if you want me to, I'll wish
for
something for you. I'd like something to eat." 
	Silence answered him. 
"Tartaros? Listen, if this's a altar I'm sitting on and you're 
here 
talking to me, shouldn't there be a Sacred Window around here someplace?" 
"There is, Auk. You are addressing it. I am here." 
Auk took off his left boot. "I got to think about that." 
Maytera Mint had taught him all about the gods, but it seemed to him that there were really two kinds, the ones she had told about, the gods in his copybook, and the real ones like Scylla when she'd been inside Chenille, and this Tartaros. The real kind were a lot bigger, but the ones in his copybook had been better, and stronger somehow, even if they were not real. 
"Terrible Tartaros?" 
"Yes, Auk, my noctolater, what is it you wish?" 
"The answers to a couple questions, if that's all right. Lots of times 
you gods answer questions for augurs. I know I'm not no augur. So 
is it all right for me to ask you, 'cause we haven't got one here?" 
	Silence, save for the ever-present splashings, and the woman's 
voice, sad and hoarse and very far away. 
"How come I can't see your Window, Terrible Tartaros? That's 
my first one, if that's all right. I mean, usually they're sort of gray, 

but they shine in the dark. So am I blind, too?" 
Silence fell again. Auk chafed his freezing feet with his hands. Those hands had glowed like molten gold, not long ago; now they 
were not even warm. 
"I guess you're waiting for the other question? Well, what I 
wanted to know is how come I hear words and everything? At this 
palaestra I went to, Maytera said when we got bigger we wouldn't 
be able to make sense out of the words if a god ever came to our 
Sacred Window, just sort of know what he meant and maybe catch a 
couple of words once in a while. Then when Kypris came, it was just 
like what Maytera'd said it was going to be. Sometimes I felt like I 
could practically see her, and there was a couple words she said that 
I heard just as clear as I ever heard anybody, Terrible Tartaros. She 
said 
_love_ and  _robbery_, and I knew it. I knew both those words. And 
I knew she was telling us it was all right, she loved us and she'd 
protect us, only we had to believe in her. But when you talk, it's 
like 
you were a man just like me or Bustard, standing right here with me." 
	No voice replied. Auk let out his breath with a whoosh, and put 
his freezing fingers in armpits for a moment or two, and then began to wring out his stockings. 
"You yourself have never seen a god in a Window, Auk my noctolater?" 
Auk shook his head. "Not real clear, Terrible Tartaros. I sort of 
saw Kindly Kypris just a little, though, and that's good enough for 
me." 
"Your humility becomes you, Auk." 
"Thanks." Lost in thought, Auk reflected on his own life and 
character, the limp stocking still in his hand. At length he said, "It's 
never done me a lot of good, Terrible Tartaros, only I guess I never really had much." 
"If an augur sees the face and hears the words of a god, Auk, he sees and hears because he has never known Woman. A sibyl, also, 
may see and hear a god, provided that she has not known Man. 
Children who have never known either may see us as well. That is 
the law fixed by my mother, the price that she demanded for 
accepting the gift my father offered. And though her law does not 
function as she intended in every instance, for the most part it 
functions well enough." 
"All right," Auk said. 
"The faces we had as mortals have rotted to dust, and the voices 
we once possessed have been still for a thousand years. No augur, 
no sibyl in the  _Whorl_, has ever seen or heard them. What your 
augurs and sibyls see, if they see anything, is the self-image of the 
god who chooses to be seen. You say that you could nearly make 
out the face of my father's concubine. The face you nearly saw was 
her own image of herself, her self as she imagines that self to 
appear. I feel confident that it was a beautiful face. I have never 
met 
any woman more secure in her own vanity. In the same fashion, we sound to them as we conceive our voices to sound. Have I made myself clear to you, Auk?" 
"No, Terrible Tartaros, 'cause I can't see you." 
"What you see, Auk, is that part of me which can be seen. That is 
to say, nothing. I came blind from the womb, Auk, and because of it 
I am incapable of formulating a visual image for you. Nor can I show 
you the Holy Hues, which are my brother's and my sisters' thoughts 
before they have coalesced. Nor can I exhibit to you any face at all, 
whether lovely or terrible. You see the face I envision when I think 
upon my own. That is to say, nothing. When I depart, you will 
behold once more the luminous gray you mention." 
	"I'd rather you stayed around awhile, Terrible Tartaros. If 

Bustard ain't going to come back, I like having you with me." Auk 
licked his lips. "Probably I oughtn't to say this, but I don't mean 
any 
harm by it." 
"Speak, Auk, my noctolater." 
"Well, if I could scheme out some way to help you, I'd do it." 
There was silence again, a silence that endured so long that Auk feared that the god had returned to Mainframe; even the distant 
woman's voice was silent. 
"You asked by what power you hear my words as words, Auk, my noctolater." 
He breathed a sigh of relief. "Yeah, I guess I did." 
"It is not uncommon. My mother's law has lost its hold on you, 
because there is something amiss with your mind." 
	Auk nodded. "Yeah, I know. I fell off our tall ass when he got 
hit 
with a rocket, and I guess I must've landed on my head. Like, it 
don't bother me that Bustard's dead, only he's down here talking to me. Only I know it would've in the old days. I don't worry about 
Jugs, either, like I ought to. I love her, and maybe that cull Urus's trying to jump her right now, but she's a whore anyhow." Auk 
shrugged. "I just hope he don't hurt her." 
"You cannot live in these tunnels, Auk, my noctolater. There is no food for you here." 
"Me and Bustard'll try to get out, soon as I find him," Auk promised. 
"If I were to possess you, I might be able to heal you, Auk." "Go ahead, then." 
"We would be blind, Auk. As blind as I. Because I have never had eyes of my own, I could not look out through yours. But I shall go with you, and guide you, and use your body to heal you, if I can. 
Look upon me, Auk." 
"There's nothing to see," Auk protested. 
But there was: a stammering light so filled with hope and pleasure 
and wonder that Auk would willingly have seen nothing else, if only he could have watched it forever. 
"If you're actually Patera Silk," the young woman at the barricade 
told him, "they'll kill you the minute you step out there." 
	"No step," Oreb muttered. And again, "No step." 
	"Very possibly they would," Silk conceded. "As in fact they 
 almost 
certainly will--unless you're willing to help." 
"If you're Silk you wouldn't have to ask me or my people for 
anything." Uneasily she studied the thin, ascetic face revealed by 
the 
bright skylight. "If you're Silk, you are our commander and even General Mint must answer to you. You could just tell us, and we'd have to do whatever you said." 
Silk shook his head. "I am Silk, but I can't prove that here. You 
would have to find someone you trust who knows me and can 
identify me, and that would consume more time than I have; so I'm 
begging you instead. Assume--though I swear to you that this is 
contrary to fact--that I am not Silk. That I am--this, of course, is 
entirely factual--a poor young augur in urgent need of your 
assistance. If you won't help me for my sake, or for that of the god 
I 
serve, do so for your own, I implore you." 
"I can't launch an attack without an order from Brigadier Bison." 
	"You shouldn't," Silk told her, "with one. There's an armored 
 floater behind those sandbags. I can see the turret above them. If your people attacked, they would be advancing into its fire, and I've seen what a buzz gun can do." 

The young woman drew herself up to her full height, which was a span and a half less than his own. "We will attack if we are ordered to do so, Calde." 
Oreb bobbed his approbation. "Good girl!" 
Looking at the sleeping figures behind the barricade, children 
of fifteen and fourteen, thirteen and even twelve, Silk shook his 
head. 
"They're pretty young."  (The young woman could not have been 
more than twenty herself.) "But they'll fight if they're led, and 
I'll 
lead them." When Silk said nothing, she added "That's not all. I've 
got a few men, too, and some slug guns. Most of the women--the 
other women, I ought to say--are working in the fire companies. 
You were surprised to find me in command, but General Mint's a 
woman." 
"I am surprised at that, as well," Silk told her. 
"Men want to fight a male officer. Besides, the women of 
Trivigaunte are famous troopers, and we women of Viron are in no way inferior to them!" 
Recalling Doctor Crane, Silk said, "I'd like to believe that our men are as brave as theirs, as well." 
The young woman was shocked. "They're slaves!" "Have you been there?" 
She shook her head. 
"Neither have I. Surely then it's pointless for us to discuss their 
customs. A moment ago you called me Calde. Did you mean that...?" 
"Lieutenant. I'm Lieutenant Liana now. I used the title as a 
courtesy, nothing more. If you want my opinion, I think you're who you say you are. An augur wouldn't lie about that, and there's the bird. They say you've got a pet bird." 
"Silk here," the bird informed her. 
"Then do as I ask. Do you have a white flag?" 
"For surrender?" Liana was offended. "Certainly not!" 
"To signal a truce. You can make one by tying a white rag to a 
stick. I want you to wave it and call to them, on the other side. 
Tell 
them there's an augur here who's brought the pardon of Pas to your wounded. That's entirely true, as you know. Say he wants to cross and do the same for theirs." 
"They'll kill you when they find out who you are." 
"Perhaps they won't find out. I promise you that I won't volunteer 
the information." 
Liana ran her fingers through her tousled hair; it was the same gesture he used in the grip of indecision. "Why me? No, Calde, I can't let you risk yourself." 
"You can," he told her. "What you cannot do is maintain that 
position with even an appearance of logic. Either I am calde or I am 
not. If I am, it is your duty to obey any order I give. If I'm not, 
the 
life of the calde is not at risk." 
A few minutes later, as she and a young man called Linsang 
helped him up the barricade, Silk wondered whether he had been 
wise to invoke logic. Logic condemned everything he had done since 
Oosik had handed him Hyacinth's letter. When Hyacinth had 
written, the city had been at peace, at least relatively. She had no doubt expected to shop on the Palatine, stay the night at Ermine's, 
and return--
"No fall," Oreb cautioned him. 
He was trying not to. The barricade had been heaped up from 
anything and everything: rubble from ruined buildings, desks and 
counters from shops, beds, barrels, and bales piled upon one 

another without any order he could discern. 
He paused at the top, waiting for a shot. The troopers behind the sandbag redoubt had been told he was an augur, and might know of 
the Prolocutor's letter by this time. Seeing Oreb, they might know which augur he was, as well. 
And shoot. It would be better, perhaps, to fall backward toward 
Liana and Linsang if they did--better, certainly, to jump that way if they missed. 
No shot came; he began a cautious descent, slightly impeded by the traveling bag. Oosik had not killed him because Oosik had taken the long view, had been at least as much politician as trooper, as every high-ranking officer no doubt had to be. The officer commanding the redoubt would be younger, ready to obey the orders of 
the Ayuntamiento without question. 
Yet here he was. 
Once invoked, logic was like a god. One might entreat a god to 
visit one's Window; but if a god came it could not be dismissed, nor 
could any message that it vouchsafed mankind be ignored, suppressed, 
or denied. He had invoked logic, and logic told him that he 
should be in bed in the house that had become Oosik's temporary 
headquarters--that he should be getting the rest and care he needed 
so badly. 
"He knew I'd go, Oreb." Something closed his throat; he coughed 
and spat a soft lump that could have been mucus. "He'd read her 
letter before he came in, and he's seen her." Silk found that he 
could 
not, even now, bring himself to mention that Oosik had lain with Hyacinth. "He knew I'd go, and take his problem with me." 
	"Man watch," Oreb informed him. 
He paused again scanning the sandbag wall but unable to 
distinguish, at this distance, rounded sandbags from helmeted heads. "As long as they don't shoot," he muttered. 
	"No shoot." 
This stretch of Gold Street had been lined with jewelers, the 
largest and richest shops nearest the Palatine, the richest of all 
clinging to the skirts of the hill itself, so that their patrons 
could 
boast of buying their bangles "uphill." Most of the shops were empty now, their grills and bars torn from their fronts by a thousand arms, their gutted interiors guarded only by those who had died defending 
or looting them. Beyond the redoubt, other richer shops waited, still intact. Silk tried and failed to imagine the children over whose 
recumbent bodies he had stepped looting them. They would not, of 
course. They would charge, fight, and very quickly die at Liana's 
order, and she with them. The looters would follow--if they 
succeeded. This body  (Silk crouched to examine it) was that of a boy of thirteen or so; one side of his face had been shot away. 
	He had not been on Gold Street often; but he was certain that it 
had never been this long, or half this wide. 
Here a trooper of the Guard and a tough-looking man who might 
have been the one who had questioned him after Kypris's 
theophany lay side-by-side, their knives in each other's ribs. 
	"Patera!" It was the rasping voice that had answered Liana's 
hail. 
"What is it, my son?" 
"Hurry up, will you!" 
He broke into a trot, though not without protest from his ankle. 
When he had feared a shot at any moment, this lowest slope of the 
Palatine had been very steep; now he was scarcely conscious of its 
grade. 
"Here. Grab my hand." 
The Guard's redoubt was only half the height of the rebel 
barricade, although it was  (as Silk saw when he had scrambled to the 
top) rather thicker. Its front was nearly sheer, its back stepped for 

the troopers who would fire over it. 
The one who had helped him up said, "Come on. I don't know how long he'll last." 
Silk nodded, out of breath from his climb and afraid he had torn the stitches in his lung. "Take me to him." 
The trooper jumped from the sandbag step; Silk followed more 
circumspectly. There were sleepers here as well, a score of armored 
Guardsmen lying in the street wrapped in blankets that were 
probably green but looked black in the skylight. 
	"They going to rush us, over there?" the trooper asked. 
	"No. Not tonight, I'd say--tomorrow morning, perhaps." 
	The trooper grunted. "Slugs'll go right through a lot of that 
 stuff in 
their fieldwork. I been lookin' it over, and there's a lot of furniture 
in there. Boards no thicker than your thumb in junk like that. I'm Sergeant Eft." 
They shook hands, and Silk said, "I was thinking the same thing
as
I climbed over it, Sergeant. There are heavier things as well,
though, and even the chairs and so forth must obstruct your view."
Eft snorted. "They got nothin' I want to see."
That could not be said of the Guard, as Silk realized as soon as
he
looked past the floater. A talus had been posted at an intersection a hundred paces uphill, its great, tusked head  (so like that of the one he had killed beneath Scylla's shrine that he could have believed 
them brothers) swiveling to peer down each street in turn. Liana 
would have been interested in it, he thought, if she did not know 
about it already. 
"In here." Eft opened the door of one of the dark shops; his voice 
and the thump of the door brightened lights inside, where troopers stripped of parts of their armor and more or less bandaged lay on blankets on a terrazzo floor. One moaned, awakened by the noise 
or the lights; two, it seemed, were not breathing. Silk knelt by the nearest, feeling for a pulse. 
"Not him. Over here." 
"All of them," Silk said. "I'm going to bring the Pardon of Pas to all of 
them, and I won't do it en masse. There's no justification for that." 
	"Most's already had it. He has." 
Silk looked up at the sergeant, but there was no judging his 
truthfulness from his hard, ill-favored face. Silk rose. "This man's dead, I believe." 
"All right, we'll get him out of here. Come over here. He's not." Eft was standing beside the man who had moaned. 
Silk knelt again. The injured man's skin was cold to his touch. "You're not keeping him warm enough, Sergeant." 
"You a doctor, too?" 
"No, but I know something about caring for the sick. An augur must." 
"No hurt." Oreb hopped from Silk's shoulder to the injured man's chest. "No blood." 
"Leave him alone, you silly bird." 
"No hurt!" Oreb whistled. "No blood!" 
A bald man no taller than Liana stepped from behind one of the 
empty showcases. Although he held a slug gun, he was not in armor 
or even in uniform. "He--he isn't, Patera. Isn't wounded. At least 
he doesn't--I couldn't find a thing. I think it must be his heart." 
"Get a blanket," Silk told Eft. "Two blankets. Now!" "I don't take orders from any shaggy butcher." 
"Then his death will be on your head, Sergeant." Silk took his 
beads from his pocket. "Bring two blankets. Three wouldn't be too 

many. The men watching the rebels can spare theirs, surely. Three blankets and clean water." 
He bent over the injured man, his prayer beads dangling in the 
approved fashion from his right hand. "In the names of all the gods 
you are forgiven forever, my son. I speak here for Great Pas, for 
Divine Echidna, for Scalding Scylla, for Marvelous Molpe..." 
The names rolled from his tongue, each with its sonorous 
honorific, names empty or freighted with horror. Pas, whose Plan 
the Outsider had endorsed, was dead; Echidna a monster. The 
ghost that haunted Silk's mind now, as he spoke and swung his beads, was not Doctor Crane's but that of the handsome, brutal chem who had believed himself Councillor Lemur. 
"The monarch wanted a son to succeed him," the false Lemur had 
said. "Scylla was as strong-willed as the monarch himself but female. 
Her father allowed her to found our city, however, and many 
others. She founded your Chapter as well, a parody of the state 
religion of her own whorl. His queen bore the monarch another 
child, but she was worse yet, a fine dancer and a skilled musician, 
but female, too, and subject to fits of insanity. We call her Molpe. 
The third was male, but no better than the first two because he was 
born blind. He became that Tartaros to whom you were recommending 
yourself, Patera. You believe he can see without light. The 
truth is that he cannot see by daylight. Echidna conceived again, 
and bore another male, a healthy boy who inherited his father's 
virile indifference to the physical sensations of others to the point 
of 
mania. We call him Hierax now--" 
And this boy over whom he bent and traced sign after sign of 
addition was nearly dead. Possibly--just possibly--he might derive 
comfort from the liturgy, and even strength. The gods whom he had 
worshiped might be unworthy of his worship, or of anyone's; but the 
worship itself must have counted for something, weighed in some 
scales somewhere, surely. It had to, or else the Whorl was mad. 
	"The Outsider likewise forgives you, my son, for I speak here for 
him, too." A final sign of addition and it was over. Silk sighed, 
shivered, and put away his beads. 
"The other one didn't say that," the civilian with the slug gun 
told 
him. "That last." 
He had waited so long in fear of some such remark that it came now as an anticlimax. "Many augurs include the Outsider among the minor gods," he explained, "but I don't. His heart? Is that what you said? He's very young for heart problems." 
"His name's Cornet Mattak. His father's a customer of mine." The 
little jeweler leaned closer. "That sergeant, he killed the other 
one." 
"The other--?" 
"Patera Moray. He told me his name. We chatted awhile when 
he'd said the prayers of the Pardon, and I--I-- And I--" Tears 
flooded the jeweler's eyes, abrupt and unexpected as the gush from 
a broken jar. He took out a blue handkerchief and blew his nose. 
Silk bent over the cornet again, searching for a wound. 
"I said I'd give him a chalice. To catch the blood, you know what I mean?" 
"Yes," Silk said absently. "I know what they're for." 
"He said theirs was yellow pottery, and I said--said--" 
Silk rose and picked up the small traveling bag. "Where is his body? Are you certain he's dead?" Oreb fluttered back to his 
shoulder. 
The jeweler wiped his eyes and nose. "Is he dead? Holy Hierax! If you'd seen him, you wouldn't ask. He's out in the alley. That 
sergeant came in while we were talking and shot him. In my own 
store! He dragged him out there afterward." 
"Show him to me, please. He brought the Pardon of Pas to all 

these others? Is that correct?" 
Leading Silk past empty display cases toward the back of the shop, the jeweler nodded. 
"Cornet Mattak hadn't been wounded then?" 
"That's right." The jeweler pushed aside a black velvet curtain, 
revealing a narrow hallway. They passed a padlocked iron door and 
stopped before a similar door that was heavily barred. "I said when 
all this is over and things have settled down, I'll give you a gold 
one. 
I was still emptying out my cases, you see, while he was bringing 
them the Pardon. He said he'd never seen so much gold, and they 
were saving for a real gold chalice. They had one at his manteion, he said, before he came, but they'd had to sell it." 
"I understand." 
The jeweler took down the second bar and stood it against the wall. 
"So I said, when this is over I'll give you one to remember tonight 
by. 
I've got a nice one that I've had about a year, plain gold but not plain 
looking, you know what I mean? He smiled when I said that." 
	The iron door swung open with a creak of dry hinges that 
reminded Silk painfully of the garden gate at the manse. 
"I said, you come into the strong room with me, Patera, and I'll 
show it to you. He put his hand on my shoulder then and said, my 
son, don't consider yourself bound by this. You haven't sworn by a god, and--and--" 
"Let me see him." Silk stepped outside into the alley. 
"And then the sergeant came in and shot him," the jeweler 
finished. "So don't you go back inside, Patera." 
In the chill evil-smelling darkness, someone was murmuring the 
prayer that Silk himself had just completed. He caught the names of Phaea and Sphigx, followed by the conventional closing phrase. The 
voice was an old man's; for an eerie moment, Silk felt that it was 
Patera Pike's. 
His eyes had adjusted to the darkness of the alley by the time
the
kneeling figure stood. "You're in terrible danger here," Silk said,
and bit back the stooped figure's title just in time.
"So are you, Patera," Quetzal told him.
Silk turned to the jeweler. "Go inside and bar the door, please.
I
must speak to the--to my fellow augur. Warn him." 
The jeweler nodded, and the iron door closed with a crash, leaving the alley darker than ever. 
For a few seconds, Silk assumed that he had simply lost sight of 
Quetzal in the darkness; but he was no longer there. Patera Moray--of an age, height, and weight indeterminable without more light--lay 
on his back in the filthy mud of the alley, his beads in his hands 
and his arms neatly folded across his torn chest, alone in the final 
solitude of death. 

Chapter  7  -- Where Thelx Holds Up a Mirror 

Silk stopped to look at Ermine's imposing facade. Ermine's had 
been built as a private house, or so it appeared--built for someone with a bottomless cardcase and a deep appreciation of pillars, 
arches, friezes, and cornices and the like; features he had 
previously 
seen only as fading designs painted on the otherwise stark fronts of 
shiprock buildings were real here in a jungle of stone that towered 
fully five stories. A polished brass plaque of ostentatiously modest 

proportions on the wide green front door announced: "Ermine's Hotel." 
Who, Silk wondered almost idly, had Ermine been? Or was he 
still alive? If so, might Linsang be a poor relation--or even a rich one who had turned against the Ayuntamiento? And what about 
Patera Gulo? Stranger things had happened. 
Though he felt cold, his hands were clammy; he groped for his robe before remembering that it was back in the borrowed traveling bag with the borrowed blue tunic, and wiped his hands on the yellow one he was wearing instead. 
"Go in?" Oreb inquired. 
"In a minute." He was procrastinating and knew it. This was 
Ermine's, the end of dreams, the shadeup of waking. If he was 
lucky, he would be recognized and shot. If he was not, he would find Thelxiepeia's image and wait until Ermine's closed, for even 
Ermine's must close sometime. An immensely superior servant 
would inform him icily that he would have to leave. He would stand, and look about him one last time, and try to hold the servant in 
conversation to gain a few moments more. 
After that, he would have to go. The street would be gray with 
morning and very cold. He would hear Ermine's door shut firmly 
behind him, the snick of the bolt and the rattle of the bar. He would look up and down the street and see no Hyacinth, and no one who 
could be carrying a message from her. 
Then it would be over. Over and dead and done with, never to 
live again. He would recall his longing as something that had once 
occupied an augur whose name chanced to be his, Silk, a name not 
common but by no means outlandish.  (The old calde, whose bust his 
mother had kept at the back of her closet, had been--what? Had he 
been Silk, too? No, Tussah; but tussah was another costly fabric.) 
He would try to bring peace and to save his manteion, fail at both, 
and die. 
"Go in?" 
He wanted to say that they were indeed going in, but found 
himself too dismayed to speak. A man with a pheasant's feather in his hat and a fur cape muttered, "Pardon me," and shouldered past. A footman in livery  (presumably the supercilious servant envisioned a few seconds before) opened the door from inside. 
Now. Or not at all. Leave or send a message. Preserve the illusion. 
"Are you coming in, sir?" 
"Yes," Silk said. "Yes, I am. I was wondering about my pet, 
though. If there are objections, I'll leave him outside." 
"None, sir," A faint, white smile touched the footman's narrow lips like the tracery of frost upon a windowpane. "The ladies not infrequently bring animals, sir. Boarhounds, sir. Monkeys. Your bird cannot be worse. But, sir, the door..." 
It was open, of course. The night was chill, and Ermine's would be comfortably warm, rebellion or no rebellion. Silk climbed the 
steps to the green door, discovering that Liana's barricade had been neither higher nor steeper. 
"This is your first visit to Ermine's, I take it, sir?" 
Silk nodded. "I'm to meet a lady here." 
"I quite understand, sir. This is our anteroom, sir." There were 
sofas and stiff-looking chairs. "It is principally for the removal of 
one's outer garments, sir. They are left in the cloakroom. You may 
check your bag there, if you so desire. There is no hospitality here 
in 
the anteroom, sir, but one can observe all the guests who enter or depart." 
"Good man?" Oreb studied the footman through one bright, black eye. "Like bird?" 
"Tonight, sir," the footman leaned nearer Silk, and his voice 
became confidential, "I might be able to fetch you some refreshment 

myself, however. We've little patronage tonight. The unrest." 
"Thank you," Silk said. "Thank you very much. But no." 
"Beyond the anteroom, sir, is our sellaria. The chairs are rather more comfonable, sir, and there is hospitality as well. Some 
gentlemen read." 
"Suppose I go into your seilaria and turn to the right," Silk inquired, "where would I be then?" 
"In the Club, sir. Or if one turns less abruptly, in the Glasshouse, 
sir. There are nooks, sir. Benches and settees. There is hospitality, sir, but it is infrequent." 
"Thank you," Silk said, and hurried away. 
Strange to think that this enormous room, a room that held fifty 
chairs or more, with half that many diminutive tables and scores of 
potted plants, statues, and fat-bellied urns, should be called by the 
same name as his musty little sitting room at the manse. Swerving to 
his right he wound among them, worrying that he had turned too 
abruptly and feeling that he walked in a dream through a house of 
giants--while politely declining the tray proffered by a deferential 
waiter. All the chairs he saw were empty; a table with a glass top 
scarcely bigger than the seat of a milking stool held wads of 
crumpled paper and a sheet half covered with script, the only signs 
of human habitation. 
A wall loomed before him like the face of a mountain, or more 
accurately, like a fog bank through rents in which might be glimpsed scenes of unrelated luxury that were in truth its pictures. He veered left, and after another twenty strides caught sight of a marble arch framing a curtain of leaves. 
It had been as warm as he had expected in the sellaria; passing 
through the arch he entered an atmosphere warmer still, humid, and 
freighted with exotic perfumes. A moth with mauve-and-gray wings 
larger than his palms fluttered before his face to light on a purple flower the size of a soup tureen. A path surfaced with what seemed 
precious stones, narrower even than the graveled path through the 
garden of his manteion, vanished after a step or two among vines 
and dwarfish trees. The music of falling water was everywhere. 
	"Good place," Oreb approved. 
It was, Silk thought. It was stranger and more dream-like than
the
sellaria, but more friendly and more human, too. The sellaria had 
been a vision of opulence bordering on nightmare; this was a gentler 
one of warmth and water, sunshine and lush fertility, and though 
this glass-roofed garden might be used for vicious purposes, sunshine 
and fertility, water and warmth were things in themselves 
good; their desirability could only be illustrated more clearly by 
the 
proximity of evil. "I like it," he whispered to Oreb. "Hyacinth must too, or she wouldn't have told me to meet her here, where all this would surely dim the beauty of a woman less lovely." 
The sparkling path divided. He hesitated, then turned to his right. 
A few steps more, and there was no light save that from the skylands floating above the whorl. "His Cognizance would like this as much as we do, I believe, Oreb. I've been in his garden at the Palace, and this reminds me of it, though that's an open-air garden, and this can't be nearly as large." 
Here was a seat for two, masterfully carved from a single block
of
myrtle. He halted to stare at it, longing to sit but restrained by 
the 
fear that he would be unable to stand again. "We have to find this 
image of Thelxiepeia," he muttered, "and there must be places to sit there. Hyacinth won't come. She's at Blood's in the country, she's bound to be. But we can rest there awhile." 

A new voice, obsequious and affected, murmured, "I  _beg_ your pardon, sir." 
"Yes, what is it?" Silk turned. 
A waiter had come up behind him. "I'm rather embarrassed, sir. I really don't know quite how to phrase it." 
"Am I not supposed to be in here now?" As Silk asked, he 
resolved not to leave without a fight; they might overwhelm him with a mob of waiters and footmen, but they would have to--no mere order or argument would suffice. 
"Oh, no, sir!" The waiter looked horrified. "It's quite all right." 
The desperate struggle Silk had visualized faded into the mist of unactualized eventualities. 
"There is a gendeman, sir. A very tall gentleman, sir, with a 
long 
face? Rather a sad face, if I may say so, sir. He's in the Club." 
	"No go," Oreb announced firmly. 
"He would not give me his name, sir. He said it was not relevant." 
The waiter cleared his throat. "He would not give your name either, 
sir, but he described you. He said that I was to say nothing if you 
were with someone, sir. I was only to offer to bring you and anyone 
who might be in your company refreshment, for which he would 
pay. But that if I found you alone, I was to invite you to join him." 
	Silk shook his head. "I have no idea who this gentleman is. Do 
you?" 
"No, sir. He is not a regular patron. sir. I don't think I've 
ever 
seen him before." 
"Do you know the figure of Thelxiepela, waiter? Here in the Glasshouse?" 
"Certainly, sir. The tall gentleman instructed me to look for you there, sir." 
Colonel Oosik was tall, Silk reflected, though so massive that
his
height had not been very noticeable; but Oosik could scarcely be 
called long-faced. Since only he and Captain Gecko had read 
Hyacinth's letter, the long-faced man was presumably Gecko. "Tell 
him I can't join him in the Club," Silk said, choosing his words. 
"Express my regrets. Tell him I'll be at the figure of Thelxiepeia. 
and 
I'm alone. He may speak to me there if he chooses." 
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. May I get you anything, sir? I could bring it there." 
Silk shook his head impatiently. 
"Very well, sir. I will deliver your message." "Wait a moment. What time is it?" 
The waiter looked apologetic. "I have no watch, sir." "Of course not. Neither do I. Approximately." 
"I looked at the barman's clock, sir, only a minute or two before
I
came here. It was five until twelve then, sir." 
"Thank you," Silk said, and sat down on the carved wooden seat 
without a thought about the difficulty of getting up. 
_Hieraxday_, Hyacinth's letter said. He tried to recall her exact 
words and failed, but he remembered their import. She had 
mentioned no time, perhaps intending late afternoon, when she 
would have finished her shopping. The barman's clock was in the 
Club, no doubt; and the Club would be a drinking place, primarily 
for men--a rich man's version of the Cock, where he had found 
Auk. The waiter was unlikely to have glanced at the barman's clock 
after speaking to the long-faced man, whoever he was; so it had 
probably been ten minutes or more since he had noticed the time. 
Hieraxday was past. This was Thelxday, and if Hyacinth had waited 

for him  (which was highly unlikely) he had not come. 
"Hello, Jugs," Auk said, emerging from the darkness of a side tunnel. "He wants us to work on Pas's Plan." 
Chenille whirled. "Hackum! I've been looking all over for you!" 
She ran to him, surprising him, threw her arms around him, and 
wept. 
"Now," he said. "Now, now, Jugs. Now, now." She had been 
unhappy, and he knew it and knew that in some ill-defined and 
troubling way it was his fault, although he had meant her no harm, had wished her well and thought of her with kindness when he bad 
thought of her at all. "Excuse," he muttered, and let go of 
Tartaros's 
hand to embrace her with both arms. 
When at last she ceased sobbing, he kissed her as tenderly as he could, a kiss she returned passionately. She wiped her eyes, 
sniffled, 
and gulped, "Oh, Hierax! Hackum, I missed you so much! I've been so lonesome and scared. Hug me." 
This baffled him, because he already was. He tried, "I'm sorry, Jugs," and when it seemed to do no good, "I won't ever leave you again unless you want me to." 
She nodded and swallowed. "It's all right, as long as you keep coming back." 
He noticed her ring. "Didn't I give you that?" 
"Yeah, thanks." Stepping back, she held it up to show it off better, 
although the bleared greenish lights could never do it justice. "I 
love 
it, but you can have it back anytime if you need the gelt." 
	"I'm flush, but I gave it to you?" 
"You forget, huh?" She looked at him searchingly. "On account of hitting your head. Or maybe a god got you like Kypris did me? It's still pretty hard for me to remember lots of things that happened when she was boss, or Scylla." 
Auk shook his head, and found that it no longer ached. "I've 
never had no god bossing me, Jugs, or wanted to either. That's lily. I never even knew about Kypris, but you were a lot different when you were Scylla." 
"Some of that was me, I think. Hold me tighter, won't you? I'm really cold." 
"Your sunburn don't hurt any more?" 
She shook her head. "Not much. I'm starting to peel a little. 
The bird was pulling on the peels before he left, only I made him 
stop." 
Auk looked around. "Where is he?" 
"With Patera and Stony, I guess. That Urus beat the hoof and they took off after him. Me, too, only we came to a split in the tunnel, 
you know?" 
"Sure. I've seen a lot of them." 
"And then I thought, they're not going to look for Auk anymore, 
and that's what I want to do. So I sort of slowed down, and when 
they went one way I went the other. I guess the bird went with 
them." 
"That was you I heard calling me." 
Chenille nodded. "Yeah. I yelled until my pipe gave out. Oh, Hackum, I'm so glad I found you!" 
"We found you," he told her seriously. "Why I ran off, Jugs..." He fell silent, massaging his big jaw. 
"You saw somebody, Hackum. Or anyhow you thought you did. I could see that, and Patera said so, too." 
"Yeah. My brother Bustard. He's dead, see? Only he was down 
here talking to me. I was going to say he wasn't really, I just sort 
of 

dreamed it, only now I'm not so sure. Maybe he was. Know what I mean?" 
The gray shiprock walls seemed to press in upon her. "I think so, Hackum." 
"Then he went away, and I missed him a lot, just like when he 
died. So then when I saw him again, maybe it was a couple, three 
hours later, I waved and yelled and tried to catch up, only I never 
did. Then I got lost, but I didn't care because I was looking for 
Bustard, and he could've been anywhere. Then I ran into this god. 
Into Tartaros. Mostly I call him Terrible Tartaros, 'cause I can't 
say 
the other right." 
"You met a god, Hackum? Like you'd meet somebody in the street, you mean?" 
"Sort of." Auk sat down on the tunnel floor. "Jugs, will you sit
on
my lap, the way you used to do in the old days? I'd like that." 
"All right." She did, laying her launcher flat, crossing her long legs, and leaning back in his arms "This is really better, Hackum. It's a lot warmer Except I don't do it much any more because I 
know I'm a pretty good load. Orchid says I'm getting fat. She's been telling me for a couple of months now." 
He held her closer, reveling in her softness. "She's fat. Real 
fat. 
Not you, Jugs." 
"Thanks. This god you met. Tartaros, right? He's for you like Kypris is for us." 
"Yeah, except he's one of the Seven." "I know that. Tarsday." 
"He's got a whole bunch of stuff besides us. The main thing is, 
he's 
the night god. Anywhere it's dark, that's a special place for him. 
Sleep and dreams, too. I mean, any god can send a dream if he 
wants to, but the regular kind that seem like nobody sent 'em are 
his. I call him Terrible Tartaros 'cause you had to say terrible or 
the 
other, or Maytera'd stomp you. I'd lay he could cut up rough, but 
he's been a bob cull with me. He came along to show how to find 
you and get out of here, and all that. He's next to us right now, 
only 
you can't see him 'cause he's blind." 
"You mean he's here with us?" Chenille's eyes were wide. 
"Yeah, he's sitting right here with me, only I wouldn't try to reach 
over and feel. Maybe he wouldn't do anything--" 
She had already, waving her free arm through the empty space on Auk's right. 
He shook her, not roughly. "Don't, Jugs. I told you." "He's not there. There's nothing there." 
"All right, there's nothing there. I was shaving you." 
"You shouldn't do that." She got up. "You don't know how shaggy scared I am down here, or how shaggy hungry." 
Auk rose too. "Yeah, it wasn't very funny, I guess. I'm sorry, Jugs. I won't do it again. C'mon." 
"Where are we going?" 
"Out." 
"Really, Hackum?" 
"Sure. You're hungry. So am I. We're going to go out and get a 
dimber dinner, probably at Pork's or one of those places. After that, 
we can rent a room and get a little rest. He says I got to rest. 
After 
that, maybe we'll do what Scylla said, only I don't know. I'll have 
to 
ask him." 

"Tartaros? That's who you're talking about? You really met him?" 
	"Yeah. It's real dark in there and pretty wet. Water's sort of 
 raining through the roof. If you saw it, you probably didn't go in, 
but there's nothing in there that'll hurt you. I don't think so, 
anyhow." 
"I've still got this lantern that Gelada had, Hackum, only there's 
no way to light it." 
"We don't have to," he told her. "It's not very far." "You said we were going out." 
"It's on our way." He stopped and faced her. "Only we'd be going even if it wasn't, 'cause he's got something to show us. He just told me, see? Now listen up." 
She nodded, drawing Incus's robe around her. 
"This's a real god. Tartaros, just like I told you. My head's not 
right 'cause I got a bruise in there and a big gob of blood, too, he 
says. He's trying to fix it, and I been feeling better ever since he 
started. Only we got to do like he says, so you're coming if I got to 
carry you." 
"Wood girl," Oreb called. "Here girl!" 
Silk sat up; the 'girl' might be Hyacinth. If there was the least 
chance, one in a thousand or ten million--if there was any chance at 
all--he had to go. He made himself stand, picked up the bag, 
coughed, spat, and stumbled away. The path wound right then left, 
dropped into a tiny vale, and forked. White as ghosts, enormous 
blossoms dripped moisture. "I'm coming, Oreb. Tell her I'm coming." 
	"Here, here!" 
The bird sounded very near. He stepped off the glittering path, his feet sinking in soft soil, and parted the leaves; the face that stared into his own might have been that of a corpse, hollow-cheeked and dull-eyed. He gasped, and saw its bloodless lips part. Oreb flew to him, becoming two birds. 
He advanced another step, sparing the crowding plants as much as he could, and found himself standing upon red stones that 
bordered a clear pool no bigger than a tablecloth, which a path approached from the opposite side. 
"Here girl!" Oreb hopped to the wooden figure's head and rapped it smartly with his beak. 
"Yes," Silk said, "that's Thelxiepeia." No other goddess had those 
tilted eyes, and a carved marmoset perched upon the figure's 
shoulder. He tapped his reflected face with a finger and clapped his hands, but no monitor appeared in the silvered globe she held. "It's just a mirror," he told Oreb. "I hoped it might be a glass--that 
Hyacinth might call me on it." 
"No call?" 
"No call on this, alas." With help from a friendly tree, he walked 
the stony rim of the pool to a swinging seat facing the water. Here, as Oosik had said, one saw the pool reflected in Thelxiepeia's 
mirror, and her mirror reflected in it. 
Hieraxday had been the day for dying and for honoring the dead. 
Crane had died; but he, Silk, had done neither. Today, Thelxday, 
was the day for crystal gazing and casting fortunes, for tricks and 
spells, and for hunting and trapping animals; he resolved to do none 
of those things, leaned back in the swing, and closed his eyes. 
Thelxiepeia was at once the cruelest and kindest of goddesses, more 
mercurial even than Molpe, though she was said--it would be why 
her image was here--to favor lovers. Love was the greatest of 
enchantments; if Echidna and her children succeeded in killing 
Kypris, Thelxiepeia would no doubt, would doubtless... 
	_Become the goddess of love in a century or less_, said the 
Outsider, 

standing not behind Silk as he had in the ball court, but before 
him--standing on the still water of the pool, tall and wise and kind, with a 
face that nearly came into focus.  _I would claim her in that case, 
long 
before the end. As I have so many others. As I am claiming Kypris 
even now because love always proceeds from me, real love, true love. First romance_. 
The Outsider was the dancing man on a toy, and the water the 
polished toy-top on which he danced with Kypris, who was Hyacinth 
and Mother, too.  _First romance_, sang the Outsider with the music 
box.  _First romance_. It was why he was called the Outsider. He was 
outside--
"I, er, hope and--ah--trust I'm not disturbing you?" 
Silk woke with a start and looked around wildly. 
"Man come," Oreb remarked. "Bad man." Oreb was perched on a stone beside Thelxiepeia's pool; when he had concluded his 
remarks, he pecked experimentally at a shining silver minnow that darted away in terror. 
"Names are not--um--requisite, eh? I know who you are. You know me, hey? Let that be enough for both of us." 
	Silk recognized his swaying visitor, started to speak, and 
assimilating 
what had been said remained silent. 
"Capital. I--ah--we are taking a risk, you and I. An--ah--rash 
gamble. Simply by, urp, being where we belong. Here on the hill, eh?" 
	"Won't you sit down?" Silk struggled to his feet. 
"No. I--ah--no." His visitor belched again, softly. "Thank you. I 
have been waiting in the--ah--bar. Where, ump, I have been 
compelled to buy drinks. And--um--drink. Standing's best. Um, at 
present, eh? I'll just, er, lean on this, if I may. But please--ah--
be 
seated yourself, Pa--" He covered his mouth with his hand. "Seated 
by all means. It is I who should--and I do. I, um, am. As you see, 
eh?" 
Silk resumed his place in the swing. "May I ask--" 
His visitor raised a hand. "How I knew I should find you here? I did not, 
Pa--Did not. Nothing of the sort. But while I was--rup!--sitting in that, er, whatchamacallit, I observed you to enter the 
room. Not the--um--one I sat in, that, ah, darksome and paneled 
drinking place, hey? The other. The outer room, much bigger." 
	"The sellaria," Silk supplied. 
"Ah--quite. I, um, went to the door. Spied upon you." 
The visitor shook his head in self-reproach. 
"It was excusable, surely, under the circumstances. I have recently 
done far worse things." 
"Good of you to say so. I--um--waylaid that waiter. You spoke with him." 
Silk nodded. 
"I had, um, observed you to pass under--ah--through the arch. I had never had the, er, pleasure myself, eh? I, ah, apprehended that it was--ah, is--some sort of garden, however. I inquired about it. He, um, indicated that it was--is, I surmise--employed for, um, 
discussions of a--ah--amorous nature." 
"You knew that I would be here, at this particular spot." Silk 
found it extremely inconvenient to be unable to say  _Your Eminence_. "You told him to look for me here." 
"No, no!" His visitor shook his head emphatically. "I, ah, anticipated 
you might, um, possibly have an appointment. As he had, 
um, inadverted. But I--ah--in addition, um, however, ah, 
considered that you might wish to, um, petition the immortal gods. 

As I, ah, myself. I inquired about such a place in this, um, 
conservatory. He mentioned the present, ah, xylograph." The visitor 
smiled "That's the spot, I told him. That's where you'll find him. 
Would you mind if I, um, sat myself, now? There by you? I'm--ah--
quite 
fatigued." 
"Please do." Hastily, Silk moved to one side. 
"Thank you--ah--thank you. Most thoughtful. I have had no 
supper. Hesitated to order anything in--ah--that place. With the wine. Parsimony. Foolish--ah--imbecile, actually." 
	"Catch fish," Oreb suggested. 
Silk's visitor ignored him. "I've funds, eh? You?" "No, nothing." 
"Here, Pa--My boy. Hold out your hands." Golden cards 
showered into Silk's lap. "No, no! Take them! Others--ah--more. 
Where they came from, eh? Wait for the waiter. Buy yourself a bit of food. For me, ah, in addition. I am, um, in need. Of help. Of--
ah--succor. 
Such is, um, the long and short of it. I cast myself--um. 
Ourselves. I--we--cast ourselves upon your--ah--commiseration." 
Silk looked searchingly at Thelxiepeia, who returned his look 
with 
wooden aplomb. Was this enchanted gold that would  (figuratively at 
least) melt at a touch? If not, what had he done to earn her favor? 
"Thank you," he managed at last. "If I can be of any service to 
Your--to 
you, I will be only too happy to oblige you." He counted them by touch: seven cards. 
"They came to the Palace. To the--ah--Palace itself, if you can, um, credit that." His visitor sat with his head in his hands. "I was, um, dining. At dinner. In came a, ah, page, eh? One of the boys 
who runs with messages for us, hey? You do that?" 
	"No. I know of them, of course." 
"Some of us did, eh? I, myself. Many years ago. We--ah--
matriculate 
to schola. Ah--afterwards. Some of us. Fat little boy. 
Not I. He was. Is. Said they'd arrest me. Arrest His Cognizance! I said, ah, balderdash. Ate my sweet, eh? They--um--arrived. 
Unannounced. Officer--um--captain, lieutenant, something. 
Troopers with him, Guardsmen everywhere, eh? Looked everywhere for His Cog--Turned the whole place upside down. Couldn't 
find him though. Took me. Bound my hands. Me! Hands tied 
behind me under my robe." 
"I'm very sorry," Silk said sincerely. 
"They, er, carried me to the headquarters of the Second Brigade. A temporary headquarters. Do I make myself--ah--intelligible? 
Brigadier's house. No more--ah--titular generals in the Civil 
Guard, hey? No generalissimo any more. Only this, er, brigadiers. Quizzed me, eh? Hours and hours. Absolutely. Old Quetzal's 
letter, hey? You know about it?" 
"Yes, I've seen it." 
"I--ah--composed it. I didn't--ah--inform the brigadier, eh? 
Didn't 'fess up. Would have shot me, eh? We--ah--I'd expected 
trouble. Labored to phrase it softly. His--He wouldn't hear of it." 
His visitor looked around at Silk with the expression of a whipped 
hound, his breath thick with wine. "You apprehend whom I--ah--
intend?" 
"Of course." 
"He sent it back. Twice. Hadn't happened in years, eh? The third 
stuck. 'How readily here might I, ah, inscribe--' Yes, inscribe. Ah, 
'Let us welcome him and obey him as one of ourselves. With what 
delight do--shall I inscribe in its place, let us welcome him and, 
ump, 
obey him, for he is one of ourselves!" That's what got the third 

draft past 
His--ah--past the person known to us both, eh? So I--um--presume. Proud of it, hey? Still am. Still am." 
"With reason," Silk told him. "But the Civil Guard can't have cared for it. I'm surprised they let you go." He yawned and rubbed his eyes, discovering that he felt somewhat better, refreshed by his few moments of sleep. 
"Talked my way out, hey? Eloquent. No one speaks of me like 
that. Dull at the ambion, eh? What they say. I know, I know. 
Eloquent tonight, though. Swim or sink, and I did Pa--I did. Go 
between. Peacemaker. End rebellion. Used their glass to talk to 
Councillor Loris. Harmless, ump! Let him go. Bad feeling in the 
ranks, hey? Augurs shot, eh? A sibyl, too. The--um--missive. Lay 
clothing, as you, er, wise. Fearful still. Terribly frightened. Not, 
er, 
shamed by the accusation--admission. Still afraid, sitting in there 
sipping. Looking over my shoulder, hey? Afraid they'd come for 
me. Sprang up like a rabbit when a porter dropped something in the 
street." 
"I suppose that every man is frightened when his life is threatened. 
It's very much to Your--to your credit that you are willing to admit 
it." 
"You will--ah--assist me? If you can?" 
Oreb looked up from his fishing. "Watch out!" 
"I'm tired and very weak," Silk said, "but yes, I will. Will we 
have 
to walk far?" 
"Won't have to walk at all." His visitor thrust his hand beneath
his
cream-colored tunic. "I've, ah, informed you it wasn't me they wanted, eh? After old Quetzal, actually. The Prolocutor. His Cognizance. Signed the letter, hey?" 
Silk nodded. 
"They'd have shot him, eh? Earlier. Earlier. When they--ah--
constrained 
me. That was then, hum? This is--er--the present 
instant. After midnight. Nearly one, eh? Nearly one. Late when they released me. I've said it? Suppertime--after suppertime, really. They know your--um--profession. Vocation, hey? Mint's a sibyl. You take my meaning?" 
"Of course," Silk said. 
His visitor produced an elegant ostrich-skin pen case. "On the 
other side, old Quetzal is, hey? Unmistakable. The letter shows it. 
And there is that--ah, um--other matter. Vocation, eh? Brigadier 
thinks he and I might arrange an--urp--hiatus in hostilities. A 
truce, hey? His word. Been one alread, eh? So why not?" 
	Silk straightened up. "There has? That's wonderful!" 
	"Little thing, eh? Few hundred involved. Didn't last. But an 
 augur--see 
the connection? This augur, one of our--ah--of the Chapter's 
own, crossed the lines. One side to the other, eh? Got them to stop 
shooting so he could. Colonel's son, wounded. Nearly dead. This--ah--
holy 
augur brought him the Pardon. So far so good? Rebels--ah--tendered an extension. Both sides, um, sweep up bodies. Claim 
their dead, hey? They did. So why not longer? Old Quetzal might do it. Respected by both sides. Man of peace. You follow me?" 
	Silk nodded to himself. 
"If your, ah, supporters learn the brigadier sent me, eh? What 
then? Shoot, eh? Possibly. Very possibly. So I require some, um, 
document from you, Pa--From, ah, you. Signed," the visitor's voice 
faded to a whisper, "with your--ah--as the--um--your civil 
title." 

"I see. Certainly." 
"Capital!" He took a sheaf of paper from the pen case. "These,
um,
fanciful leathers are not--ah--conducive to penmanship. But the 
paper should help, hey? I'll hold the ink bottle for you. Brief, ah, inconsiderable. Concise. The, um, bearer, eh? Respect his--ah--um..." 
	"No shoot," Oreb suggested. 
He handed Silk a quill. "Point suit you? Not too fine, eh? My prothonotary, Pa--Incus. You know him?" 
"I met him once when I was trying to see you." "Ah? Hm." 
The pen case braced on both knees, Silk dipped the quill. 
"He--ah--Incus. He points them for me. Had him do it, ah, 
Molpsday. Too fine, though. Hairsplitters. I shall rid myself of 
Incus, ah, presently. Could be dead this moment. 'Mongst the gods, eh? Haven't laid eyes on him for days. Gave him a--um--errand. 
Never came back. All this unrest." 
Bent above the paper, Silk hardly heard him. <blockquote> 
To General Mint, her officers and troopers. 
The bearer, Patera Rernora, is authorized by me and by... </blockquote> 

Silk looked up. "To whom did you speak? Who was this brigadier who released you?" 
"Brigadier, er, Erne. Signed for me, too, eh? His side." <blockquote> 
Brigadier Erne to negotiate a truce. Please show him every courtesy. 
</blockquote> 
The wavering tip of the quill stopped and began to blot; there seemed to be no more to say. Silk forced it to move on. 
<blockquote> 
If the whereabouts of His Cognizance the Prolocutor are 
known to you, please conduct the bearer to him in order that he may assist His Cognizance in conducting negotiations. 
</blockquote> 
Oreb dropped a struggling goldfish and pinned it with one foot. "No shoot," he repeated. "Man hide." 
<blockquote> 
I hold you responsible for the safety of the bearer, and that 
of His Cognizance. Both are to be permitted to pass 
unharmed. Their movements are not to be restricted in any 
fashion. 
A truce made and kept in good faith is greatly to be desired. 
I am Pa. Silk, of Sun Street, Calde </blockquote> 
"Capital! Yes, capital, Pa--Thank you!" 
With his beak pointed to the glass roof, Oreb gulped down a 
morsel of goldfish and announced loudly, "Good man!" 
"There is a--um--dispenser in here someplace." The visitor 
retrieved his pen case and took out a silver shaker. "If you require sand, eh?" 
Silk shuddered, added the date, blew upon the paper, then spat congealing blood into the moss at his feet. 
"I thank you. I have--ah--so expressed myself, um, previously. I, er, recognize. I am, um, in your, ah, books, eh? Your debtor." 
	Silk handed him the safe-conduct. 
"I, ah, surmise that I can stand now, er, walk. All the rest. Taken a bit dizzy there, eh? For an, er, momentarily." He 

climbed to his feet, holding tightly to the chain from which their seat was suspended. "I shall partake of an, er, morsel of food, I believe. An, um, collation. Much as I should like--ah--may be 
imprudent..." 
"I had a good supper," Silk told him, "and it might be dangerous for us to be seen together. I'll stay here." 
"I, um, consider it would be best myself." His visitor released
the
chain and smiled. "Better, hey? Be all right with a bite to eat. Too much wine. I--ah--concede it. More than I ought. Frightened, but 
the wine made it worse. To think that we, ump, we pay--" He fell 
silent. Slowly his smile widened to a death's-head rictus. "Hello, Silk," he said. "They made me find you." 
Silk nodded wearily. "Hello, Mucor." 
"It's smoky in here. All smoky." 
For a moment he did not understand what she meant. "Dark, Silk. Like falling down steps." 
"The fumes of the wine, I suppose. Who made you find me?" "The councillors will burn me again." 
"Torture, unless you do as they say?" Silk tried to keep the anger 
he felt out of his voice. "Do you know their names, these councillors who threaten to burn you?" 
The visitor's grinning head bobbed. "Loris. Tarsier. Potto. My father said not, but the soldier made him go." 
"I see. His Eminence--the man you're possessing--told me he'd talked with Councillor Loris through a glass. Is that why you 
possessed him when you were sent to look for me?" 
	"I had to. They burned me like Musk." 
"Then you were right to obey, to keep from being burned again. I don't blame you at all." 
"We're going to kill you, Silk." 
Foliage beside the pool shook, spraying crystal droplets as warm 
as blood; a white-haired man stepped into view. In one hand be held 
a silver-banded cane with which he had parted the leaves. The other 
poised a saber, its slender blade pointed at the visitor's heart. 
"Don't!" Silk told him. 
"No stick," Oreb added with the air of one who clarifies a difficult 
situation. 
"You're Silk yourself, lad! You're him!" 
"I'm afraid I am. If you left your place of concealment to protect 
me, I would be somewhat safer if you didn't speak quite so loudly." 
Silk turned his attention back to the death-mask that had supplanted 
his visitor's face. "Mucor, how are you supposed to kill me? This 
man has Musk's needler now; he followed me here to return it to 
me, I imagine. Do you--does the man you're possessing have a 
weapon?" 
"I'll tell them, and they'll come." 
"I see. And if you won't, they'll burn you." 
The visitor's head bobbed again. "It brings me back. I can't stay gone when they burn me." 
"We must get you out of there." Silk raised the ankle he had 
broken jumping from Hyacinth's window and rubbed it. "I've said 
you're like a devil--I told Doctor Crane that, I know. I thought it, too, when I saw the dead sleepers; I forgot that devils, who torment others, are themselves tormented." 
The saber inched forward. "Shall I kill him, lad?" 
"No. He's as good a chance for peace as our city has, and I doubt 
that killing him would ensure Mucor's silence. You can do no good 
here." 
"I can protect you, lad!" 
"Before I left you, I knew that I'd meet Hierax tonight." Silk's 

face 
was somber. "But there's no reason for you to die with me. If you've tracked me through half the city to return the needler I dropped, give it to me and go." 
"This, too!" He held out the silver-banded cane. "Lame, aren't you? Lame when we fought! Take it!" He threw the cane to Silk, 
then drew Musk's needler and tossed it into Silk's lap as well. 
"You're the calde, lad? The one they tell about?" 
	"I suppose I am." 
"Auk told me! How'd I forget that? Gave your name! I didn't 
know until this augur said it. Councillors! Loris? Going to kill 
you?" 
"And Potto and Tarsier." Silk laid Musk's needler aside, thought better of it, and put it into his waistband. "I'm glad that you 
brought 
that up. I'd lost sight of it, and it strains probability. Mucor, do 
you 
have to return to Loris right away? I'd like you to do me a favor, if you can." 
"All right." 
"Thank you. First, did Councillor Loris tell you about the man you're possessing? Did he ask you to find him?" 
	"I know him, Silk. He talks to the man who's not there." 
	"To Pas, you mean. Yes, he does, I'm sure. But Loris told you. 
 Did he say why?" 
The visitor's head shook. "I have to go soon." 
"Go to Maytera Mint first--to General Mint, they're the same 
person." Silk's forefinger traced a circle on his cheek. "Tell her 
where I am, and that they'll come here to kill me. Then tell Maytera Marble--" 
"Girl go," Oreb remarked. 
The corpse-grin was indeed fading. Silk sighed again and rose. "Sheath that sword, please. We've no need of it." 
	"Possession? That's what you call this, lad?" 
	"Yes. He'll come to himself in a moment." 
Silk's visitor caught hold of the chain to steady himself. "You 
proferred a comment, Pa--? I was taken, ah, vertiginous again, I 
fear. Please accept my--um--unreserved apology. This--ah--gentleman 
is..." 
"Master Xiphias. Master Xiphias teaches the sword, Your Eminence. 
Master Xiphias, this is His Eminence Patera Remora, Coadjutor of the Chapter." 
"Really, ah, Patera, you might be more circumspect, hey?" 
Silk shook his head. "We're past all that, I'm afraid, Your 
Eminence. You're in no danger. I doubt that you ever were. My 
own is already so great that it wouldn't be much greater if you 
and Master Xiphias were to run up to the first Guardsman you 
could find and declare that Calde Silk was at Ermine's awaiting 
arrest." 
"Really! I--ah--" 
"You spoke to Councillor Loris, so you told me, through Brigadier Erne's glass." 
"Why, er, yes." 
"For a moment--while you were dizzy, Your Eminence--I 
thought that Loris might have told you where to find me; that a 
certain person in the household he's visiting had told him that I 
might be here, or had confided in someone else who did. It could 
have come about quite innocently--but it can't be true, since Loris 
sent someone to you in order to locate me. Clearly the information 
traveled the other way: you knew that I might come here tonight. I 
doubt that you actually told Loris that you knew where to find me; 
you couldn't have been that certain I'd be here. You said something 
that led him to think you knew, however. In his place, I'd have 
ordered Brigadier Erne to have you followed. Thanks to some 

careless remarks of mine Tarsday, he didn't need to. Will you tell me--quickly, please--how you got your information?" 
	"I swear--warrant you, Patera--" 
"We'll have to talk about it later." Silk stood up less steadily 
than 
Remora had, leaning on the silver-banded cane. "A moment ago I 
told Master Xiphias not to kill you; I'm not certain it would have been wrong for me to have told him to go ahead, but I don't have 
time for questions--we must go before the Guard gets here. You, 
Master Xiphias, must return home. You're a fine swordsman, but 
you can't possibly protect me from a squad of troopers with slug 
guns. You, Your Eminence, must go to Maytera Mint. Don't bother 
filling your belly. If--" 
"Girl come!" Oreb flew to Silk's shoulder, fluttered his wings,
and
added, "Come quick!"
For a wasted second, Silk stared at Remora, searching for signs
of
Mucor in his face. Hyacinth was in sight before he heard the rapid 
pattering of her bare feet on the path of false gems and saw her, 
mouth open and dark eyes bright with tears above the rosy 
confusion of a gossamer dishabille, her hair a midnight cloud behind her as she ran. 
She stopped. It was as if the sight of him had suspended her in amber. "You're here! You're really here!" 
By Thelxiepeia's spell she was in his arms, suffocating him with kisses. "I didn't--I knew you couldn't come, but I had to. Had to, or I'd never know. I'd always think--" 
He kissed her, clumsy but unembarrassed, trying to say by his 
kiss 
that he, too, had been forced by something in himself stronger than himself. 
The pool and the miniature vale that contained it, always dark, 
grew darker still. Looking up after countless kisses, he saw idling 
fish of mottled gold and silver, black, white, and red, hanging in 
air 
above the goddess's upraised hand, and for the first time noticed 
light streaming from a lamp of silver filigree in the branches of a stunted tree. "Where did they go?" he asked. 
"Was--somebody--else here?" She gasped for breath and smiled, 
giving him sweeter pain than he had ever known. 
	"His Eminence and a fencing master." Silk felt that he should 
look 
around him, but would not take his eyes from hers. 
"They must have done the polite thing," she kissed him again, 
"and 
left quietly." 
He nodded, unable to speak. 
"So should we. I've got a room here. Did I tell you?" He shook his head. 
"A suite, really. They're all suites, but they call them rooms. It's a 
game they play, being simple, pretending to be a country inn." She 
sank to her knees with a dancer's grace, her hand still upon his arm. 
"Will you kneel by the pool here with me? I want to look at myself, 
and I want to look at you, too, at the same time." Abruptly. the 
tears 
overflowed. "I want to look at  _us_." 
	He knelt beside her. 
"I knew you couldn't come," a tear fell. creating a tiny ripple, "so I 
have to see us both. See you beside me." 
As in the ball court  (though perhaps only because he had 
experienced it there) it seemed that he stood outside time. 

And when they breathed again and turned to kiss, it seemed to 
him that their reflections remained as they had been in the quiet 
water of the pool, invisible but forever present. "We--I have to 
go," he told her. It had taken an enormous effort to say it. "They 
know I'm here, or they soon will if they don't already. They'll 
send troopers to kill me, and if you're with me, they'll kill you, 
too." 
She laughed, and her soft laughter was sweeter than any music. 
"Do you know what I went through to get here? What Blood will do 
to me if he finds out I took a floater? By the time I got onto the 
hill, 
past the checkpoints and sentries--Are you sick? You don't look at all well." 
"I'm only tired." Silk sat back on his heels. "When I thought about 
having to run again, I felt... It will pass." He believed it as soon 
as 
he had said it, himself persuaded by the effort he had made to compel her belief. 
She rose, and gave him her hand. "By the time I got to Ermine's,
I
thought I'd been abram to come at all, drowning in a glass of water. I didn't even look in here," happy again, she smiled, "because I 
didn't want to see there wasn't anyone waiting. I didn't want to be reminded of what a putt I'd been. I got my room and started getting ready for bed, and then I thought--I thought--" 
He embraced her; from a perch over the filigree lamp, Oreb croaked, "Poor Silk!" 
"What if he's there? What if he's  _really down there_, and I'm up here? I'd unpinned my hair and taken off my makeup, but I dived 
down the stairs and ran through the sellaria, and you were here, and it's only a dream but it's the best dream that ever was." 
	He coughed. This time the blood was fresh and red. He turned 
aside and spat it into a bush with lavender flowers and emerald 
leaves and felt himself falling, unable to stop. 
He lay on moss beside the pool. She was gone; but their reflections remained in the water, fixed forever. 
When he opened his eyes again, she was back with an old man 
whose name he had forgotten, the waiter who had offered him 
wine in the sellaria, the one who had told him of Remora, the 
footman who had opened the door, and others. They rolled him 
onto something and picked him up, so that he seemed to float 
somewhere below the level of their waists, looking up at the belly of the vast dark thing that had come between the bright skylands and the glass roof. His hand found hers. She smiled down at him and he smiled too, so that they journeyed together, as they had on the deadcoach in his dream, in the companionable silence of 
two who have overcome obstacles to be together, and have no 
need of noisy words, but rest--each in the other. 

Chapter  8  -- Peace 

Maytera Marble smiled to herself, lifting her head and cocking it to 
the 
right. Her sheets were clean at last, and so was everything else--
Maytera 
Mint's things, a workskirt that had been badly soiled at the knees, and the smelly cottons she had dropped into the hamper before dying. 
After strenuous pumping, she rinsed them in the sink and wrung 
them out. Her dipper transferred most of the sink water to the wash 

boiler before she took out the old wooden stopper and let the rest drain away; when it had cooled, the water in the wash boiler could be given to her suffering garden. 
With her clever new fingers, she scooped the white bull's congealing 
fat from the saucepan. A rag served for a strainer; a chipped cup 
received the semiliquid grease. Wiping her hands on another rag, 
she considered the tasks that still confronted her: grease the 
folding 
steps first, or hang out this wash? 
The wash, to be sure; it could be drying while she greased the steps. 
Very likely, it would be dry or nearly dry by the time she finished. 
	Beyond the doorway, the garden was black with storm. That 
wouldn't do! Rain  (though Pas knew how badly they needed it) 
would spot her clean sheets. Fuming, she put aside the wicker 
clothes-basket and stepped out into the night. a hand extended to 
catch the first drops. 
At least it wasn't raining yet; and the wind  (now that she came
to
think of it, it had been windier earlier) had fallen. Peering up at 
the 
storm cloud, she realized with a start that it was not a real cloud 
at 
all--that what she had taken for a cloud was in fact the uncanny flying thing she had glimpsed above the wall, and even stared at from the roof. 
A memory so remote that it seemed to have lain behind her 
curved metal skull stirred at this, her third view. Dust flew, as 
dust 
always does when something that has remained motionless for a long time moves at last. 
"_Why don't you dust it?"  (Laughter.)_ 
She would have blinked had she been so built. She looked 
down again, down at her dark garden, then up  (but reasonably 
and prudently up only) at the pale streaks of her clotheslines. 
They were still in place, though sometimes the children took 
them for drover's whips and jump ropes. Started upward thus 
prudently and reasonably, her gaze continued to climb of its own 
volition. 
"_Why don't you dust it?_" 
Laughter filled her as the summer sunshine of a year long past 
descends gurgling to fill a wineglass, then died away. 
Shaking her head, she went back inside. It was a trifle windy yet 
to hang out wash, and still dark anyway. Sunshine always made the 
wash smell better; she would wait till daylight and hang it out 
before 
morning prayer. It would be dry after. 
When had it been, that sun-drenched field? The jokes and the laughter, and the overhanging, overawing shadow that had made them fall silent? 
Grease the steps now, and scrub them, too; then it would be light out and time to hang the wash, the first thin thread of the long sun cutting the skylands in two. 
She mounted the stair to the second floor. Here was that 
picture again, the old woman with her doves, blessed by Molpe. 
A chubby postulant whose name she could not recall had admired 
it; and she, thin, faceless, old Maytera Marble, flattered, had said 
that she had posed for Molpe. It was almost the only lie she had 
ever told, and she could still see the incredulity in that girl's 
eyes, 
and the shock. Shriven of that lie again and again, she nevertheless 
told Maytera Betel at each shriving--Maytera Betel, who was dead now. 
	She ought to have brought something, an old paintbrush, perhaps, 

to dab 
on her grease with. Racking her brain, she recalled her 
toothbrush, retained for decades after the last tooth had failed. 
(She 
wouldn't be needing  _that_ any more!) Opening the broken door to 
her room... She should fix this, if she could. Should try to, 
anyhow. They might not be able to afford a carpenter. 
Yet it seemed tonight that she remembered the painter, the little garden at the center of his house, and the stone bench upon which 
the old woman  (his mother, really) had sat earlier. Posing gowned 
and jeweled as the goddess with a stephane, the dead butterfly 
pinned in her hair. 
It had been embarrassing, but the painter had wonderful brushes, not in the least like this worn toothbrush of hers, whose wooden 
handle had cracked so badly, whose genuine boar bristles, once so proudly black, had faded to gray. 
She pushed the old toothbrush down into the bull's soft, white 
fat, 
then ran it energetically along the sliding track. 
She could not have been a sibyl then, only the sibyls' maid; but 
the artist had been a relative of the Senior Sibyl's, who had agreed 
to let her pose. Chems could hold a pose much longer than bios. All 
artists, he had said, used chems when they could, although he had 
used his mother for the old woman because chems never looked 
old... 
She smiled at that, tilting her head far back and to the right.
The
hinges, then the other track. 
He had given them the picture when it was done. 
She had a gray smear on one black sleeve. Dust from the steps, 
most likely. Filthy. She beat the sleeve until the dust was gone, 
then 
started downstairs to fetch her bucket and scrub brush. Had the 
bull's grease done what it was supposed to? Perhaps she should have 
paid for real oil. She lifted the folding steps tentatively. The 
grease 
had certainly helped. All the way up! 
Grafifyingly smooth, so she had saved three cardbits at least, 
perhaps more. How had she gotten them down? With the crochet 
hook, that was it. But if she did not push the ring up she would not 
need it. The steps would have to come down again anyway when she 
scrubbed them, and she itched to see them work as they should. An 
easy tug on the ring, and down they slid with a puff of dust that was hardly noticeable. 
"_Why don't you dust it?_" 
Everyone had laughed, and she had too, though she had been so shy. He had been tall and--what was it? Five-point-two-five times stronger than she, with handsome steel features that faded when she tried to see them again. 
All nonsense, really. 
Like believing she had posed, after she had told Maytera over and over that she had lied. She would never have taken these new parts if... Though they were hers, to be sure. 
One more time up the steps. One final time, and here was her old trunk. 
She opened the gable window and climbed out onto the roof. If the neighbors spied her, they would be shocked out of their wits. _Trunk_ evoked only her earlier search for its owner. 
_Footlocker_, that was it. Here was a list of the dresses she had 
worn 
before they had voted to admit her. Her perfume. The commonplace 
book that she had kept for the mere pleasure of writing in it, 
of practicing her hand. Perhaps if she went back into the attic and 
opened her footlocker, she would find them all, and would never 

have to look at the thrumming thing overhead again. 
	Yet she did. 
Enormous, though not so big you couldn't see the skylands on 
each side of it. Higher up and farther west now, over the market 
certainly and nosing toward the Palatine, its long axis bisected by Cage Street, where convicts were no longer exposed in cages. Its noise was almost below her threshold of hearing, the purr of a 
mountain lion as big as a mountain. 
She should go back down now. Get busy. Wash or cook--though she was dead, and Maytera Betel and the rest dead, too, and 
Maytera Mint gone only Pas knew where, and nobody left to cook for unless the children came. 
Enormous darkness high overhead, blotting the sun-drenched 
field, the straggling line of servants in which she had stood, and 
the 
soldiers' precise column. She had seen it descend from the sky, at 
first a fleck of black that had seemed no bigger than a flake of 
soot; 
had said, "It looks so dirty." A soldier had overheard her and called, 
"Why don't you dust it?" 
Everyone had laughed, and she had laughed, too, though she had 
been humiliated to tears, had tears been possible for her. Angry and defiant, she had met his eyes and sensed the longing there. 
	And longed. 
How tall he had been! How big and strong! So much steel! 
Winged figures the size of gnats sailed this way and that below 
the 
vast, dark bulk; something streaked up toward them as she watched--
flared 
yellow, like bacon grease dripping into the stove. Some fell. 
"Here we are," Auk told Chenille. It was a break in the tunnel wall. 
	"This leads into the pit?" 
"That's what he says. Let me go first, and listen awhile. Beat
the
hoof if it sounds a queer lay." 
She nodded, resolving that she and her launcher would have 
something to say about any queer lay, watched him worm his way 
through  (a tight squeeze for shoulders as big as his), listened for minutes that seemed like ten, then heard his booming laugh, faint 
and far away. 
It was a tight squeeze for her as well, and it seemed her hips 
would not go through. She wriggled and swore, recalling Orchid's 
dire warnings and that Orchid's were twice--at least twice!--the size of hers. 
The place she was trying so hard to get into was a pit in the 
pit, 
apparently--as deep as a cistern, with no way to go higher, though Auk must have found one since he was not there. 
Her hips scraped through at last. Panting as she knelt on the uneven soil, she reached back in and got her launcher. 
	"You coming, Jugs?" He was leaning over the edge, almost 
invisible in the darkness. 
"Sure. How do I get out of here?" 
"There's a little path around the sides." He vanished. 
There was indeed--a path a scant cubit wide, as steep as a stair. 
She climbed cautiously, careful not to look down, with Gelada's 
lantern rattling on the barrel of her launcher. Above, she heard Auk 
say, "All right, maybe I will, but not till she gets here. I want her 
to 
see him." 
Then her head was above the top and she was looking at the pit. a stade across, its reaches mere looming darkness, its sheer sides 

faced with what looked like shiprock. A wall rose above it on the 
side nearest her. She stared up at it without comprehension. turned 
her head to look at the shadowy figures around Auk, and looked up 
at it again before she recognized it as the familiar, frowning wall 
of 
the Alambrera, which she was now seeing from the other side for the first time. 
Auk called, "C'mere, Jugs. Still got that darkee?" 
A vaguely familiar voice ventured, "Might be better not to light it, Auk." 
"Shut up." 
She took Gelada's lantern off the barrel of her launcher and advanced hesitantly toward Auk, nearly falling when she tripped over a roll of rags in the darkness. 
Auk said, "You do it, Urus. Keep it pretty near shut," and one of the men accepted the lantern from her. 
The acrid smell of smoke cut through the prevailing reek of 
excrement and unwashed bodies; a bearded man with eyes like 
the sockets in a skull had removed the lid of a firebox. He puffed 
the coals it held until their crimson glow lit his face--a face she 
quickly decided she would rather not have seen. A wisp of flame 
appeared. Urus held the lantern to it, then closed the shutter, 
narrowing the yellow light to a beam no thicker than her 
forefinger. 
"You want it, Auk?" 
"I got no place to put it," Auk told him; and Chenille, edging 
nearer, saw that he had his hanger in his right hand and a slug gun 
in 
his left. The blade of the hanger was dark with blood. "Show her Patera first," he said. 
On legs as thin as sticks, the shadowy figures parted; a pencil
of
light settled on a dark bundle that stared up at her with Incus's agonized eyes. A rag covered his mouth. 
"Looks cute, don't he?" Auk chuckled. 
She ventured, "He really is an augur..." 
"He shot a couple of 'em with my needler, Jugs. It got 'em mad, and they jumped him. We'll cut him loose in a minute, maybe. 
Urus, show her the soldier." 
Hammerstone was bound as well, though no rag had been tied 
over his mouth; she wondered whether it would work on a chem 
anyway, and decided that it might not. "I'm sorry, Stony," she said. "I'll get you out of this. Patera, too." 
"They were going to stab him in the throat," Hammerstone told 
her. "They'd grabbed him from behind." He spoke slowly and 
without rancor, but there was a whorl of self-loathing in his voice, 
"I 
got careless." 
"Those ropes are made out of that muscle in the back of your leg," 
Auk told her conversationally. "That's what they got him tied up with. They're pretty strong, I guess." 
Neither she nor Hammerstone replied. 
"Only I don't think they'd hold him. Not if he really tried. It'd take chains. Big ones, if you ask me." 
"Hackum, maybe I shouldn't say this--" "Go ahead." 
"What if they jump you and me like they did Patera?" 
"I was going to tell you why Hammerstone here don't break loose. Maybe I ought to do that first." 
"Because you've got his slug gun?" 
"Uh-huh. Only they had it then, see? They got hold of Incus, and 
they made Hammerstone give it to 'em. It takes a lot to kill a 
soldier, but a slug gun'll do it. So'll that launcher you got." 

She scarcely heard him. When she had struggled through the 
narrow opening in the side of the tunnel, the deep humming from 
above had so merged with the rush of blood in her ears that she had 
assumed it was one with it; now she realized that it actually 
proceeded from the dark bulk in the sky that she  (like Maytera 
Marble) had thought a cloud. She peered up at it, astonished. 
	"We'll get to that in a minute," Auk told her, looking upward 
too. 
"Terrible Tartaros says it's a airship. That's a thing kind of like 
the 
old man's boat, see? Only it sails through the air instead of water. The Rani of Trivigaunte's invaded Viron. That's another reason for us to do like he showed us down there--" 
Hammerstone heaved himself upright, throwing aside four sticklimbed 
men who tried to hold him down. The sinews that bound his 
wrists and ankles broke in a rattattoo of poppings, like the burning of a string of firecrackers. 
Almost casually, Auk thrust his hanger into the ground at his 
feet 
and leveled the slug gun. "Don't try it." 
"We got to fight," Hammerstone told him. "Patera and me. We got to defend the city." 
Reluctantly, Chenille trained the launcher Hammerstone had 
taught her to load and fire at his broad metal chest. He knelt to 
tear 
off Incus's gag, snapping the cords that had secured Incus's hands and feet between his fingers. 
"Look! Look!" Urus shouted and pointed, then futilely directed the beam of Gelada's lantern upward. Others around him shouted 
and pointed, too. 
Another voice, remote but louder than the loudest merely human 
voice silenced them, filling the pit with its thunder: "_Convicts, 
you 
are free! Viron has need of every one of you. In the name of all the--in 
the Outsider's name, forget your quarrel with the Civil Guard, 
which now supports our Charter. Forget any quarrel you may have 
with your fellow citizens. Most of all, forget every quarrel among yourselves!_" 
Chenille grasped Auk's elbow. "That's Patera Silk! I recognize his voice!" 
Auk could only shake his head, unbelieving. Something--a 
tumbling, flying thing that appeared, incredibly, to have a turret 
and 
a buzz gun--had cleared the parapet on the wall and was drifting into the pit, dropping lower and lower, an armed floater blown 
upwind by a wind that was none, hundreds of cubits above the 
Alambrera. 
Chenille's launcher was snatched from her hands and fired as 
soon as it had left them, Hammerstone aiming at the immense shape 
far above the floater, directing a single missile at it  (or perhaps 
at 
the winged figures that streamed from it like smoke), and watching 
it expectantly to observe the strike and correct his aim. 
"_There Auk!_" thundered a hoarse voice from the floater tumbling slowly overhead. "_Here girl!_" 
A second missile, and Auk was firing the slug gun that had been Hammerstone's, too, shooting winged troopers who swooped and 
soared above the pit firing slug guns of their own. 
	A minute dot of black fell from the vast flying thing Auk had 
called an airship. She saw it streak through the milling cloud of winged troopers. An instant later, the dark wall of the Alambrera exploded with a force that rocked the Whorl. 

Silk stood in his boyhood bedroom, looking down at the boy who 
had been himself. The boy's face was buried in his pillow; by an 
effort of will he made it look toward him; each time it turned, its features dissolved in mist. 
He sat down on the sill of the open window, conscious of the 
borage growing under it and of lilacs and violets beyond it. A 
copybook lay open, waiting, on the sleeping boy's small table; there were quills beside it, their ends more or less chewed. He ought to write, he knew--tell this boy who had been himself that he was 
taking his blue tunic, and leave him advice that would be of help in the troubles to come. 
Yet he could not settle upon the right words, and he knew that
the
boy would soon wake. It was shadeup, and he would be late at his palaestra; already Mother approached the bed. 
What could he say that would have meaning for this boy? That this boy might recall more than a decade later? 
	Mother shook his shoulder, and Silk felt his own shoulder 
touched; it was strange she could not see him. 
_Fear no love_, he wrote; and then:  _Carry out the Plan of Pus_. 
But Mother's hand was shaking him so hard that the final words were 
practically unreadable;  _of Pas_ faded from the soft, blue-lined 
paper 
as he watched. Pas was, after all, a thing of the past. Like the boy. 
	Xiphias and the Prolocutor were standing at the foot of the boy's 
bed, which had become his own. 
He blinked. 
As if to preside over a sacrifice at the Grand Manteion, the 
Prolocutor wore mulberry vestments crusted with diamonds and 
sapphires, and held the gold baculus that symbolized his authority; Xiphias had what appeared to be an augur's black robe folded over his arm. It seemed the wildest of dreams. 
His blankets were pushed away; and the surgeon, standing next to 
his bed beside Hyacinth, rolled him onto his side and bent to pull 
off 
the bandages he had applied earlier. Silk managed to smile up at 
Hyacinth, and she smiled in return--a shy, frightened smile that was like a kiss. 
From the other side of the bed, Colonel Oosik inquired, "Can you speak, Calde?" 
He could not, though it was his emotions that kept him silent. 
	"He talked to me last night before he went to sleep," Hyacinth 
told Oosik. 
"Silk talk!" Oreb confirmed from the top of a bedpost. 
"Please don't sit up." The surgeon laid his hand--a much larger and stronger one than the hand that had awakened him--upon Silk's shoulder to prevent it. 
"I can speak." he told them. "Your Cognizance. I very much regret having subjected you to this." 
Quetzal shook his head and told Hyacinth, "Perhaps you'd better get him dressed." 
"No time to dawdle, lad!" Xiphias exclaimed. "Shadeup in an hour! Want them to start shooting again?" 
Then the surgeon who had held him down was helping him to rise, 
and Hyacinth  (who smelled better than an entire garden of flowers) 
was helping him into a tunic. "I did this for you last Phaesday 
night, 
remember?" 
"Do I still have your azoth?" he asked her. And then, "What in
the
Whorl's going on?" 
"They sent Oosie to kill you. He just came back and he doesn't want to." 

Silk was looking, or trying to look, into the corners of the room. 
Gods and others who were not gods waited there, he felt certain. 
watching and nearly visible, their shining heads turned toward him. He remembered climbing onto Blood's roof and his desperate 
struggle with the whiteheaded one, Hyacinth snatching his hatchet 
from his waistband. He groped for it, but hatchet and waistband had vanished alike. 
Quetzal muttered, "Somebody will have to tell him what to tell them. How to make peace." 
"I don't expect you to believe me, Your Cognizance--" Hyacinth began. 
"Whether I believe you or not, my child, will depend on what you say." 
"We didn't! I swear to you by Thelxiepeia and Scalding Scylla--" 
	"For example. If you were to say that Patera Calde Silk had 
 violated his oath and disgraced his vocation, I would not believe 
you." 
Standing upon the arm of his mother's reading chair, he had 
studied the calde's head, carved by a skillful hand from hard brown 
wood. "Is this my father?" Mother's smile as she lifted him down, 
warning him not to touch it. "No, no, that's my friend the calde." 
Then the calde was dead and buried, and his head buried, too--buried in the darkest reaches of her closet, although she spoke at 
times of burning it in the big black kitchen stove and perhaps 
believed eventually that she had. It was not well to have been a 
friend of the calde's. 
"I know our Patera Calde Silk too well for that," Quetral was 
telling Hyacinth. "On the other hand, if you were to say that nothing of the kind had taken place, I would believe you implicitly, my 
child." 
Xiphias helped Silk to his feet, and Hyacinth pulled up a pair of 
unbicached linen drawers that had somehow appeared around his 
ankles and were new and clean and not his at all, and tied the cord 
for him. 
"Calde--" 
At that moment, the title sounded like a death sentence. He said, 
"I'm only Patera--Only Silk. Nobody's calde now." 
	Oosik stroked his drooping, white-tipped mustache. "You fear 
that because my men and I are loyal to the Ayuntamiento, we will 
kill you. I understand. It is undoubtedly true, as this young woman 
has said--" 
In the presence of the Prolocutor, Oosik was pretending he did not know Hyacinth, exactly as he himself had tried to pretend he was not calde;; Silk found wry amusement in that. 
"--and already you have almost perished in this foolish fighting," 
Oosik was saying. "Another dies now, even as we speak. On our side 
or yours, it does not matter. If it was one of us, we will kill one 
of 
you soon. If one of you, you will kill one of us. Perhaps it will be 
me. 
Perhaps my son, though he has already--" 
Xiphias interrupted him. "Couldn't get home, lad! Tried to! Big 
night attack! Still fighting! Didn't think they'd try that. You don't mind my coming back to look out for you?" 
Kneeling with his trousers, Hyacinth nodded confirmation. "If you listen at the window, you can still hear shooting." 
	Silk sat on the rumpled bed again and pushed his feet into the 
legs. "I'm confused. Are we still at Ermine's?" 
	She nodded again. "In my room." 
Oosik had circled the bed to hold his attention. "Would it not be
a
great thing, Calde, if we--if you and I, and His Cognizance--could 

end this fighting before shadeup?" 
With less confidence in his legs than he tried to show, Silk stood 
to pull up and adjust his waistband. "That's what I'd hoped to do." He sat as quickly as he could without loss of dignity. 
	"We will--" 
Quetzal interposed, "We must strike fast. We can't wait for you
to
recover, Patera Calde. I wish we could. You were startled to see me vested like this. My clothes always shock you. I'm afraid." 
	"So it seems, Your Cognizance." 
"I'm under arrest, too, technically. But I'm trying to bring peace, 
just as you are." 
"We've both failed, in that case, Your Cognizance." 
Oosik laid his hand upon Silk's; it felt warm and damp. thick 
with 
muscle. "Do not burden yourself with reproaches, Calde. No! 
Success is possible still. Who had you in mind as commander of your Civil Guard?" 
The gods had gone, but one--perhaps crafty Thelxiepeia. whose 
day was just beginning--had left behind a small gift of cunning. "If anyone could put an end to this bloodshed, he would surely deserve a greater reward than that." 
"But if that were all the reward he asked?" 
"I'd do everything I could to see that he obtained it." 
"Wise Silk!" Oreb cocked a bright black eye approvingly from the bedpost. 
Oosik smiled. "You are better already, I think. I was greatly 
concerned for you when I saw you." He looked at the surgeon. 
"What do you think, Doctor? Should our calde have more blood?" 
Quetzal stiffened, and the surgeon shook his head. 
"Achieving peace, Calde, may not be as difficult as you imagine. Our men and yours must be made to understand that loyalty to the 
Ayuntamiento is not disloyalty to you. Nor is loyalty to you 
disloyalty to the Ayuntamiento. When I was a young man we had 
both. Did you know that?" 
Xiphias exclaimed, "It's true, lad!" 
"There is a vacancy on the Ayuntamiento. Clearly it must be 
filled. On the other hand, there are councillors presently in the 
Ayuntamiento. Their places are theirs. Why ought they not retain 
them?" 
A compromise; Silk thought of Maytera Mint, small and 
heartrendingly brave upon a white stallion in Sun Street. "The Alambrera--?" 
"Cannot be permitted to fall. The morale of your Civil Guard would not survive so crushing a humiliation." 
"I see." He stood again, this time with more confidence; he felt weak, yet paradoxically strong enough to face whatever had to be 
faced. "The poor, the poorest people of our quarter especially, who began the insurrection, are anxious to release the convicts there. They are their friends and relatives." 
Quetzal added, "Echidna has commanded it." 
Oosik nodded, still smiling. "So I have heard. Many of our 
prisoners say so, and a few even claim to have seen her. I repeat, however, that a successful assault on the Alambrera would be a 
disaster. It cannot be permitted. But might not our calde, upon his assumption of office, declare a general amnesty? A gesture at once generous and humane?" 
"I see," Silk repeated. "Yes, certainly, if it will end the fighting--if 
there's even the slightest chance that it will end it. Must I come 
with 
you, Generalissimo?" 

"You must do more. You must address both the insurgents and 
our own men, forcefully. It can be begun here, from your bed. I 
have a means of transmitting your voice to my troops, defending 
the Palatine. Afterward we will have to put you in a floater and 
take you to the Alambrera, in order that both our men and Mint's 
may see you, and see for themselves that there is no trickery. His Cognizance has agreed to go with you to bless the peace. Many 
know already that he has sided with you. When it is seen that my 
brigade has come over to you as a body, the rest will come as well." 
	Oreb crowed, "Silk win!" from the bedpost. 
"I'm coming, too," Hyacinth declared. 
"You must understand that there is to be no surrender, Calde. Viron will have chosen to return to its Charter. A 
calde--yourself--and an ayuntamiento." 
Oosik turned ponderously to Quetzal. "Is that not the system of government stipulated by Scylla. Your Cognizance?" 
	"It is, my son, and it is my fondest desire to see it 
reinstated." 
"If we're paraded through the city in this floater," Silk said, "many 
of the people who see us are certain to guess that I've been 
wounded." In the nick of time he remembered to add, "Generalissimo." 
	"Nor will we attempt to conceal it, Calde. You yourself have 
played a hero's part in the fighting! I must tell Gecko to work that into your little speech." 
Oosik took two steps backward. "Now someone must attend to all these things, I fear, and there is no one capable of it but myself. Your pardon, my lady." He bowed. "Your pardon, Calde. I will 
return shortly. Your pardon, Your Cognizance." 
	"Bad man?" mused Oreb 
Silk shook his head. "No one who ends murder and hatred is evil, 
even if he does it for his own profit. We need such people too much 
to let even the gods condemn them. Xiphias, I sent you away last 
night at the same time that I sent away His Eminence. Did you leave 
at once?" 
The old fencing master was shamefaced. "Did you say at once, lad?" 
"I don't think so. If I did, I don't recall it." 
"I'd brought you this, lad, remember?" He bounded to the most 
remote corner of the room and held up the silver-banded cane. 
"Valuable!" He parried an imaginary opponents's thrust. "Useful! 
Think I'd let them leave it behind in that garden?" 
Hyacinth said, "You followed when we carried him up here, didn't you? I saw you watching us from the foot of the stairs, but I didn't know you from a rat then." 
"I understand." Silk nodded almost imperceptibly. "His Eminence 
left at once, I imagine. I had told him to find you if he could, Your Cognizance. Did he?" 
"No," Quetzal said. With halting steps, he made his way to a red velvet chair and sat, laying the baculus across his knees. "Does it matter, Patera Calde?" 
"Probably not. I'm trying to straighten things out in my mind, 
that's all." Silk's forefinger traced pensive circles on his beard-
rough 
cheek. "By this time, His Eminence may have reached 
Maytera Mint--reached General Mint, I should say. It's possible 
they have already begun to work out a truce. I hope so, it could 
be helpful. Mucor reached her in any event; and when General 
Mint heard Mucor's message, she attacked the Palatine hoping to 
rescue me--I ought to have anticipated that. My mind wasn't as 
clear as it should be last night, or I would never have told her 
where I was." 
Hyacinth asked, "Mucor? You mean Blood's abram girl? Was she here?" 

"In a sense." Silk found that by staring steadfastly at the yellow 
goblets and chocolate cellos that danced across the carpet, it was 
possible to speak to Hyacinth without choking, and even to think in a patchy fashion about what he said. "I met her Phaesday night, and I talked to her in the Glasshouse before you found me. I'll explain about her later, though, if I may--it's appalling and rather complex. The vital point is that she agreed to carry a message to General Mint for me, and did it. Colonel Oosik's brigade was being held in reserve when I spoke to him earlier; when the attack came, it must have 
been brought up to strengthen the Palatine." 
Hyacinth nodded. "That's what he told me before we woke you. He said it was lucky for you because Councillor Loris ordered him to send somebody to kill you, but he came himself instead and 
brought you a doctor." 
"I operated on you yesterday, Calde," the surgeon told Silk, "but
I
don't expect you to remember me. You were very nearly dead." He was horse-faced and balding; his eyes were rimmed with red, and there were bloodstains on his rumpled green tunic. 
"You can't have had much sleep, Doctor." 
"Four hours. I wouldn't have slept that much, if my hands hadn't started to shake. We have over a thousand wounded." 
	Hyacinth sat on the bed next to Silk. "That's about what we got, 
too--four hours, I mean. I must look a hag." 
He made the error of trying to verify it, and discovered that his eyes refused to leave her face. "You are the most beautiful woman in the Whorl," he said. Her hand found his, but she indicated Quetzal by a slight tilting of her head. 
Quetzal had been dozing--so it appeared--in the red chair; he 
looked up as though she had pronounced his name. "Have you a 
mirror, my child? There must be a mirror in a suite like this." 
	"There's a glass in the dressing room, Your Cognizance. It'll 
show 
you your reflection if you ask." Hyacinth nibbled at her full lower 
lip. "Only I ought to be in there getting dressed. Oosie will come 
back in a minute, I think, with a speech for Patera and one of those ear things." 
Quetzal rose laboriously with the help of his baculus, and Silk's heart went out to him. How feeble he was! "I've had four hours 
sleep, Your Cognizance; Hyacinth less than that, I'm afraid, and the doctor here about the same; but I don't believe Your Cognizance 
can have slept at all." 
"People my age don't need much, Patera Calde, but I'd like a 
mirror. I have a skin condition. You've been too well bred to remark upon it, but I do. I carry paint and powder now like a woman, and fix my face whenever I get the chance." 
"In the balneum, Your Cognizance." Hyacinth rose, too. "There's a minor, and I'll dress while you're in there." 
Quetzal tottered away. Hyacinth paused with one hand on the 
latch-bar, clearly posing but so lovely that Silk could have forgiven her things far worse. "You men think it takes women a long while to 
get dressed, but it won't take me long this morning. Don't go 
without me." 
"We won't," Silk promised, and held his breath until the boudoir door closed behind her. 
"Bad thing," Oreb muttered from a bedpost. 
Xiphias displayed the silver-banded cane to Silk. "Now I can show 
you this, lad! Modest? Proper? Augur can't wear a sword, right? 
But you can carry this! Had a stick first time you came, didn't you?" 
	"Bad thing!" Oreb dropped down upon Silk's shoulder. 
	"Yes, I had a walking stick then. It's gone now, I'm afraid. I 
 broke it." 
"Won't break this! Watch!" Between Xiphias's hands, the cane's 

head separated from its brown wooden shaft, exposing a straight, 
slender, double-edged blade. "Twist, and pull them apart! You try 
it!" 
"I'd much rather put them back together." Silk accepted the cane from him; it seemed heavy for a walking stick, and somewhat light for a sword. "It's a bad thing, as Oreb says." 
"Nickel in that steel! Chrome, too! Truth! Could parry an azoth! Believe that?" 
Silk shuddered. "I suppose so. I had an azoth once and couldn't cut through a steel door with it." 
The azoth reminded him of Hyacinth's gold-plated needler; 
hurriedly, he put his hand in his pocket. "Here it is. I've got to return 
this to her. I was.afraid that it would be gone, somehow, though I can't imagine who might have taken it, except Hyacinth herself." He laid it on the peach-colored sheet. 
"I gave your big one back, lad. Still got it?" 
Silk shook his head, and Xiphias began to prowl around the room, opening cabinets and examining shelves. 
"This cane will be useful, I admit," Silk told him, "but I really don't 
require a needler." 
Xiphias whirled to confront him, holding it out. "Going to make peace, aren't you?" 
"I hope to, Master Xiphias, and that's exactly--" 
"What if they don't like the way you're making it, lad? Take it!" 
	"Here you are, Calde." Oosik bustled in with a sheet of paper and 
 a black object that seemed more like a flower molded from synthetic 
than an actual ear. "I'll turn it on before I pass it to you, and all you'll have to do is talk into it. Do you understand? My loudspeakers will repeat everything that you say, and everyone will hear you. 
Here's your speech." 
He handed Silk the paper. "It would be best for you to read it 
over 
first. Insert some thoughts of your own if you like. I would not deviate too far from the text, however." 
Words crawled across the sheet like ants, some bearing meaning 
in their black jaws, most with none.  _The insurgent forces. The Civil Guard. The rebellion. The commissioners and the Ayuntamiento. 
The Army. The arms in the Alambrera. The insurgents and the 
Guard. Peace_. 
There it was at last.  _Peace_. 
"All right." Silk let the sheet fall into his lap. 
Oosik signaled to someone in the outer room, waited for a reply 
that soon came, cleared his throat, and held the ear to his lips. 
"This 
Is Generalissimo Oosik of the Calde's Guard. Hear me all ranks, 
and especially you rebels. You're fighting us because you want to make Patera Silk Calde, but Calde Silk is with us. He is with the Guard, because he knows that we are with him. Now you soldiers. 
Your duty is to obey our calde. He is sitting here beside me. Hear his instructions." 
Silk wanted his old chipped ambion very badly; his hands sought 
it blindly as he spoke, rattling the paper. "My fellow citizens, what Generalissimo Oosik has just told you is true. Are we not--" The 
words seemed predisposed to hide behind his trembling fingers. 
	"Are we not, every one of us, citizens of Viron? On this historic 
day, my fellow citizen--" The type blurred, and the next line began a meaningless half sentence. 
"Our city is in great danger," he said. "I believe the whole Whorl's 
in great danger, though I can't be sure." 
He coughed and spat clotted blood on the carpet. "Please excuse 
me. I've been wounded. It doesn't matter, because I'm not going to 

die. Neither are you, if only you'll listen." 
Faintly, he heard his words re-echoed in the night beyond Ermine's walls: "_You'll listen_." The loudspeakers Oosik had mentioned, mouths with stentorian voices, had heard him in some fashion, and in some fashion repeated his thoughts. 
The door of the balneum opened. Framed in the doorway, 
Quetzal gave him an encouraging nod, and Oreb flew back to his post on the bedpost. 
"We can't rebel against ourselves," Silk said. "So there is no 
rebellion. There is no insurrection, and none of you are insurgents. 
We can fight among ourselves, of course, and we've been doing it. It 
was necessary, but the time of its necessity is over. There is a 
calde 
again--I am your calde. We needed rain, and we have gotten rain." 
He paused to look across the room at the rich smoke-gray drapes. 
"Master Xiphias, will you open that window for me, please? Thank 
you." 
He drew a deep and somewhat painful breath of cool, damp air. 
"We've had rain, and if I'm any judge of weather, we'll get more. 
Now let's have peace--it's a gift we can provide ourselves, one more precious than rain. Let's have peace." 
(What was it the captain had said whole ages ago in that inn?) 
"Many of you are hungry. We plan to buy food with city funds and 
sell it to you cheaply. Not free, because there are always people who 
will waste anything free. But very cheaply, so that even beggars will 
be able to buy enough. My Guard will release the convicts from the 
pits. Generalissimo Oosik, His Cognizance the Prolocutor, and I are 
going to the Alambrera this morning, and I'll order it. All convicts 
are pardoned as of this moment--I pardon them. They'll be hungry 
and weak, so please share whatever food you have with them." 
	He recalled his own hunger, hunger at the manse and worse 
hunger underground, gnawing hunger that had become a sort of 
illness by the time Mamelta located the strange, steaming meals of 
the underground tower. "We had a poor harvest this year." he said. 
"Let us pray, every one of us, for a better one next year. I've 
prayed 
for that often, and I'll pray for it again; but if we want to have enough to eat for the rest of our lives, we must have water for our fields when the rains fail. 
"There are ancient tunnels under the city. Some of you can 
confirm that because you've come upon them while digging foundations. 
They reach Lake Limna--I know that, because I've been in them. If we 
can 
break through near the lake--and I'm sure we can--we can use them to carry water to the farms. Then we'll all have 
plenty of food, cheaply, for a long time." He wanted to say, until 
it's 
time for us to leave this whorl behind us, but he bit the words back, 
pausing instead to watch the gray drapes sway in the breeze and 
listen to his own voice through the open window. 
	"If you have been fighting for me, don't use your weapons again 
unless you're attacked. If you're a Guardsman, you have sworn that 
you'll obey your officers."  (He could not be sure of that, but it was 
so probable that he asserted it boldly.) "Ultimately, that means 
Generalissimo Oosik, who commands both the Guard and the 
Army. You've already heard what he has to say. He's for peace. So am 
I." 
Oosik pointed to himself, then to the ear; and Silk added, "You'll 
hear him again, very soon." 
He felt that the shade should be up by now--indeed that it was 
past that time, the hour of first light, and time for the morning 
prayer to Thelxiepeia; yet the city beyond the gray drapes was still 
twilit. "To you whose loyalty is to the Ayuntamiento, I have two 

things to 
say. The first is that you're fighting--dying, many of you--for an 
institution that needs no defense. Neither I nor Generalissimo Oosik 
nor 
General Mint desires to destroy it. So why shouldn't there be peace? Help us make peace! 
"The second is that the Ayuntamiento was created by our Charter. 
Were it not for our Charter, it would have no right to exist, and 
wouldn't exist. Our Charter grants to you--to you, the people of 
Viron, and not to any official--the right to choose a new calde 
whenever the position is vacant. It then makes the Ayuntamiento 
subject to the calde you have chosen. I need not tell you that our 
Charter proceeds from the immortal gods. All of you know that. 
Generalissimo Oosik and I have been consulting His Cognizance the 
Prolocutor on this matter of the calde and the Ayuntamiento. He is 
here with us, and if I have misinformed you he will correct me, I 
feel 
certain." 
With his left hand Quetzal accepted the ear; his right traced a 
trembling sign of addition. "Blessed be you in the Most Sacred 
Name of Pas, the Father of the Gods, in that of Gracious Echidna, 
His consort, in those of the Sons and their Daughters alike, this day 
and forever, in the name of their eldest child, Scylla, Patroness of 
this--" 
He continued to speak, but Silk's attention deserted him; the 
door of the dressing room had opened. Hyacinth stepped through it, 
radiantly lovely in a flowing gown of scarlet silk. In a low voice 
she 
said, "The glass in there just told me the Ayuntamiento's offering 
ten thousand to anybody who kills you and two thousand each for 
Oosie and His Cognizance. I thought you should know." 
	Silk nodded and thanked her; Oosik muttered, "It was only to be 
expected." 
"Consider, my children," Quetzal was saying, "how painful it must 
be to Succoring Scylla to see the sons and daughters of the city that 
she founded clawing one another's eyes. She has provided everything 
we require. First of all our Charter, the foundation of peace 
and justice. If we wish to regain her favor we need only return to 
it. 
If we wish to reclaim the peace we have lost, again we need only 
return to her Charter. We wish justice, I know. I wish it myself, and 
the wish for it has been planted in every bosom by Great Pas. Even 
the worst of us wish to live in holiness, too. Perhaps there are a 
few 
ingrates who don't, but they are very few. We wish all these things, 
and we can make them ours by one simple act. Let us return to our 
Charter. That is what the gods desire. Let us accept this anointed 
augur, Patera Calde Silk. The gods desire that, too. To conform to 
Sustaining Scylla's Charter, we must have a calde, and the smallest 
of our children know on whom the choice has fallen. If you have any 
doubts on these topics, my children, I beg you to consult the 
anointed augur into whose care you are given. There is one, you 
know, in every quarter. Or you may consult the next you see, or any 
holy sibyl. They will tell you that the path of duty is not difficult 
but 
simple and plain." 
Quetzal paused, exhaling with a slight hiss. "Now, my children, a 
most painful matter. Word has come to me that devils in human 
shape are seeking our destruction. Falsely and evilly. they promise 
money they have not got and will not pay, for our blood. Do not 
believe their lies. Their lies offend the gods. Anyone who slays good 
men for money is worse than a devil, and anyone who slays for 
money he will never see is a fool. Worse than a fool, a dupe." 
	Oosik reached for the ear, but Quetzal shook his head. 

"My children, it will soon be shadeup. A new day. Let it be a day 
of peace. Let us stand together. Let us stand by the gods, by their 
Charter, and by the calde they have chosen for us. I bid you farewell 
for the present, but soon I hope to talk to you face-to-face and 
bless 
you for the peace you've given our city. Now I believe Generalissimo Oosik wants to speak to you again." 
Oosik cleared his throat. "This is the Generalissimo. Operations 
against the rebels are canceled, effective at once. Every officer 
will 
be held responsible for his obedience to my order and for the actions 
of his troopers or soldiers, as the case may be. Calde Silk and His 
Cognizance are going through the city on one of our floaters. I 
expect every officer, every trooper, and every soldier to receive 
them in a manner fully in accordance with loyalty and good 
discipline. 
"My Calde, have you anything further to say?" 
"Yes, I do." Silk leaned toward him, speaking into the ear. "Please 
stop fighting. It was needful, as I said; but it's become senseless. Stop them if you can, Maytera Mint. General Mint, please stop 
them. Peace is within our grasp--from the moment we accept it, all 
of us have won." 
He straightened up, savoring the wonder of the ear. It really 
does 
look like a black flower, he thought, a flower meant to bloom at 
night; and because it's bloomed, shadeup is on the way, even if the night looks nearly as dark as ever. 
To the ear he added, "We'll be with you in a few minutes, on the floater Generalissimo Oosik told you about. Don't shoot us, please. We certainly won't shoot you. No one will." He turned to Oosik for confirmation, and Oosik nodded vigorously. 
"Not even if you shoot me. I'll stand up if I can, so you can see me." He paused. Was there more to say? 
Attenuated like distant thunder, his words flew back to him 
through the window, an ebbing storm: "_Can see me_." 
"Those who fought for Viron will be rewarded, regardless of the 
side on which they fought. Maytera Marble, if you can hear this, 
please come to the floater. I need you badly, so please come. Auk, 
too, and Chenille." Had Kypris possessed Hyacinth, rendering her 
irresistible? Could she possess two women simultaneously? For a 
second he pondered the question among the remembered faces of 
his teachers at the schola. He ought to end this, he thought, by 
invoking the gods; but the time-worn honorifics caught in his throat. 
	"Until I see you," he said at last, "please pray for me--for our 
city, 
and for all of us. Pray to Kind Kypris, who is love. Pray especially 
to 
the Outsider, because he is the god whose time is coming and I am the help he's sent us." 
He let the hand that held the ear fall, and Oosik took it from 
him. 
"For which we all give thanks," Oosik said, and Oreb muttered, "Watch out." 
No one spoke after that. Although Oosik and his surgeon, 
Xiphias, and Quetzal were all present, the bedroom felt empty. Beyond the window, a hush hung over the Palatine. No street vendor hawked his wares and no gun spoke. 
Peace. 
Peace here, at least; for those on the Palatine and those surrounding 
it, there was peace. Incredible as it seemed, hundreds--thousands--
had 
ceased fighting, merely because he, Silk, had told them to. 

He felt better; perhaps peace, like blood, made one feel better. He was stronger, though he was still not strong. The surgeon had 
poured blood--more blood--into him while he slept, and that sleep 
must have been something akin to a coma, because the needle had 
not awakened him. Another's blood--another's life--had let him 
live, though he had been certain the night before that he would die 
that night. Premonitions born of weakness could be frustrated, 
clearly; he would have to remember that. With friends to help, a 
man could make his own fate. 

Chapter  9  -- Victory 

Xiphias, it transpired, had gone to the Palace, bringing back one 
of Remora's fine robes. It fit Silk surprisingly well, although it carried in its soft fabric a suggestion of somber luxury he found 
detestable. "They won't know you outside of this, lad," Xiphias 
said. He, shaking his head, wondered how they could possibly 
know him in it. 
Oosik returned. "I have had more lights mounted on your floater, Calde. There will be a flag on its antenna as well. Most will be on you, two on the flag." Without waiting for a reply, he asked the 
surgeon, "Is he ready?" 
"He shouldn't walk far," the surgeon said. 
"I can walk around the city if need be," Silk told them. 
Hyacinth declared, "He should lie down again till it's time to 
go," 
and to please her, he did. 
Within half a minute, it seemed, Xiphias and the surgeon were 
lowering him into a litter. Hyacinth walked beside him as she had 
when the waiters had carried him out of the Glasshouse, and it 
seemed to him that his mother's garden walked with her; from the 
other side, Quetzal asperged him with benedictions, his robe of 
mulberry velvet contributing the mingled smells of frankincense and 
something else to the cool and windy dark. At his ears, the 
_frou-frou-frou_ of Hyacinth's skirt and the  _whish-shish_ 
of Quetzal's robe sounded louder than the snap of Oosik's flag. 
Troopers 
saluted, clicking their heels. One knelt for Quetzal's blessing. 
	"It would be better," Oosik said, "if you did not have to be 
carried 
into the floater, Calde. Can you do it?" 
He could, of course, rising from the litter with the help of 
Xiphias's cane. A volley of shots crackled in the distance; it was followed by a faint scream, rarefied and unreal. "Men fight," Oreb commented. 
"Some do," Silk told him. "That's why we're going." 
The entry port let spill a sallow light; the surgeon was crouching 
inside to help him in. "Blood's floater was open," Silk remarked, remembering. "There was a transparent canopy--a top that you 
could see through almost as well as air--but when it was down, you could stand up." 
"You can stand in this, too," the surgeon said, "right here." He steered Silk toward the spot. "See? You're under the turret here." 
	Straightening up, Silk nodded. "I rode in one of these 
yesterday--on the 
outside, when the rain stopped. It wasn't nearly as roomy as this." 
Corpses, 
including Doctor Crane's, had taken up most of the space inside. 
"We took out a lot of ammo, Calde," the trooper at the controls told him. 
Silk nearly nodded again, although the trooper could not see his 

head. He had found the ladder he recalled, a spidery affair of metal rods, and was climbing cautiously but steadily toward the open 
hatch at the top of the turret. 
"Bad thing," Oreb informed him nervously. "Thing shine." 
	To his own astonishment Silk smiled. "This buzz gun, you 
 mean?" It was dull black, but the open breech revealed bright steel. "They won't shoot us with it, Oreb. They won't shoot 
anyone, I hope." 
The surgeon's voice floated up from below. "There's a saddle for the gunner, Calde, and things to put your feet in." 
	"Stirrups." That voice had been Oosik's, surely. 
Silk swung himself onto the leather-covered seat, almost but not 
quite losing his grip on Xiphias's cane. There were officers on 
horseback around the floater, and what seemed to be a full company 
of troopers standing at ease half a street behind it. The footman who 
had admitted him to Ermine's was watching everything from his 
station by the door; Silk waved to him with the cane, and he waved 
in return, his grin a touch of white in the darkness. 
	It's going to rain again, Silk thought. I don't believe we've had 
a 
morning this dark since spring. 
Quetzal's head rose at his elbow. "I'm going to be besides you, Patera Calde. They're finding a box for me to stand on." 
	With as much firmness as he could muster, Silk said, "I can't 
possibly sit while your Cognizance stands." 
A hatch opened at the front of the floater; Oosik's head and 
shoulders emerged, and he spoke to someone inside. 
	Quetzal touched Silk's hand with cold, dry fingers that might 
have 
been boneless. "You're wounded, Patera Calde, and weaker than 
you think. Stay seated. That is my wish." His head rose to the level of Silk's own. 
"As Your Cognizance desires." With both hands on the rim of the hatch, Silk heaved up his unwontedly uncooperative body. For an 
instant the effort seemed too great; his heart pounded and his arms shook; then one foot found a corner of the box on which Quetzal 
stood, and he was able to hoist himself up enough to sit on the 
coaming of the open turret hatch. "The gunner's seat remains for 
Your Cognizance," he said. 
The floater lifted beneath them, gliding forward. Louder than the 
roar of its engine, Oosik's voice seemed to reach into every street 
in 
the city: "_People of Viron! Our new calde is coming among you as we promised. At his side is His Cognizance the Prolocutor, who has 
confirmed that Calde Silk has the favor of all the gods. Hail him! 
Follow him!_" 
Brilliant white lights glared to left and right, less than an arm's 
length away, more than half blinding him. 
	"Girl come!" Oreb exclaimed. 
A black civilian floater had nosed between their floater and the 
troopers, and was pushing through the mounted officers. Hyacinth 
stood on its front seat beside the driver; and while Silk watched 
open mouthed, she stepped over what seemed to be a low invisible 
barrier, and onto the waxed and rounded foredeck. "Your stick!" she 
called. 
Silk tightened the handle, leaned as far back as he dared, and 
held 
it out to her; the civilian floater advanced until its cowling touched 
the back of the floater upon which he rode. 
And Hyacinth leaped, her scarlet skirt billowing about her bare 
legs in the updraft from the blowers. For an instant he was certain 
she would fall. Then she had grasped the cane and stood secure on 

the sloping rear deck of his floater, waving in triumph to the 
mounted officers, most of whom waved in return or saluted. As the floater in which she had come turned away and vanished into the 
twilight beyond the lights on their own, Silk recognized the driver who had returned him to his manse Phaesday night. 
Hyacinth gave him a mischievous grin. "You look like you've seen a ghost. You didn't expect company, did you?" 
"I thought you were inside. I should've--I'm sorry, Hyacinth. Terribly sorry." 
"You ought to be." He had to put his ear to her lips to hear her, and she nipped and kissed it. "Oosie sent me away. Don't tell him 
I'm up here." 
Lost in the wonder of her face, Silk could only gasp. 
Quetzal raised the baculus to bestow a benison, although Silk 
could see no one beyond the glare that enveloped the three of them except the mounted officers. The roar of their floater was muted 
now; an occasional grating hesitation suggested that its cowling was actually scraping the cobbles. 
"You said you took a floater," Silk told Hyacinth. "I thought you meant that you just, well, took it." 
"I wouldn't know how to make one go." Sitting, she edged nearer, 
grasping the coaming of the turret hatch. "Would you? But that 
driver's my friend, and I gave him a little money." 
	They rounded a corner, and innumerable throats cheered from 
the dimness beyond the lights. Someone shouted, "We've gone over 
to Silk!" 
A thrown chrysanthemum brushed his cheek, and he waved. 
Another voice shouted, "Live the calde!" It brought a storm of 
cheering, and Hyacinth waved and smiled as if she herself were that calde, evoking a fresh outburst. "Where are we going? Did Oosie 
tell you?" 
"To the Alambrera." Silk had to shout to make himself heard. 
"We'll free the convicts. The Juzgado afterward." 
A jumble of boxes and furniture opened to let them pass--Liana's barricade. 
Beside him, Quetzal invoked the Nine: "In the name of Marvelous Molpe, you are blessed. In the name of Tenebrous Tartaros..." 
They trust the gods, Silk thought, all these wretched men; and 
because they do, they have made me their leader. Yet I feel I can't trust any god at all, not even the Outsider. 
As if they had been chatting over lunch, Quetzal said, "Only a 
fool 
would, Patera Calde." 
	Silk stared. 
"Didn't I tell you that I've done everything I could to prevent theophanies? Those we call gods are nothing more than ghosts. 
Powerful ghosts, but only because they entailed that power to 
themselves in life." 
"I--" Silk swallowed. "I wasn't aware that I had spoken aloud, Your Cognizance. I apologize; my remark was singularly 
inappropriate." 
Oreb stirred apprehensively on his shoulder. 
"You didn't, Patera Calde. I saw your face, and I've had lots of practice. Don't look at me or your young woman. Look at the 
people. Wave. Look ahead. Smile." 
Both waved, and Silk tried to smile as well. His eyes had adjusted 
to the lights well enough now for him to glimpse indistinct figures beyond the mounted officers, many waving slug guns just as he 
waved the cane. Through clenched teeth he ventured, "Echidna told us Pas was dead. Your Cognizance confirmed it." 
"Dead long ago," Quetzal agreed, "whoever he really was, poor 
old fellow. Murdered by his family, as was inevitable." Deftly he 
caught a bouquet. "Blessings on you, my children. Blessings, 

blessings... May Great Pas and the immortal gods smile upon you and all that you own, forever!" 
"Silk is calde! Long live Silk!" 
Hyacinth told him happily, "We're getting a real tour of the city!" 
He nodded, feeling his smile grow warm and real. 
"Look at them, Patera Calde. This is their moment. They have bled for this." 
"Peace!" Silk called to the shadowy crowds, waving the cane. "Peace!" 
"Peace!" Oreb confirmed, and hopped up onto Silk's head flapping his wings. The day was brightening at last, Silk decided, in spite 
of the storm-black cloud hanging over the city. How appropriate 
that shadeup should come now--peace and sunlight together! A 
cheering woman waved an evergreen bough, the symbol of life. He 
waved in return, meeting her eyes and smiling, and she seemed 
ready to swoon with delight. 
"Don't start throwing flowers to yourself," Hyacinth told him 
with 
mock severity. "They'll be blaming you soon enough." 
"Then let's enjoy this while we can." Seeing the woman with the 
bough had recalled one of the ten thousand things the Outsider had 
shown him--a hero riding through some foreign city while a 
cheering crowd waved big fan-like leaves. Would Echidna and her 
children kill the Outsider too? With a flash of insight, he felt sure they were already trying. 
"Look! There's Orchid, throwing out the house." 
A light directed at the flag showed her plainly, leaning so far 
from 
the second-story window through which Kypris had called to him 
that it seemed she might fall any moment. They were floating down Lamp Street, clearly; the Alambrera could not be far. 
	As Hyacinth blew Orchid a kiss, something whizzed past Silk's 
ear, striking the foredeck like a gong. A high whine and a booming explosion were followed by the rattle of a buzz gun. Somebody 
shouted for someone to come down, and someone inside the floater caught his injured ankle and pulled. 
He looked up instead, to where something new and enormous 
that was not a cloud at all filled the sky. Another whine, louder, 
mounting ever higher, until Lamp Street exploded in front of them, 
peppering his face and throwing something solid at his head. 
Oosik shouted, "Faster!" and disappeared down his hatch, slamming it behind him. 
"Inside, Patera Calde!" 
He scooped Hyacinth into his arms instead, dropping the cane 
into the floater. It was racing now, careering along Lamp Street and scattering people like chaff. She shrieked. 
Here was Cage Street, overlooked by the despotic wall of the 
Alambrera. Hanging in the air in front of it was a single trooper 
with 
wings--a female trooper, from the bulge at her chest--who leveled a slug gun. He slid off the coaming and dropped, still holding 
Hyadnth, onto the men below. 
They sprawled in a tangle of arms and legs, like beetles swept 
into 
a jar. Someone stepped on his shoulder and swarmed up the spidery ladder. The turret hatch banged shut. At the front of the floater Oosik snapped, "Faster, Sergeant!" 
"We're getting a vector now, sir." 
Silk tried to apologize, to tug Hyacinth's scarlet skirt  (about which Hyacinth herself seemed to care not a cardbit) over her 
thighs, and to stand in a space in which he could not possibly have stood upright, all at once. Nothing succeeded. 
Something struck the floater like a sledge, sending it yawing 

into 
something else solid; it rolled and plunged and righted itself, its 
straining engine roaring like a wounded bull. Reeking of fish, a wisp of oily black smoke writhed through the compartment. 
	"_Faster!_" Oosik shouted. 
The turret gun spoke as if in response, a clatter that went on
and
on, as though the turret gunner were intent on massacring the whole city. 
Scrambling across Xiphias and the surgeon, Silk peered over Oosik's shoulder. Fiery red letters danced across his glass: <font size=2>VECTOR UNACCEPTABLE</font>. 
Something banged the slanted foredeck above their heads, and 
the thunder of the engine rose to a deafening crescendo; Silk felt that he had been jerked backwards. 
Abruptly, their motion changed. 
The floater no longer rocked or raced. The noise of the engine waned until he could distinguish the high-pitched song of the 
blowers. It ascended to an agonized scream and faded away. A red light flared on the instrument panel. 
For the second time in a floater, Silk felt that he was truly floating; it was, he thought, like the uncanny sensation of the moving room in which he had ridden with Mamelta. 
Behind him, Hyacinth gasped. A strangely-shaped object had 
risen from Oosik's side. Before Silk recognized it, it had completed 
a leisurely quarter revolution, scarcely a span in front of his nose. 
It 
was a large needler, similar to the one in his own waistband; and it had bobbed up like a cork, unimpelled, from Oosik's holster. 
	"Look! Look! They're picking us up!" Hyacinth's full breasts 
pressed his back as she stared at the glass. 
He plucked Oosik's needler out of the air and returned it to its 
holster. When he looked at the glass again, it showed a sprawling 
pattern of crooked lines, enlivened here and there by crimson 
sparks. It looked, he decided, like a city in the skylands, except 
that 
it seemed much closer. Intrigued, he undogged the hatcheover over 
Oosik's seat and threw it back. As he completed the motion, both 
his feet left the floor; he snatched at the hatch dog, missed it by a finger, and drifted up like Oosik's needler until someone inside 
caught his foot. 
The pattern he had seen in the glass was spread before him 
without limit here: a twilit skyland city, ringed by sunbright brown fields and huddled villages; and to one side, a silver mirror 
anchored 
by a winding, dun-colored thread Oreb fluttered from his shoulder as he gaped and disappeared into the twilight. 
"We're flying." Incredulity and dismay turned the words to a sigh that dwindled with the black bird. Silk coughed, spat congealed 
blood, and tried again. "We are flying upside down. I see Viron and the lake, even the road to the lake." 
Quetzal spoke from inside the floater. "Look behind us, Patera Calde." 
They were nearer now, so near that the vast dark belly of the 
thing roofed out the sky. Beneath it, suspended by cables that 
appeared no thicker than gossamer, dangled a structure like a boat with many short oars; Silk's lungs had filled and emptied before he realized that the oars were the barrels of guns, and half a minute crept by before he made out the blood-red triangle on its bottom. 
"Your Cognizance..." 
"You don't understand why they're not shooting at us." Quetzal 
shook himself. "I imagine it's only that they haven't noticed us yet. 
A wind is forcing them to hold their airship parallel to the sun, so 
they're peering down at a dark city. At the moment our floater's 

presenting its narrowest aspect to them. But we're turning, and soon 
they'll be looking straight down at us. Let's duck inside and shut 
the 
hatch." 
The glass showed Lake Limna now. Watching its shoreline creep 
from one corner to the other, Silk thought of Oosik's needler; their floater seemed to be tumbling through the sky in the same dilatory 
fashion. 
Clinging to him, Hyacinth whispered, "You're not afraid at all, are you? Are we up terribly high?" She trembled. 
	"Of course I am; when I was out there, I was terrified." He 
examined his emotional state. "I'm still badly frightened; but 
thinking about what's happening--how it can possibly have come 
about except by a miracle--keeps my mind off my fear." Watching 
the glass, he tried to describe the airship. 
"Pulling us up, lad! That's what she said! Think we could cut 
it?" 
"There's nothing to cut; if there were, they'd know where we were and shoot us, I believe. This is something else. Was it you who held my foot, by the way? Thank you." 
Xiphias shook his head and indicated the surgeon. 
"Thank you," Silk repeated. "Thank you very much indeed, 
Doctor." He grasped the operator's shoulder. "You said we were getting a vector. Exactly what does that mean?" 
"It's a message you get if you float too fast, My Calde, either north 
or south. You're supposed to slow down. The monitor's supposed to make you if you don't, but that doesn't work any more on this 
floater." 
"I see." Silk nodded, encouragingly he hoped. "Why are you supposed to slow down?" 
Oosik put in, "Going too fast north makes you feel as if someone were shoveling sand on you. It is not good for you, and makes 
everyone in the floater slow to react. Going south too fast makes you giddy. It feels like swimming." 
Almost too softly to be heard, Quetzal inquired, "Do you know the shape of the whorl, Patera Calde?" 
"The whorl? Why, it's cylindrical, Your Cognizance." 
"Are we on the outside of the cylinder, Patera Calde? Or on the inside?" 
"We're inside, Your Cognizance. If we were outside, we'd fall off." 
"Exactly. What is it that holds us down? What makes a book fall
if
you drop it?" 
"I can't remember the name, Your Cognizance," Silk said, "but 
it's 
the tendency that keeps a stone in a sling until it is thrown." 
Hyacinth had released him; now her hand found his, and he 
squeezed it. "As long as the boy keeps twirling his sling, the stone 
in 
it can't fall out. The Whorl turns--I see! If the stone were a--a 
mouse and the mouse ran in the direction the sling was going, it 
would be held in place more securely, as though the sling were being 
twirled faster. But if the mouse were to run the other way, it would 
be as if the sling weren't twirling fast enough. It would fall out." 
"Gunner!" Oosik was staring at the glass. "Your gun should bear." As he flicked off his own buzz gun's safety, the red triangle crept 
into view. 
"Trivigaunte," Hyacinth whispered. "Sphigx won't let them make pictures of anything. That mark's on their flag." 
Auk stood, unable for a moment to recall where he was or why he 
had come. Had he fallen off a roof? Salt blood from his lips trickled 

into his mouth. A man with arms and legs no thicker than kindling and a face like a bearded skull dashed past him. Then another and another. 
"Don't be afraid," the blind god whispered. "Be brave and act 
wisely, and I will protect you." He took Auk's hand, not as Hyacinth had put her own hand into Silk's a few minutes before, but as an 
older man clasps a younger's at a crisis. 
"All right," Auk told him. "I ain't scared, only kind of shook 
up." 
The blind god's hand felt good in his own, big and strong, with long powerful fingers; he could not think of the blind god's name and was embarrassed by his failure. 
"I am Tartaros, and your friend. Tell me everything you see. You may speak or not, as you wish." 
"There's a big hole with smoke coming out in the middle of the 
wall," Auk reported. "That wasn't there before, I'm pretty sure. 
There's some dead culls around besides the ones Patera killed and 
the one I killed. One's a trooper, like, only a mort it looks like. 
Her 
wings broke, I guess, maybe when she hit the ground. Everything's 
brown, the wings and pants and a kind of a bandage, like, over her boobs." 
"Brown?" 
Auk looked more closely. "Not exactly. Yellowy-brown, more like. Dirt color. Here comes Chenille." 
"That is well. Comfort her, Auk my noctolater. Is the airship still 
overhead?" 
"Sure," Auk said, implying by his tone that he did not require a god to coach him in such elementary things. "Yeah, it is." Chenille rushed into his arms. 
"It's all right, Jugs," he told her. "Going to be candy. You'll 
see. 
Tartaros is a dimber mate of mine." To Tartaros himself, Auk 
added, "There's this hoppy floater that's falling in the pit, only slow, 
while it shoots. That's up there, too. And there's maybe a couple 
hundred troopers like the dead mort flying around, way up." 
The blind god gave his hand a gentle tug. "We emerged from a 
smaller pit into this one, Auk. If you see no other way out, it would be well to return to the tunnel. There are other egresses, and I know them all." 
"Just a minute. I lost my whin. I see it." Releasing Chenille,
Auk
hurried over, jerked his hanger from the mire, and wiped the blade on his tunic. 
"_Auk_, my son--" 
He shooed Incus with the hanger. "You get back in the tunnel, Patera, before you get hurt. That's what Tartaros says, and he's 
right." 
The floater was descending faster now, almost as though it were 
really falling. Watching it, Auk got the feeling it was, only not 
straight down the way other things fell. Until the last moment, it 
seemed it might come to rest upright; but it landed on the side of 
its 
cowling and tumbled over. 
Something much higher was falling much faster, a tiny dot of 
black that seemed almost an arrow by the time it struck the ruined 
battlement of the Alambrera's wall, which again erupted in a gout of 
flame and smoke. This time masses of shiprock as big as cottages 
were flung up like chaff. Auk thought it the finest sight he had seen in his life. 
"Silk here!" Oreb announced proudly, dropping onto his shoulder. 
"Bird bring!" A hatch opened at the front of the fallen floater. 

"Hackum!" Chenille shouted. "Hackum, come on! We're going back in the tunnel!" 
Auk waved to silence her. The wall of the Alambrera had taken 
its death blow. As he watched, cracks raced down it to reappear as 
though by magic in the shiprock side of the pit. There came a growl deeper than any thunder. With a roar that shook the ground on 
which he struggled to stand, the wall and the side of the pit came 
down together. Half the pit vanished under a scree of stones, earth, and shattered slabs. Coughing at the dust, Auk backed away. 
	"Hole break," Oreb informed him. 
When he looked again, several men and a slender woman in 
scarlet were emerging from the overturned floater; its turret gun, 
unnaturally canted but pointing skyward, was firing burst after burst at the flying troopers. 
"Return to the woman," the blind god told him. "You must protect her. A woman is vital. This is not." 
He looked for Chenille, but she was gone. A few skeletal figures were disappearing into the hole from which he and she had emerged into the pit. Men from the floater followed them; through the 
billowing dust he could make out a white-bearded man in rusty 
black and a taller one in a green tunic. 
"Silk here!" Oreb circled above two fleeing figures. 
Auk caught up with them as they started down the helical track; 
Silk was hobbling fast, helped by a cane and the woman in scarlet. 
Auk caught her by the hair. "Sorry, Patera, but I got to do this." 
Silk's hand went to his waistband, but Auk was too quick--a push 
on his chest sent him reeling backward into the lesser pit. 
	"Listen!" urged the blind god beside Auk; he did, and heard the 
rising whine of the next bomb a full second before it struck the 
ground. 
Silk looked down upon the dying augur's body with joy and regret. It was--had been--himself, after all. Quetzal and a smaller, 
younger augur knelt beside it, with a woman in an augur's cloak and a third man nearly as old as Quetzal. 
Beads swung in sign after sign of addition: "I convey to you, Patera Silk my son, the forgiveness of all the gods." 
	"Recall now the words of Pas--" 
It was good; and when it was over, he could go. Where? It didn't matter. Anywhere he wished. He was free at last, and though he 
would miss his old cell now and then, freedom was best. He looked up through the shiprock ceiling and saw only earth, but knew that the whole Whorl was above it, and the open sky. 
"I pray you to forgive us, the living," the smaller augur said,
and
again traced the sign of addition, which could not--now that he 
came to think of it--ever have been Pas's. A sign of addition was a 
cross; he remembered Maytera drawing one on the chalkboard 
when he was a boy learning to do sums. Pas's sign was not the cross 
but the voided cross. He reached for his own at his neck, but it was 
gone. 
The older augur: "I speak here for Great Pas, for Divine Echidna, for Scalding Scylla." 
The younger augur: "For Marvelous Molpe, for Tenebrous Tartaros, for Highest Hierax, for Thoughtful Thelxiepeia, for Fierce 
Phaea, and for Strong Sphigx." 
The older augur: "Also for all lesser gods." 
The shiprock gave way to earth, the earth to a clearer, purer air than he had ever known. Hyacinth was there with Auk; in a slanting mass of stones, broken shiprock rolled and slid to reveal a groping steel hand. Glorying, he soared. 
The Trivigaunti airship was a brown beetle, infinitely remote,
the
Aureate Path so near he knew it could not be his final destination. 

He lighted upon it, and found it a road of tinsel down a whorl no bigger than an egg. Where were the lowing beasts? The spirits of the other dead? There! Two men and two women. He blinked and 
stared and blinked again. 
"Oh, Silk! My son! Oh, son!" She was in his arms and he in hers, melting in tears of joy. "Mother!" "Silk, my son!" 
	The Whorl was filth and stink, futility and betrayal; this was 
everything--joy and love, freedom and purity. 
"You must go back, Silk. He sends us to tell you." 
"You must, my lad." A man's voice, the voice of which Lemur's had been a species of mockery. Looking up he saw the carved brown face from his mother's closet. 
"We're your parents." He was tall and blue-eyed. "Your fathers and your mothers." 
The other woman did not speak, but her eyes spoke truth. "You were my mother," he said. "I understand." 
He looked down at his own beautiful mother. "You will always be my mother. Always!" 
"We'll be waiting, Silk my son. All of us. Remember." 
*	*	*
Something was fanning his face. 
He opened his eyes. Quetzal was seated beside him, one long, 
bloodless hand swinging as regularly and effortlessly as a pendulum. "Good afternoon, Patera Calde. I would guess, at least, that it may be afternoon by now." 
He lay on dirt, staring up at a shiprock ceiling. Pain stabbed
his
neck; his head, both arms, his chest, both legs, and his lower torso ached, each in its separate, painful way. 
"Lie quietly. I wish I had water to offer you. How are you feeling?" 
"I'm back in my dirty cage." Too late, he remembered to add  _Your 
Cognizance_. "I didn't know it was a cage, before." 
	Quetzal pressed down on his shoulder. "Don't sit up yet, Patera 
Calde. I'm going to ask a question, but you are not to put it to the 
test. It is to be a matter for discussion only. Do you agree?" 
	"Yes, Your Cognizance." He nodded, although nodding took 
immense effort. 
"This is my question. We are only to speak of it. If I were to 
help 
you up, could you walk?" 
"I believe so, Your Cognizance." 
"Your voice is very weak. I've examined you and found no broken bones. There are four of us besides yourself, but--" 
	"We fell, didn't we? We were in a Civil Guard floater, spinning 
over the city. Did I dream that?" 
Quetzal shook his head. 
"You and I and Hyacinth. And Colonel Oosik and Oreb. And..." "Yes, Patera Calde?" 
"A trooper--two troopers--and an old fencing master that 
someone had introduced me to. I can't remember his name, but I 
must have dreamed that he was there as well. It's too fantastic." 
	"He is some distance down the tunnel now, Patera Calde. We 
have been troubled by the convicts you freed." 
	"Hyacinth?" Silk struggled to sit up. 
Quetzal held him down, his hands on both shoulders. "Lie quietly or I'll tell you nothing." 
"Hyacinth? For--for the sake of all the gods! I've got to know!" 
	"I dislike them, Patera Calde. So do you. Why should either of us 
 tell anyone anything for their sake? I don't know. I wish I did. She may be dead. I can't say." 
"Tell me what happened, please." 
Slowly, Quetzal's hairless head swung from side to side. "It would 

be better, Patera Calde, for you to tell me. You've been very near death. I need to know what you've forgotten." 
"There's water in these tunnels. I was in them before, Your Cognizance. In places there was a great deal." 
"This is not one of those places. If you have recovered enough to grasp how ill you are and keep a promise, I'll find some. Do you 
remember blessing the crowds with me? Tell me about that." 
	"We were trying to bring peace--peace to Viron. Blood had 
bought it--Musk, but Musk was only a tool of Blood's." 
	"Had bought the city, Patera Calde?" 
Silk's mouth opened and closed again. "What is it, Patera Calde?" 
"Yes, Your Cognizance, he has. He, and others like him. I hadn't thought of that until you asked. I'd been confusing the things." 
	"What things, Patera Calde?" 
"Peace and saving my manteion. The Outsider asked me to save 
it, and then the insurrection broke out, and I thought I would have 
saved it if only I could bring peace, because the people made me 
calde, and I would save it by an order." For a second or two, Silk 
lay 
silent, his eyes half closed. "Blood--men like Blood--have stolen the city, every part of it except the Chapter, and the Chapter has resisted only because you are at its head, Your Cognizance. When 
you're gone..." 
"When I die, Patera Calde?" 
"If you were to die, Your Cognizance, they'd have it all. Musk 
actually signed the papers. Musk was the owner of record--the man 
whose body we burned on the altar, Your Cognizance. I remember 
thinking how horrible it would be if Musk were the real owner and 
clenching my teeth--puffing myself up with courage I've never 
really had and telling myself over and over that I couldn't allow it 
to 
happen." 
"You're the only man in Viron who doubts your courage, Patera Calde." 
Silk scarcely heard him. "I was wrong. Badly mistaken. Musk 
wasn't the danger, was never the danger, really. There are scores of Musks in the Orilla, and Musk loved birds. Did I tell you that, Your Cognizance?" 
"No, Patera Calde. Tell me now, if you wish." 
"He did. Mucor told me he liked birds, and he'd brought her a 
book about the cats she carried for Blood. When he saw Oreb, he 
said I'd gotten him because I wanted to be friends, which wasn't 
true, and threw his knife at him. He missed, and I believe he 
intended to miss. Blood, with his money and his greed for more, has done Viron more harm than all the Musks. Everything I've done has 
been trying to pry bits of the city from Blood. I was trying to save my manteion, I said; but you can't save just one manteion--I can't save our quarter and nothing else. I see that now. And yet I like 
Blood, or at least I would like to like him." 
"I understand, Patera Calde." 
"Little pieces--the manteion, and Hyacinth and Orchid, and Auk, because Auk matters so much to Maytera Mint. Auk..." 
	"Yes, Patera Calde?" 
"Auk pushed me, Your Cognizance. We had been together in the floater, Hyacinth and I. Your Cognizance, too, and--and others. We were coming down, and Colonel Oosik--" 
"You've made him Generalissimo Oosik," Quetzal reminded Silk 
gently. 
"Yes. Yes, I did. He passed me the ear, and I talked to the 
convicts, telling them they were free, and then we hit the ground. We opened a hatch and Hyacinth and I climbed out--" 
	"I'm satisfied, Patera Calde. Promise me you won't try to stand 
until I come back, and I'll look for water." 

Silk detained him, clasping one boneless, bloodless hand. "You can't tell me what's happened to her, Your Cognizance?" 
	Again Quetzal's head swung from side to side, a slow and almost 
hypnotic motion. 
"Then Auk has her, I don't know why, and I must get her back 
from him. What happened to me, Your Cognizance?" 
"You were buried alive, Patera Calde. When the floater crashed, some of us climbed out. I did, as you see, and you and your young 
woman, as you say. The fencing master, too, and your physician. 
I'm sure of those. The convicts were running to a hole in the ground to escape the shooting and explosions. Do you remember them?" 
	This time Silk was able to nod without much difficulty, although 
his neck was stiff and painful. 
"There was a ramp down the side of the hole, and a break in this tunnel at the bottom. The fencing master and I ducked through. 
Almost at once there was another explosion, and the hole fell in 
behind us. We were lucky to have gotten in. Do you know my 
coadjutor's prothonotary, Patera Calde?" 
"I've met him, Your Cognizance. I don't know him well." 
"He's here. I was surprised to see him, and he to see me. There 
is 
a woman with him called Chenille who says she knows you. They 
went into the tunnel yesterday, at Limna. They had been trying to reach the city." 
"Chenille, Your Cognizance? A tall woman? Red hair?" 
"Exactly so. She's an extraordinary woman. Soon after the 
explosion, the convicts attacked us. They were friendly at first, but soon demanded we give them Patera and the woman. We refused, 
and Xiphias killed four. Xiphias is the fencing master. Am I making 
myself clear?" 
"Perfectly, Your Cognizance." 
"We tried to dig our way out and found you. We thought you were dead, and Patera and I brought you the Peace of Pas. 
Eventually we stopped digging, having realized that the effort was hopeless. For a dozen men with shovels and barrows, two 
days might be enough." 
"I understand, Your Cognizance. 
"By then I was exhausted, though I had dug less than the woman. The others left to look for another way out. She and Patera are 
famished, and they have a tessera that they believe will admit them to the Juzgado. They promised to return for your body and me. I 
prayed for you after they had gone." 
"Your Cognizance distrusts the gods." 
"I do." Quetzal nodded, his hairless head bobbing on its long neck. 
"I know them for what they are. But consider. I believe in them. I have faith. You mentioned your quarter. How many there really 
believe in the gods? Half?" 
"Less than that, I'm afraid, Your Cognizance." 
"What about you, Patera Calde? Look into your heart." Silk was silent. 
"I'll give you my thoughts, Patera Calde. This young man 
believes, and he loves the gods even after seeing Echidna. I too 
believe, though I distrust them. He would want me to pray for him, 
and that's my office. I've done it often, hoping I wouldn't be heard. 
This time it's possible one will restore him, to prove she's not at 
bad 
as I think." 
Faint yet unmistakable, the crack of a needler echoed down the tunnel. 
"That will be Patera, Patera Calde. We've been lucky in the 
matter of weapons. Xiphias has a sword, and had a small needler he 
said was yours. You left it on your bed, and he took charge of it for you. He gave it to the woman. We found a large one in your 

waistband. Patera took it, surprising me again. Our clergy have hidden depths." 
In spite of pain and weakness, Silk smiled. "Some do, perhaps, Your Cognizance." 
"Last night before you saw me in the alley, Patera Calde. I met your acolyte, young Gulo. He is most embarrassed." 
	"I'm sorry to hear that, Your Cognizance." 
"You shouldn't be. His uncle is a major in the Second Brigade. One uncle of many. Were you aware of it?" 
"No, Your Cognizance. I don't know much about Patera." 
"Neither do I, though he was one of our copyists until my 
coadjutor sent him to you. He commands several thousand now. It's a great responsibility for someone so young. More join every hour, he tells me, because they know he's your acolyte." 
Silk managed to swallow. "I hope he won't waste their lives, Your Cognizance." 
"So do I. I asked if it was hard. He said he discussed each 
operation with those who would have to fight. He finds them 
sensible, and he knows something of war from his uncle's table talk. He fights in the front rank afterward, he says." 
"Your Cognizance mentioned that he was embarrassed." 
"So he is, Patera Calde." Quetzal shook himself, lifting one corner of his mouth by the thickness of a thread. "He has 
captured his uncle. Our clergy have hidden depths. The older 
man is humiliated. It's an awkward situation, I'm afraid, but I 
was amused." 
"So am I, Your Cognizance. Thank you." 
Quetzal rose. "We'll find our own amusing, when we find our way out. May I look for water?" 
"Of course, Your Cognizance." 
"You won't try to stand until I'm back? Give me your word, Patera Calde." 
Silk sat up. 
"Please, Patera--" 
"I have to go with you, Your Cognizance. I have to find water, wash, and drink, so I can do whatever I can for Viron and Hyacinth. You've got nothing to carry water in, and all four of you couldn't possibly carry me far." 
"You've been suffocated, Patera Calde," Quetzal bent over him. "We merely thought you dead, and I shouldn't have hinted at a 
miracle. No god can turn back death, and if they could, no god 
would to please us. You were still alive when we dug you out. You revived naturally--" 
Unaided, Silk staggered to his feet. "I had a cane, Your Cognizance. 
Master Xiphias gave it to me. I didn't need it then, or at least not much. Now I do." 
Quetzal offered him the baculus. "Use this." 
"Never, Your Cognizance. Councillor Lemur called me--No, I won't." 
The tunnel behind them was nearly choked with earth; a trampled 
path led Silk to an opening in the wall. "Is this where you found me, Your Cognizance? In there?" 
"Yes, Patera Calde. But if your young woman is in there, she is surely dead by now." 
"I realize that." Silk put his head through the opening, "and I believe she's in the pit with Auk, anyway; but Master Xiphias values that cane, I need it, and it's probably very close to the place where you found me." He began to work his shoulders through. 
"Be careful, Patera Calde." 
The wall was shiprock, little more than a cubit thick. Beyond it 
lay a cavity hollowed from the tumbled soil that seemed utterly 
dark. When Silk tried to stand, he found his head capped by a rough 
dome; earth and small stones showered him invisibly. "This could 

collapse any moment," he told the swaying figure in the tunnel. 
	"So it could, Patera Calde. Come out, please." 
His questing fingers had come upon stubby protuberances he 
assumed were roots. Exploring his pockets, he discovered the cards 
Remora had given him and used one to scrape away the soil. One 
root wore a ring. He cleared away more soil until he could get a firm grip on the hand, tugged, dug farther, and tugged again. 
	"There are new sounds in this tunnel, Patera Calde. You had 
better leave that place." 
"I've found someone, Your Cognizance. Somebody else." Silk 
hesitated, unwilling to trust his judgement. "I don't think it's Hyacinth. The hand is too big." 
"Then it doesn't matter whose it is. We must go." 
Getting a firm grip on the arm, Silk heaved with all the strength that remained to him, and was rewarded by a cataract of earth and a dead man's embrace. 
I'm robbing a grave, he thought, spitting grit and wiping his eyes. 
Robbing this man's grave from below--stealing his grave as well as his body. 
It should have been at least as amusing as Gulo's uncle the major, 
but was not. Holding onto the jagged edge of the opening in the 
tunnel wall, he succeeded in pulling his own partially buried body 
free. Back in the tunnel  (suddenly very glad of its cold, sighing 
airs 
and watery lights) he was able to extract the corpse from the loose 
soil that had reclaimed it. Quetzal was nowhere to be seen. 
	"He's gone to look for water," Silk muttered. "Perhaps water 
could 
revive you the way something revived me," but the dead man's ears 
were stopped with earth. As he cleaned the pitiful face, Silk added, "I'm sorry, Doctor." 
He searched his pockets again; his beads were not there, left behind with his own worn and dirty robe at Ermine's. It seemed a very long time ago. 
He wriggled back into the dark cavity beyond the tunnel wall. 
Hyacinth had bathed him in their bedroom at Ermine's, undressing 
him, and scrubbing and drying him bit by bit. He ought to have been 
embarrassed  (he told himself); but he had been too exhausted to 
feel anything beyond vague satisfaction, a weak pleasure at finding 
himself the object of so beautiful a woman's attention. Now all her 
concern had been undone, and Remora's fine robe, scarcely worn, 
ruined. 
"You returned me to life, Outsider," Silk murmured as he 
resumed digging, "I wish you'd cleaned me up, too." But the 
Outsider had doubtless been, as Doctor Crane had maintained, no more than a vein's bursting. 
Or had Doctor Crane--who had thought himself, or at any rate 
called himself, an agent of the Rani--been in truth an agent of the Outsider? Doctor Crane had made it possible for him to proceed in his attempt to save the manteion despite his broken ankle; and 
Doctor Crane had freed him when he had been taken by the 
Ayuntamiento. It was conceivable, even likely, that Doctor Crane's scepticism had been a test of faith. 
Had he passed? 
Weighing that question, he dug harder than ever, making the 
dark, evil-smelling earth fly. If he had, he would almost certainly 
be 
tested again, after this surrender to doubt. 
The card struck something hard. At first he assumed it was a 
stone, but it was too smooth; another half minute's work bared the 
new find: a slender hook. As soon as he grasped it to pull it free, 
he 

knew that he had found the silver-banded cane Xiphias had brought to Ermine's for him. 
Without warning, brilliant light flooded the cavity. He turned away from it, covering his eyes. 
"I see you in there. Come on out." 
There was something familiar about the harsh voice, but it was 
not until its owner said, "Put your hands where I can see them," that Silk recognized it as Sergeant Sand's. 
Sitting the white stallion in the middle of Fisc Street, Maytera Mint surveyed the advancing ranks. Every one of those soldiers would be worth three of her best, but they were few. Hearteningly few, and 
the troopers from Trivigaunte had come. Just a few hundred now, 
but thousands more were on the way. 
"Fire and fall back," she called softly, adding under her breath, 
"Gracious Echidna, grant that I be heard by our people but not by 
those soldiers." Then, a trifle louder, "Not too quickly. But not too 
slowly, either. This isn't the time to impress me. Don't get 
yourselves 
killed." 
The first level metal rank was practically within slug-gun range. She wheeled her stallion and cantered off, hearing the firing break 
out behind her, the  _whiz...bang!_ of missiles and the dull booming 
of slug guns. 
Someone cried out. 
I told them to, she reminded herself. I emphasized it in the briefing. 
Yet she knew the wound had been real. She reined in the stallion and turned to look again: behind the soldiers, Rook's blocking force was straggling into position. Too early, she thought. Far too early. You never appreciated men like Bison and the captain--men who 
helped you make plans and carried them out--until you got 
something like this. 
One long cable had been looped around each pillar of the Corn 
Exchange; it was not taut yet, nor should it have been. She risked a 
glance up at the towering facade, another at Wool and his bullock 
men, motionless in the shadows half a street away. He and they 
stood ready beside their animals, waiting for her signal. 
	The bullock men trusted her. So did the ragged men and women 
who were shooting and retreating as she had taught them. Shooting 
and dying, because they had trusted a weak woman--trusted her 
because Brocket had taught her to ride when she was a child. 
	She clapped heels to the stallion's sides. He had been used long 
and hard yesterday, yet he surged forward, a foaming wave of 
strength. Patera Silk's azoth was in her hand; she thumbed the 
demon. 
Seeing its terrible blade split the sky, Wool's bullock men 
prodded their animals. The cable tightened, a slithering monster of steel and silence, Echidna's greatest serpent. 
The soldiers halted and faced about at a loud command, their 
officer having seen Rook's force and detected the trap. They would 
have to attack in earnest now, but her own voice  (she told herself) was incapable of launching troops against the enemy. Her voice 
would not inspire anyone, so her person must. She neck-reined the 
stallion, and the silver trumpet that was her voice in fact echoed 
from every wall. 
Five chains away, the blade of the azoth wrecked a fusion 
generator, and the soldier whose heart it had been died. 
Forward! Past her own disorderly line. Another soldier down, and another! Forward! 
The stallion stumbled, crying out like a man in pain. 
A half-dozen soldiers dashed forward. The stallion fell, too weak to stand; it seemed to her that the street itself had struck her, 
casting 

all its clods and ridges at her at once. Steel hands laid hold of 
her, 
and bios wrestled with chems in a desperate foolish fight. A woman 
three times her size swung a wrecking bar. The soldier she struck, 
struck her with the butt of his slug gun; she fell backward and did not rise. 
Maytera Mint struggled in a soldier's grasp. The azoth was gone--
No! Was under her shoe. He lifted her, his arms clamping her like 
tongs; she stamped on the azoth with all her strength, and its 
lancing 
point sheared off his foot. Smoking black fluid spurted from the 
stump of his leg, slippery as so much grease. They fell, and his grip weakened. 
She tore herself away, stooping for the azoth, and ran, nearly 
falling again, pursued with terrifying speed until the facade of the Corn Exchange frowned above her and she whirled to cut down a 
soldier whose blazing, arcing halves tumbled at her feet. "Run! Run! Save yourselves!" 
Her people streamed past in full flight, though to her, her voice was a powerless wail. 
"Hierax, accept my spirit." The azoth blade struck the first pillar, 
and it shattered like glass. Another, and the facade seemed to hang in air, an ominous cloud of grimy brick. 
A soldier leveled his slug gun, firing an instant before her blade 
split his skullplate. She felt the slug tear her habit, smelled the 
powder smoke, and fled, slashing wildly at a third pillar without breaking stride--stopped and turned back, hot tears streaming. "You gods, for  _twenty years!_ Now let me go!" 
The weightless, endless blade came up. The weightless, endless 
blade came down. And the facade of the Corn Exchange was 
coming down too, falling like a picture, nearly whole and almost 
maintaining its graceless design as it fell, its stone sills falling 
neither 
faster nor slower than its tons of brick and timber. Her right hand, still clutching the azoth, had begun the sign of addition when Rock grabbed her from behind and dashed away with her. 

Chapter  10  -- Calde Silk 

"Let me go," Maytera Marble insisted Phaesday morning. "They won't shoot me." 
Generalissimo Oosik regarded her through his left eye alone; his right was concealed by a patch of surgical gauze. He shrugged. 
General Saba, the commander from Trivigaunte, pursed pendulous 
lips. "We've wasted a shaggy hole too much time on this country 
house already, when nobody can say--" 
"You're quite wrong, my daughter," Maytera Marble told her 
firmly. "Mucor can and does. Our Patera Silk is a prisoner in there, just as the Ayuntamiento claims." 
"Spirits!" 
"Only hers, really. I'd never seen anyone possessed until she began doing it to our students. I find it very upsetting." She beckoned Horn. "You've made me a white flag? Wonderful! Such a nice long stick, too. Thank you!" 
General Saba snorted. 
"You don't like my bringing our boys and girls." "Children shouldn't have to fight." 
"Certainly not." Maytera Marble nodded solemn agreement. "But 
they were, and some have been killed. They'd run off with General 
Mint, you see, almost all of them. I tried to think who might help me 

after Mucor left, and our students were the only ones I could think 
of. Horn and a few others are really mature enough already, more 
grown up than a great many adults. It got them away from the city, 
too, where the worst fighting was." She looked to Oosik for support, but found none. 
"Where it still is," General Saba snapped. "Where the troops we've 
got out here are badly needed." 
"They were fighting your girls, some of them, as well as our Army, 
and some are dead. Have I told you that? Some are dead, some hurt very badly. Ginger's had her hand blown off, I'm told. No doubt some of your girls are hurt as well." 
"Which is why--" 
"You said we're wasting time." Maytera Marble sniffed; she had 
acquired a devastating sniff. "I couldn't agree more. It will only 
take a minute to shoot me, if they do. Then you can attack at 
once. But if they don't, I may be able to talk to the councillors in there. They can order the Army and the Guards who are still 
fighting you--" 
"The Second," Oosik supplied. 
"Yes, the Second Brigade and our Army." Maytera Marble bowed 
in humble appreciation of his information. "Thank you, my son. The councillors could order them to give up, but no one knows whether there are really councillors in the Juzgado." Without waiting for a reply, she accepted the flag from Horn. 
"I'm coming with you, Sib." 
"You are not!" 
He followed her nearly as far as the shattered gate just the same, 
ignoring a pterotrooper who shouted for him to stay back, and 
watched unhappily as she picked her way through its tumbled stones and twisted bars, somberly clad but conveniently short-skirted in Maytera Rose's best habit. 
Two dead taluses smoked and guttered on the close-mown 
grassway between the gate and the villa. A few steps past the first, General Saba's adjutant sprawled face down beside her own flag of truce. Disregarding all three, Maytera Marble cut across the lush lawn toward the porticoed entrance, keeping well clear of the 
fountain to avoid its windblown spray. 
This was Bloody's house, she reminded herself, this grand place. 
This was where the little man with oily hair had come from, the one 
she and Echidna had offered to her. It had been practically 
impossible, for a time, for her to remember being Echidna; now the 
image of the little man's agonized face had returned, framed by 
flame as she forced him down onto the altar fire. Would Divine 
Echidna help her now, in gratitude for that sacrifice? The Echidna 
she had pictured at prayer over so many years might have condemned 
her because of it. 
But there had been no shot yet. 
No missile. No sounds at all, save the soughing of the wind and the snapping of the rag on the stick she held. How young she felt, and how strong! 
If she stopped here, if she looked back at Horn, would they shoot, 
killing her and waking the children? The children were asleep, most 
of them. Or at least they were supposed to be, back there beneath 
the leafless mulberries. The summer's unrelenting heat, the desert 
heat that she had hated so much, had deserted just when the 
children needed it, leaving them to sleep in the deepening chill of 
an 
autumn already half spent, to shiver huddled together like piglets or 
puppies in unroofed houses with broken windows and slug-pocked, 
fire-scarred walls, though most of them had liked that better than 

their studies, they said: had preferred killing Ayuntamientados and pillaging their dead. 
A mottled green face appeared at the window next to the big 
door. Only the face, Maytera Marble noted with a little shiver of relief. No slug gun, and no launcher. 
"I've come to see my son, my son," she called. "My son Bloody. Tell him his mother's here." 
Shallow stone steps led up to a wide veranda. Before she put her foot on the last, the door swung back. Through it she saw soldiers, and bios in silvered armor.  (Bios got up like chems, as she put it to herself, because chems were braver.) Behind them stood another 
bio, tall and red-faced. 
"Good morning, Bloody," she said. "Thank you for bringing those white bunnies. May Kypris smile upon you." 
Blood grinned. "You've changed a little, Mama." Some of the armored men laughed. 
"Yes, I have. When we can talk in private, I'll tell you all about it." 
"We thought you wanted to cut a deal for Hoppy." 
"I do." Maytera Marble surveyed the hall; though she knew little about art, she suspected that the misty landscape facing her was a Murtagon. "I want to talk about that. We've knocked down a good 
deal of your wall, I'm afraid, Bloody, and I'd like to see your 
beautiful house spared." 
Two soldiers stood aside, and Blood came to meet her. "So would I, Mama. I'd like to see us spared, too." 
"Is that why you didn't shoot? You killed that poor woman 
General Saba sent, so why not me? Perhaps I shouldn't ask." 
Blood glanced to his right. "A shag-up over there.  _We_ didn't shoot 
the fussock with the flag, and I want that settled right now. If there's 
a question about it, there's no point in talking. I didn't shoot her, and didn't tell anybody to. None of the boys did, either, and they 
didn't get anybody to do it. Is that clear? Will you say Pas to that, nothing back?" 
Maytera Marble cocked and lifted her head, thus raising an eyebrow. "Someone shot her from a window of your house, Bloody. I saw it." 
"All right, you saw it, and Trivigaunte's going to make somebody pay. I don't blame them. What I'm saying is that it shouldn't be me or the boys. We didn't do it, and that's not open to argument. I want that settled before the cut." 
Maytera Marble put a hand on his shoulder. "I understand, 
Bloody. Do you know who did? Will you point them out to us?" 
Blood hesitated, his apoplectic face growing redder than ever. "If..." His eyes shifted toward a soldier almost too swiftly to be seen. "Yes, absolutely." Several of the armored men muttered 
agreement. 
"In that case it's accepted by our side," Maytera Marble told 
him. 
"I'll report to my principals, Generalissimo Oosik and General 
Saba, that you had nothing to do with it and are anxious to testify against the guilty parties. Who are they?" 
Blood ignored the question. "Good. Fine. They won't attack while I'm talking to you?" 
"Of course not." Silently, Maytera Marble prayed that she was being truthful. 
"You'd probably like to sit. I know I would. Come in here, and I think we can settle this." 
He showed her into a paneled drawing room and shut the door 
firmly. "My boys are getting edgy," he explained, "and that gets me edgy around them." 
"They're my grandchildren?" Maytera Marble sank into a tapestry 

chair too deep and too soft for her. "Your sons?" 
"I don't have any. You said you were my mother. I guess you meant you came to talk for her." 
"I am your mother, Bloody." Maytera Marble studied him, finding 
traces of her earlier self in his heavy, cunning face, as well as far 
too 
many of his father. "I suppose you've seen me since you found out 
who I was or had somebody look at me and describe me, and now 
you don't recognize me. I understand. You're my son, just the same." 
	He grasped the advantage by reflex. "Then you wouldn't want to 
see me killed, or would you?" 
"No. No, I wouldn't." She let her stick and white flag fall to
the
carpet. "If I had been willing to have you die, everything would have been a great deal easier. Don't you see that? You should. You, of 
all people." 
She paused, considering. "I was an old woman before you found 
out who I was, and I think I must have looked older. I was already 
forty when you were born. That's terribly old for a bio mother." 
"She came a few times when I was little. I remember her." 
"Every three months, Bloody. Once in each season, if I could get away alone that often. We were supposed to go out out in pairs. and usually we had to." 
"She's dead? My mother?" 
"Your foster mother? I don't know. I lost track of her when you were nine." 
"I mean y--! Rose. Maytera Rose, my real mother." 
"Me." Maytera Marble tapped her chest, a soft click. 
"It was her funeral sacrifice. The other sibyl said so." 
"We burned parts of her," Maytera Marble conceded. "But mostly 
those were parts of me in her coffin. Of Marble, I mean, though I've kept her name. It makes things easier, with the children 
particularly. 
And there's still a great deal of my personality left." 
Blood rose and went to the window. The dull green turret of a Guard floater showed above a half-ruined section of wall. "You mind if I open this?" 
"Certainly not. I'd prefer it." 
"I want to hear if they start shooting, so I can stop it." 
She nodded. "My thought exactly, Bloody. Some of the children 
have slug guns, and nearly all the rest have needlers. Perhaps I should have taken them, but I was afraid we'd need them on the 
walk out." She sighed, the weary  _hish_ of a mop across a terazzo floor. "The worst would have hidden theirs anyway, though none of the children are really bad." 
"I remember when she lost her arm," Blood told her. "She used to pat me on the head and say, you know, my, he's getting big. One 
day it was a hand like your--" 
"It was this one." Maytera Marble displayed it. 
"So I asked her what happened. I didn't know she was my mother then. She was just a sibyl that came sometimes. My mother would have tea and cookies." 
"Or sandwiches." Maytera Marble supplemented his account. 
"Very good sandwiches, too, though I was always careful not to eat 
more than a fourth of one. Bacon in the fall, cheese in winter, 
pickled burbot and chives on toast in spring, and curds and 
watercress in summer. Do you remember, Bloody? We always gave 
you one." 
"Sometimes it was all I got," Blood said bitterly 
"I know. That's why I never ate more than a founh." 
"Is that really the same hand?" Blood eyed it curiously. 
"Yes, it is, It's hard to change hands yourself, Bloody, because 
you have to do it one-handed. It was particularly hard for me, 
because by then I already had a great many new parts. Or rather, I 

had reclaimed a great many old ones. They worked better, that was 
why I wanted them, but I wasn't used to the new assembly yet, 
which made changing hands harder. It would have been wasteful to 
burn them, though. They were in much better condition than my old 
ones." 
"Even if it is, I'm not going to call you Mother." 
Maytera Marble smiled, lifting her head and inclining it to the right as she always did. "You have already, Bloody. Out there. You called me Mama. It sounded wonderful." 
When he said nothing, she added, "You said you were going to open that window. Why don't you?" 
He nodded and raised the sash. "That's why I bought your 
manteion, do you know about that? I wasn't just a sprat nobody 
wanted any more. I had money and influence, and I got word my 
mother was dying. I hadn't spoken to her in fifteen, twenty years, 
but I asked Musk, and he said if I really wanted to get even it might 
be my last chance. I saw the sense in that, so we went, both of us." 
	"To get even, Bloody?" Maytera Marble lifted an eyebrow. 
	"It doesn't matter. I was sitting with her, see, and she needed 
 something, so I sent Musk. Then I said something and called her 
Mom, and she said your mother's still alive, I tried to be a mother 
to 
you, Blood, and I swore I wouldn't tell." 
Turning from the window to face Maytera Marble, he added, "She wouldn't, either. But I found out." 
"And bought our manteion to torment me, Bloody?" 
"Yeah. The taxes were in arrears. I'm real close to the Ayuntamiento. 
I guess you know that already or you wouldn't have come out here shooting." 
"You have councillors here, staying with you. Loris, Tarsier, and Potto. That was one reason I wanted to talk." 
Blood shook his head. "Tarsier's gone. Who told you?" "Like your foster mother, I've sworn not to tell." "One of my people? Somebody in this house?" 
"My lips are sealed, Bloody." 
"We'll get into that later, maybe. Yeah, I've got them staying 
here. It's not the first time, either. When I found out about you--if 
you're who you say you are--I talked to Loris, just one friend to 
another, and he let me have it for taxes. Know how much it was? 
Twelve hundred and change. I was going to leave you hanging, keep 
talking about tearing the whole thing down. Then Silk came out 
here. The great Calde Silk himself! Nobody would believe that now, 
but he did. He solved my house like a thief. By Phaea, he was a 
thief." 
Maytera Marble sniffed. It was at once a devastating and a confounding sniff, the sniff of a destroyer of cities and a 
confronter 
of governments; Blood winced, and she enjoyed it so much that she sniffed again. "So are you, Bloody." 
"Lily." Blood swallowed. "Only your Silk's no better, is he? Not
a
dog's right better. So I saw a chance to turn a few cards and have a 
little fun by making the whole wormy knot of you squirm. I'd got 
your manteion for twelve hundred like I told you, just a little 
thankyou from Councillor Loris, and I was going to tell Silk thirteen 
hundred, then double that." Blood crossed the room to an inlaid 
cabinet, opened it, and poured gin and water into a squat glass. 
	"Only when I'd talked to him a little, I made it thirteen 
_thousand_, 
because he really thought those old buildings in the middle of that slum were priceless. And I said I'd sell them back to him for 
twenty-six thousand." 
Blood chuckled and sat down again. "I'm not really a bad host, 

Mama. If I thought that you'd drink it, I'd stand you a drink, even after you called me a thief." 
"I was speaking of fact, Bloody, not calling names. Here in private 
you may call me a trull or a trollop any other such filthy sobriquet. That is what I am, or at any rate what I've been, although no man 
but your father ever touched me." 
"Not me," Blood told her. "I'm above all that." 
"But not above defrauding that poor boy because he valued the things given to his care, and was so foolish as to imagine you wouldn't lie to an angur." 
Blood grinned. "If I were above that, Mama, I'd be as poor as he is. Or as he was, anyhow. I don't remember how much time I gave 
him to come up with the gelt. A couple of weeks, maybe, or 
something like that. Then when I had him crawling, I said that if he brought me something next week or whatever, I might let him have 
a little more time. Then after a couple days, I sent Musk to tell him I had to have it all right away. I figured he'd come out here again and beg me for more time, see? It looked like it was going to be a 
nice little game, the kind I like best." 
Maytera Marble nodded sympathetically. "I understand. I suppose 
all of us play wicked little games like that from time to time. I 
have, I know. But yours is over, Bloody. You've won. You have 
him here, a prisoner in your house. The person who told me that the 
councillors were here told me that, too. You have me as well. You 
say you wanted to avenge yourself on the foster mother we found 
for you, and you bought our manteion so you could avenge yourself 
on me, because I gave you life and tried to see that you were taken 
care of." 
Blood stared at her and licked his lips. 
"You've won both games. Perhaps all three. So go ahead, Bloody. 
A single shot should kill me, and I saw a lot of slug guns out there 
in 
your foyer. Then the Trivigauntis can kill you for killing General Saba's adjutant, or Generalissimo Oosik can shoot you for shooting me. Possibly you'll be given your choice. Would you rather die 
justly? Or unjustly?" 
When Blood did not reply, she added, "Perhaps you ought to ask your friend Musk about it. He advises you, from what you've said. Where is he, anyway?" 
"He stayed behind after we brought the doves. He said he had a couple things to take care of, and he doesn't get into town very 
often. I thought maybe your side picked him up when he tried to 
come home. 
Maytera Marble shook her head. 
Blood took a liberal swallow from his glass. "I wasn't going to shoot you, Mama, and I didn't shoot her. You agreed to that 
already. Let's pin it down. In about an hour, the Guard could knock this house down and kill everybody. I know that. They're not doing it because they know we've got Silk in here. Isn't that right?" 
	Maytera Marble nodded. "Free him, turn him over to me, Bloody, 
and we'll go away and leave you alone." 
"It's not that easy. He's here all right, right here in my house.
But
it's the councillors and their soldiers who've got him, not me." 
	"Then I must speak with them. Take me to them." 
"I'll bring them in here," Blood told her, "they're all over." Under 
his breath he added, "It's still my hornbussing house, by Phaea's feast!" 
Potto opened the door at the top of the cellar steps and crooked his finger at Sand. "Bring him up, Sergeant. We're getting them all 
together." 

Sand saluted with a crash of titanium heels, his slug gun vertical 
before his face. "Yes, Councillor!" He nudged Silk with the toe of 
his 
right foot, and Silk rose. 
He fell as he attempted to mount from the second step to the third, and again halfway up. "Here," Sand told him, and returned Xiphias's stick. 
"Thank you," Silk murmured. And then, "I'm sorry. My legs feel a trifle weak, I'm afraid." 
Potto said cheerfully, "We're going to try to give you back to 
your 
friends, Patera, if we can get them to take you." Grabbing the front of Remora's ruined robe, he jerked Silk up the remaining step. 
"You'd like to lie down again, wouldn't you? Get in a little nap? Maybe something to eat? Help us, and you'll get it." 
	He released Silk so suddenly that he fell a third time. "Has he 
tried to escape again, Sergeant?" 
Silk did not hear Sand's reply; he was thinking about a great 
many 
things. Among them, names. 
His own and Sand's were similar--each had four letters, each 
contained a single vowel, and each began with an S. They could not 
be related, however, because Sand was a chem and he a bio. Yet 
they were related by the similarity of their names. Not inconceivably (he found it a tantalizing idea). Sand was a cognate, a version of himself in some whorl of a higher order. Many things the Outsider 
had shown him seemed to imply that there were such whorls. 
	Sand prodded him from behind with the barrel of his slug gun, 
and he staggered against a wall. 
Since chems were never augurs, it could not be that Sand had 
been meant to be an augur. Was it possible then, that he, Silk, had been meant to be a Guardsman? If he were a Guardsman instead of 
a failed augur, the many correspondences  (already so marked) 
linking them would be much more perfect, and thus this inferior 
whorl they inhabited more perfect, too. 
But, no his mother had wanted him to enter the Juzqado, to become a clerk there like Hyacinth's father and perhaps rise to commissioner. How glowingly she had spoken of a political career, almost up until the day he left for the schola. 
"This way," Potto told him, and pushed him through a door and 
into a gorgeous room full of lounging soldiers and armored men. "Is 
that the calde?" one of the men asked another; the second nodded. 
	He was in politics at last, as his mother had wished. 
	He had pulled a chair over to her closet and stood on the seat to 
 examine the calde's bust on its dark, high shelf; and she, finding 
him 
there intent upon it, had lifted it down for him, dusted it, and set 
it 
on her dressing table where he could see it better--wonder at the 
wide, flat cheeks, the narrow eyes, the high, rounded forehead, and the generous mouth that longed to speak. The calde's carved 
countenance rose again before his mind's eye, and it seemed to him that he had seen it someplace else only a day or two before. 
	Streaming sunlight, and cheeks that were not smooth wood but 
blotched and lightly pocked. Was it possible he had once seen the calde in person, perhaps as an infant? 
"Now listen to me." Potto was standing before him, his plump, pleasant face half a head lower than Silk's own. 
	...had seen the calde outside, because even without his lost 
glasses he had noticed the powder on the cheeks and the flaws that the powder tried to cover--had seen him, in that case, under the auspices of the Outsider, in a sense. 
Blood and Maytera Marble were sitting side-by-side when Potto 

shoved Silk into the room; he was so surprised to see her that for a moment he failed to notice Chenille, Xiphias, and a drooping augur lined up against the wall. 
A still handsome elderly man standing by the fireplace said, "I'm Councillor Loris. I take it you're Silk?" 
"Patera Silk. His Cognizance the Prolocutor has not yet accepted my resignation. May I sit down?" 
Loris ignored the last. "You're the insurgent calde." 
"Others have called me calde, but I'm not involved in an 
insurrection." Potto pushed him to the wall beside Chenille. 
Loris smiled, his blue eyes glinting like chips of ice; and the seduction of his craggy wisdom was so great that even a mocking 
smile made it almost irresistible. "You killed my Cousin Lemur, did you, Calde?" 
Silk shook his head. 
Maytera Marble said, "I don't know these others, except Chenille. Shouldn't I introduce myself?" 
"I'll do it," Blood told her, "it's my house." With a slight start, Silk 
realized that Blood was in the chair he had occupied a week earlier, and that this was the same room. 
"This is Councillor Loris," Blood began unnecessarily, "the new presiding officer of the Ayuntamiento. This other councillor's 
Councillor Potto." 
"Calde Silk and Councillor Potto are old acquaintances," Loris purred. "Isn't that right, Calde?" 
"I don't know this soldier myself," Blood continued, and paused
to
sip his drink. "It probably doesn't matter." 
"Sergeant Sand," Silk told him. "He and Councillor Potto interrogated 
me Tarsday. It was very painful, and I suppose it's quite possible they're going to do it again." 
Sand came to attention and appeared about to speak, but Silk stopped him with a gesture. "You were only doing your duty. 
Sergeant. I understand. In justice to you, I ought to add that you had treated me well earlier." 
Potto said, "We won't need you here, Sergeant. You know what to do." Sand looked at Silk, saluted, executed an about-face, and left, shutting the door behind him. 
"A very handsome young man," Maytera Marble remarked. "I was 
sorry to hear that he behaved badly toward you, Patera." 
	Blood indicated her with his glass. "This holy sibyl's Maytera 
Rose--" 
Chenille tittered nervously. Maytera Marble said, "I'm Maytera Marble, Bloody. Remember? I explained about that. Chenille and I have met, and naturally Patera knows me well." 
"Patera  _Silk_, she means," elucidated the small augur in the corner. 
"I,  _too_, am entitled to the honorific, as well as my more customary 
ones. 
Calde, I have been appointed the new  _Prolocutor_ of  _Viron_ by 
_Subleviating Scylla_, who during that same  _theophany_ confirmed 
_you_ as its calde. Am  _I_, as I  _dare hope_, the first 
to--" 
Silk managed to smile. "It's a pleasure to see you again, Patera." 
Chenille blurted, "Why weren't you dead? I've just been standing here... We couldn't, none of us--" 
Xiphias cackled. "He's a tough one! Student of mine, too! Truth!" 
	Silk said, "Maytera, do you know Master Xiphias? Master Xiphias 
 is teaching me to fence. Master Xiphias, this holy sibyl is Maytera 
Marble. She's the senior sibyl now at my-- Of the manteion on Sun 
Street." 

Maytera Marble added softly, "I'm also the representative of our Generalissimo Oosik and the Trivigauntis' General Saba, Patera. 
I've come to arrange your release." 
His voice thick with mock sincerity, Loris said, "We hold the key to the crisis now, you see, the generous gods having flung the ring 
into our laps. How foolish are those who scorn the power of the 
immortal gods!" 
A black shape darted through the open window, landing with a thump on Silk's shoulder. "Bird back!" 
"Oreb!" Silk looked around at him, surprised and more pleased than he would have been willing to admit. 
"_Scourging Scylla_," ignoring Oreb, Incus had leveled his forefinger 
at Loris, "has given  _you_ nothing." 
"In that case, we have gained our present advantage by merit." Loris smiled. "We thank the undying, ever-generous gods for our 
talents." 
Oreb cocked an inquiring head. "Good gods?" 
"She will  _destroy_ all of you, should you harm  _either_ of the 
holy 
augurs present, or this  _sibyl_. We are  _sacred_." 
"We'll risk her wrath if need be. Old man, stop reaching for your sword. It's gone. Were you thinking of overpowering us?" 
	Xiphias shook his head. "You think I don't know there's soldiers 
out there?" 
"You could not even if there were none." Loris took a bookend from the mantle; it shattered between his fingers with a sharp 
report and an explosion of snowy chips. The door flew open, 
revealing Sand and two other soldiers with leveled slug guns. 
Oreb whistled. 
Potto told them, "It's all right. Shut it." 
"Calde Silk is a strong young man, but he's been severely 
wounded. You are an old one, unarmed, and not as strong as you suppose. Our new Prolocutor's not physically imposing. Need I 
continue?" 
Silk said, "I can understand how you came to be in the tunnel, Master Xiphias--both you and His Cognizance. You ran for cover 
just as Hyacinth and I did--" 
Blood interrupted. "You've got her? Where is she?" 
"I don't. I had her, if you like. We were separated." Turning 
back 
to Xiphias, Silk continued, "After you dug me out of the loose soil, you went down the tunnel to look for water with Chenille and 
Patera, leaving His Cognizance with me--with my body, as you 
thought. Is that right?" 
Xiphias nodded. 
"Only we didn't think your body," Chenille told Silk, "We knew 
you were alive. His Cognizance said there was a pulse, only we 
didn't understand how you could be alive after getting buried like 
that." 
Loris rattled what remained of the bookend in his hand. "What 
puzzles me--excuse my interrupting your conference--is your 
mention of His Cognizance. I take it you don't refer to our friend, but to the actual head of the Chapter? Was he in the tunnel with 
you, Calde?" 
"Yes, he was. Perhaps I shouldn't have mentioned it." 
Potto said happily, "He's an old man. One of the patrols will 
pick 
him up, Cousin." 
"A clever old man." Loris looked grim. "A troublemaker." 
	Privately, Silk was trying to reconcile Quetzal's telling 
 Chenille 
that he, Silk, was alive with his saying that they had thought him dead. He had lied in one or the other, but why? 

"Bad thing!" Oreb told everyone. 
Silk ventured, "A patrol headed by Sergeant Sand--one like the patrol that arrested me originally, I suppose--must have come 
across Master Xiphias, Patera Incus, and Chenille. I was surprised to see them here, but I believe I understand now. Sand must have sent the other man back here with them and gone on alone until he found me, perhaps because he'd heard my voice--I'd been talking to His Cognizance. Is that correct?" 
"Where is this tunnel, Patera?" Maytera Marble asked. "Are you talking about a tunnel underneath the house?" 
Potto grinned at her, displaying gleaming teeth. 
Blood put down his drink. "Yeah, we're right over it, Mama, and it hooks up with a bunch of others." 
Loris told her, "That's the first item you ought to pass on to 
your 
principals, Maytera. They think they have us like rats in a cauldron. Nothing could be further from the truth. We can leave this house, 
and them, whenever we wish." 
Blood added, "Only I don't want to. It's my house." 
She looked thoughtful, a finger pressed to her cheek. 
"Bad hole." Oreb ruffled his feathers apprehensively. Chenille 
whispered, "Your bird was down there with us. Auk had him on the 
boat." 
"You're sunburned!" Inwardly, Silk reproached his own stupidity. 
"I've been looking at you--gaping actually, I suppose. I hope you'll 
excuse it, but I couldn't imagine how your face had gotten so red, so 
close to the red-brown color of a wood-carving my mother used to 
have." 
"She wore  _nothing_ on the boat," Incus interposed. "Then my robe. 
Maytera  _forced_ them to give her that gown." 
	Loris snapped, "Is this germane?" 
"Perhaps not," Silk admitted. "It's just that Chenille has reminded 
me of a childhood incident, Councillor." 
Loris waved aside Chenille's sunburn, tossing the largest fragment 
of the bookend onto the rosewood end table at Maytera 
Marble's elbow. "Marble? Isn't that your name, Maytera? The calde just reminded us of that." 
"It is." 
"That was what this knickknack was, I'd say. Real marble from 
the Short Sun Whorl, precisely like you." For an instant, Loris's 
face 
was no longer attractive. "I'll leave that chunk there so you don't forget it." 
"I shan't," Maytera Marble promised. "It would be wise for you to 
keep in mind that you're surrounded by thousands of well-armed 
troops, Councillor. I suppose most people in my position would be 
inclined to exaggerate their numbers, but I won't. I'll tell you the 
truth, so you won't be able to say that you were deceived, or even 
misled, afterward. There are two companies of Trivigaunti 
pterotroopers, almost the entire Third Brigade of the Civil Guard, 
and elements of the Fourth. I asked Generalissimo Oosik what he 
meant by 'elements' and he said four floaters and the heavy 
weapons company. Besides all those, there are about five thousand 
of Maytera Mint's people, with more arriving from the city all the 
time. They've heard that Patera Silk's in here, and they want to 
charge the house. When I left, General Saba and Generalissimo 
Oosik were afraid they might not be able to prevent them without 
using Guardsmen and creating more friction." 
"Fight now?" Oreb inquired. 
Smiling, Maytera Marble turned to Silk. "That's the bird I saw hopping into your kitchen when Doctor Crane was treating you, 

isn't? Later on my glass, and on your shoulder like that in the garden. I knew I'd seen him before. 
"No, little bird, no fighting. Not now, or not yet. But Generalissimo 
Oosik told me quite frankly that if there's no way to stop 
Maytera Mint's insurgents from attacking short of firing on them, 
he'll stand back and let them do it. You see, I confided to the 
children that your master was in here. They seem to have told a 
great many other people before we left the city, so the whole thing's my fault. I feel very badly indeed about that, and I'm trying to make amends." 
Blood added, "But she won't say who told her. Or have you changed your mind about that, Mama?" 
"Certainly not. I gave my word." 
Loris, who had been leaning against the mantel, left it to stand
in
front of Maytera Marble. "This little conference has already run too 
long. Allow me to tell you what we want, Maytera. Then you can go 
back out there and repeat it to the Trivigauntis and Mint's five 
thousand rioters, if there are actually that many, which I am 
ungentlemanly enough to doubt. Our position is not negotiable. 
You accept our terms or we'll kill these prisoners, Silk included, 
and 
crush the rebellion." 
Incus stood again. "You have  _no_ authority--" 
Potto's fist striking Incus's cheek sounded almost as loud as the breaking of the bookend. 
"So, we've come to that." Maytera Marble smoothed the black 
skirt covering her metal thighs. "It will be needlers and knives 
next, 
no doubt." 
Silk said, "I warn you, Councillor Potto, not to do that again." 
	"Or you'll break my neck?" Potto's smile was that of a fat boy 
 contemplating a stolen pie. "Beat little butcher, big butcher bark? We've had some games of strength already. If you've forgotten 
them, I can teach you the rules again." 
Incus spat blood. "The just  _gods_ avenge the wrongs of  _augurs_.
A
doom..." 
Potto lifted his hand, and Incus fell silent. "No hit," Oreb suggested. 
"The gods may or may not," Silk murmured. "I don't know, and if I were forced to choose, I'd probably say that they did nothing of the sort." 
Loris applauded with a sardonic smile; a half-second too late, Potto joined him. 
Abruptly Silk's voice dominated the room. "The law does, 
however. Maytera told you how many troops Generalissimo Oosik 
has, saying--very fairly and reasonably, I thought--that she didn't 
want you to feel you'd been tricked when all this is over. You should have listened more carefully." 
"Tell 'em!" Xiphias put in. 
"I'm attempting to." Silk nodded, mostly  (it appeared) to himself. 
"Because it will be over soon. There will be a trial, and you, 
Councillor Potto, and you, Councillor Loris, will hear Maytera, 
Chenille, Master Xiphias, and Patera Incus testify to what they saw 
and heard--and felt, as well--to a judge who will no longer be afraid of you." 
Potto giggled and glanced at Loris. "Is this what they picked to replace us?" 
Surprising everyone, Blood said, "Yeah, I didn't get it at first,
but
I'm starting to." 

Maytera Marble told Potto, "All human things wear out and must be replaced eventually, Councillor." 
"Not me!" 
"I'd think you'd welcome it. How long have you toiled, worrying and planning, for our ungrateful city? Fifty years? Sixty?" 
	"Longer!" Potto dropped into a gilt settee. 
Silk inquired, "Councillor, do you--not the authentic Potto down 
in your underwater boat, but you yourself to whom I speak--recall 
the Short Sun Whorl? Councillor Loris implied that marble could be 
quarried there. I don't know anything about antiques, but I've 
heard that it is a stone that's never found in its natural state in 
our 
whorl." 
"I'm not that old." 
Loris snapped, "I was about to outline our demands. I'd like to
get
on with it." 
Maytera Marble left her chair to stand beside Silk. "Do, Councillor, 
please." 
"As I said, they're not negotiable. The following five conditions 
embody them, and we're prepared to accept nothing less." Loris 
fished a square of paper from an inner pocket and unfolded it with a 
snap. 
"First, Silk must declare publicly, without reservation, that he
is
not and has never been calde, that Viron has none, and that the Ayuntamiento alone is its sole governing body." 
To bring peace I'll be happy to, Silk told him; and only when he had completed the final word realized that he had not spoken aloud. 
	"Second, there must be no new election of councillors. Vacant 
seats are to remain vacant, and the present members of the 
Ayuntamiento are to remain in office. 
"Third, the Rani of Trivigaunte must withdraw her troops from 
Vironese territory and furnish us with hostages--whom we will 
name--against further interference in our affairs. 
	"Fourth, the Civil Guard must surrender its treasonous officers 
to 
us, the Ayuntamiento, for trial and punishment. 
"Fifth and last, the rioters must surrender their arms, which 
will 
be collected by the Army." 
Through bruised lips, Incus muttered, "I suggest you  _pray_ long and hard over this, my son, and  _sacrifice_. The  _wisdom_ of the gods has not enlightened your  _councils_." 
"We don't need it," Potto told him. 
"When  _Splenetic Scylla_ learns--" 
Maytera Marble interrupted. "What have you to offer the Rani, the rioters, as you call them, and the Guard in return?" 
	"Peace and a general amnesty. The captives you see here, 
including Silk, will be released unharmed." 
"I see." Maytera Marble laid a hand on Silk's shoulder. "I'm very disappointed. It was I who persuaded General Saba and Generalissimo Oosik that you were reasonable men. They listened because of 
the courage of my sib General Mint. And because of her victories, 
of which we're all very proud, if I don't offend the good gods who gave them to her by saying so. Now I find that by interceding for you I've squandered all the credit she's earned us." 
Loris began, "If you think us unreasonable now--" 
"I do. You say Patera Silk isn't really calde. What good is his declaration then? What do you want him to tell the people? That the augur of the Sun Street manteion says that your Ayuntamiento is to continue to govern the city? You'll only make yourselves ridiculous." 
	Potto snapped, "Why didn't you laugh?" 

"Calde?" Loris smiled. "Those are our demands. The Prolocutor 
hasn't freed you from your vows, you said, the implication being 
that you want him to. Are you willing to resign this caldeship you've never really had as well?" 
"Yes, I'd like nothing better." Silk had been leaning on Xiphias's 
silver-banded cane; he straightened up as he spoke. "I did not 
choose to become involved in politics, Councillor. Politics chose 
me." 
"Good Silk," Oreb explained. 
Loris returned his attention to Maytera Marble. "You heard that. You'll want to tell Oosik what you heard." 
"Unfortunately," Silk continued, "the remainder of your terms are 
not feasible. Take the second. The people demand that government 
return to our Charter, the foundation of the law; and the law 
requires elections to fill the empty seat in the Ayuntamiento." 
	"We ought to kill you," Potto told him."I will." 
	"In which case you would no longer hold the calde. The people--
 the 
rioters, as you call them--will choose a new one, no doubt a 
much better and more effective one than I am, since they could hardly do worse." 
He waited for someone else to speak, but no one did; at length he 
added, "I'm not an advocate, Councillors--I wish I were. If I were, I 
could easily imagine myself defending you on nearly every charge 
that could be brought against you thus far. You suspended the 
Charter, but I believe there was some uncertainty regarding the 
wishes of the old calde, and it was long ago in any case. You tried 
to 
put down the riots, but in that you were doing your duty. You 
questioned Mamelta and me when we were detained for violating a military area, which could easily be justified." 
	"He  _hit_ me!" Incus exclaimed. "An  _augur!_" 
Silk nodded. "That is an individual matter, concerning Councillor 
Potto alone, and I was considering the Ayuntamiento as a whole--or 
rather, what remains of that whole. But what you say, Patera, is 
quite right; and it's an indication of the road along which this 
Ayuntamiento is traveling. I'd like to persuade Councillor Loris, its 
presiding officer, to turn back before it's too late." 
	Loris fixed him with a malevolent stare. "Then you won't 
to our demands? I can call in the soldiers at once and get this over 
with." 
Silk shook his head. "I can't accede. Nor can I speak for the 
Rani 
of Trivigaunte, obviously; but I can and do speak for Viron; and for Viron all of your demands, except the one for my resignation, are out of the question." 
"Nevertheless," Maytera Marble put in, "General Mint and Generalissimo 
Oosik may accede to them, in part at least, to save Patera Silk. May I speak to him in private?" 
"Don't be ridiculous!" 
"It isn't ridiculous, I must. Don't you see that General Mint and 
Generalissimo Oosik and all the rest of them are only acting on the 
authority of Patera Silk? When I report that I've seen him and tell 
them you've recognized him as calde, they will certainly want to 
know whether he's willing to agree to your terms. They'll have to 
know what he wants them to do, but they won't pay the least 
attention to it unless I can say that he told me in private. Let me 
talk 
to him, and I'll go back and talk to Generalissimo Oosik and 
General Saba. Then, if we're lucky, we'll have real peace in place of this truce." 
"We have not recognized him as calde," Loris told her coldly. "I 

invite you to retract that." 
"But you have! You've called him Calde several times in my 
presence, and I could see you congratulating yourselves on having 
the calde. You even called him the key to the crisis. You're 
threatening to shoot him because he won't agree to your precious 
five demands. If he's the calde, that's only cruel. If he isn't, it's idiotic." 
She raised her hands and time-smoothed face to Loris in supplication. 
"He's terribly weak. I've been watching him while the rest of us 
were talking, and if it weren't for his stick I think he would have fallen. Can't you let him sit down? And tell everyone else to leave? A quarter of an hour should be enough." 
Blood rose, swaying a little. "Over here, Patera. Take my seat. 
This's a good chair, better than the one you had in here that other 
time." 
"Thank you," Silk said. "Thank you very much. I owe you a great deal, Blood." Chenille, next to him, took his arm; he wanted to 
assure her he did not need her help, but stumbled on the carpet 
before he could speak, eliciting an unhappy squawk from Oreb. 
	"Get the rest of them out," Loris told Potto. 
Xiphias paused in the doorway, showing Silk both his hands, then twisting one slightly and separating them. 
Chenille kissed his forehead, the brush of her lips the silken touch 
of a butterfly's wing--and was gone, violently pulled away by Potto, who left with her and shut the door. 
Maytera Marble reoccupied the chair beside the one that had been Blood's. "Well," she said. 
Silk nodded. "Well indeed. You did very well, Maytera. Much 
better than I. But before we talk about--all of the things we'll have to talk about, I'd like to ask a question. One foolish question, or perhaps two. Will you indulge me?" 
"Certainly, Patera. What is it?" 
Silk's forefinger traced small circles on his cheek. "I know nothing 
about women's clothes. You must know a great deal more--at least, 
I hope you do. You got Councillor Loris to bring Chenille her 
gown?" 
"She was naked under that augur's robe," Maytera Marble 
explained, "and I refused to talk about anything else until they got 
her dressed. Bloody called in one of the maids, and she and Chenille 
went with a soldier to find her some clothes. They weren't gone 
long." 
Silk nodded, his face thoughtful. 
"It's too small for her, but the maid said it was the largest in
the
house, and it's only a little bit too small." 
"I see. I was wondering whether it belonged to a woman I met here." 
"You and Bloody were talking about her, Patera." Maytera 
Marble sounded ill at ease. "He asked you where she was, and you said you'd gotten separated." 
Silk nodded again. 
"I don't want to pry into your personal affairs." 
"I appreciate that. Believe me, Maytera, I appreciate it very 
much." He hesitated, staring through the open window at the 
wind-rippled green lawn before he spoke again. "I thought it might 
be one of Hyacinth's, as I said. In fact, I rather hoped it was; but 
it 
couldn't be. It almost fits Chenille, as you say, and Hyacinth's much smaller." The circles, which had ceased to spin, reappeared. "What do you call that fabric?" 
"It's chen... Why, I see what you're getting at, and you're 

right, Patera! That gown's chenille, exactly like her name!" 
	"Not silk?" 
Maytera Marble snapped her fingers. "I know! She must have told the maid her name, and it suggested the gown." 
"She kissed me as she left," he remarked. "I certainly didn't invite 
it, but she did. You must have seen it." 
	"Yes, Patera. I did." 
"I suppose she wanted to signal that she was with us--that she supported us. Master Xiphias made a gesture of the same sort, 
probably something to do with swordplay. Anyway, her kiss made 
me think of silk, of the fabric I mean, for some reason. It seemed strange, but I thought perhaps her skirt had brushed my hand. You say it's actually called chenille?" 
"Chenille  _is_ silk, Patera. Or anyway the best chenille is, and
the
other is something else that's supposed to look like silk. Chenille 
is a kind of yarn, made of silk, that's furry-looking like a 
caterpillar. If they weave cloth of it, that's called chenille too. 
It's 
a foreign word that means caterpillar, and silk threads are spun by silkworms, which are a kind of caterpillar. But I'm sure you know that." 
"I must speak to her!" he said. "Not now, but when we're alone, 
and as soon as I can." 
"Good girl!" 
"Yes, Oreb. Indeed she is." Silk returned his attention to Maytera 
Marble. "A moment ago when you spoke to Loris, you didn't want us to leave this room. Would you mind telling me why?" 
	"Was I as transparent at that?" 
"No, you weren't transparent at all; but I know you, and if you'd 
really been so worried about me, you would have asked him to let us 
talk in a bedroom where I could lie down, and to send for a doctor. 
I don't suppose Blood's got one, now that Doctor Crane's dead; but 
Loris might have been able to supply one, or to send someone for 
one of the Guard's doctors under a flag of truce, like that white 
flag 
next to your chair." 
Maytera Marble looked grave. "I should have asked him to do 
that. I can still ask, Patera. I'll go out and find him. It won't take a 
moment." 
"No, I'm fine. By Phaea's favor--" It was too late to call back
the
conventional phrase. "I'll recover. Why did you want to stay here?" 
	"Because of this window." Maytera Marble waved a hand at it. 
"Bloody had opened it while we were in here by ourselves, and I 
worried the whole time that someone would get cold and shut it. 
You must know Mucor, Patera. She said you sent her to me." 
	Silk nodded. "She's Blood's adopted daughter." 
"Adopted? I didn't know that. She said she was Bloody's daughter. That was Hieraxday night, terribly late... Do you know 
Asphodella, Patera?" 
Silk smiled. "Oh, yes. A lively little thing." 
"That's her. I'd done the wash, you see, and I wanted to pour the 
dirty water on my garden. Plants actually like dirty water with 
soapsuds in it better than clean. It sounds wrong, I know, but they 
do." 
"If you say so, I'm sure it must be true." 
"So I was pouring out the water, so much for each row, when 
Asphodella pulled my skirt. I said what are you doing out so late, 
child? And she told me she'd gone with the others to fight, but Horn had sent her back--" 

"Cat come!" Oreb warned. Silk looked for it, seeing none. 
"Horn had sent her home, and quite right, too, if you ask me, Patera. So now she wanted to know if there'd be palaestra on 
Thelxday." 
"Then," Silk said slowly, "her face changed. Is that it, Maytera?" 
"Yes. Exactly. Her face became, well, horrible. She saw I was frightened, as I certainly was, and said don't be afraid, 
Grandmother. 
My name's Mucor, I'm Blood's daughter." Maytera Marble 
paused, not certain that he understood. "Have I told you Bloody's 
my son, Patera? Yes, I know I did, right after we sacrificed in the street." 
"He was Maytera Rose's," Suk said carefully. "You, I know, are also Maytera Rose--at least, at times." 
"All the time, Patera." Maytera Marble laughed. "I've integrated our software. As far as we sibyls are concerned, I'm your best friend and worst enemy, all in one." 
He stirred uncomfortably in Blood's comfortable chair. "I was never Maytera Rose's enemy, I hope." 
"You thought I was yours, though, Patera. Perhaps I was, a little." 
He leaned toward her, his hands folded over the crook of 
Xiphias's cane. "Are you now, Maytera? Please be completely frank with me." 
"No. Your friend and well-wisher, Patera." 
Oreb applauded, flapping his wings. "Good girl!" 
She added, "Even if I were entirely Maytera Rose, I'd do all I could to get you out of this." 
Silk let himself fall back. It was astonishing how soft these chairs 
of Blood's were. He remembered  (vividly now) how badly he had 
wanted to rest in his chair, to sleep in it, when he had talked with Blood in this very room. Yet this one was better, just as Blood had 
promised: yielding where it should, firm where firmness was 
desirable. 
He stroked one wide arm, its maroon leather as smooth as butter beneath his touch. 
"They let me lie down after I was captured," he confided to 
Maytera Marble. "Sand did. I'd had to walk all the way to this 
house, and it was a very long way. It had seemed long when Auk 
and I rode donkeys; and walking with Sand's gun at my back, it 
seemed a great deal longer; but once we arrived, once we'd climbed 
up through the hatch into the cellar, he let me lie down on the 
floor. 
He isn't a bad man, really--just a disciplined soldier obeying bad 
men. There's good in Loris, too, and even in Potto. I know you 
must sense it, just as I do, Maytera; otherwise you'd never have 
spoken to Potto as you did. That's why--one reason, anyway--I 
don't feel that this situation from which you're trying to rescue me 
is 
as bad as it appears, though I'll always be grateful." 
"Cat! Cat!" Oreb flew from Silk's shoulder to the head of an alabaster bust of Thelxiepeia. 
Maytera Marble smiled. "There's no cat in here, you pretty bird." 
	"You were telling me about this room," Slik reminded her, "and 
 meeting Mucor. I wish you'd continue with that. It may be 
significant." 
"I--Patera, I want to tell you first about meeting you. It won't take long. and it may be more important, maybe a lot more 
important. You still think about the day you came to our manteion, I know. You've mentioned it several times." 
He nodded. 
"Patera Pike was there, and you loved and respected him, but a 

man wants a woman to talk to. Most men do, anyway, and you did. You'd been raised by your mother, and we could see how you 
missed her." 
"I still do," Silk admitted. 
"Don't feel bad about that, Patera. No one should ever be ashamed of love." 
Maytera Marble paused to collect her thoughts; her rapid scan 
was back, and she reveled in it. "We were three sibyls, I was about 
to 
say. Maytera Mint was still young and pretty, but so shy that she ran from you whenever she could. When she couldn't, she would hardly 
speak. Maybe she guessed what had happened to me long ago. I've 
sometimes thought that, and you were young and good-looking, as 
you still are." 
He began a question, but thought better of it. 
"I won't tell you who Bloody's father was, Patera. I've never 
told 
anybody and I won't tell now. But I will tell you this. He never knew. I don't think he even suspected." 
Silk filled his lungs with the cool, clean breeze from the window. 
"I slept with a woman last night, Maytera. With Hyacinth, the woman Blood asked about." 
"I'm sorry you told me." 
"I wanted to. I've wanted--I want so badly, still, to tell people who don't know, although a great many people know already. His 
Cognizance and Master Xiphias and Generalissimo Oosik." 
	"And me." Maytera Marble's forefinger tapped her metal chest 
through her habit. "I knew. Or rather, I guessed, as anybody would, 
and I wish that you'd left it like that. Some things aren't improved by talking about them." 
Oreb broke off his inverted examination of Thelxiepeia's features to applaud Maytera Marble. "Smart girl!" 
"We were three sibyls, as I said. But Maytera Mint wasn't there 
for you Patera, so I was the only ones left. I was old. I don't think you ever grasped how old. My faces had gone long before you were 
born. You never realized they weren't there, did you?" 
	"What are you talking about? Your face is where it ought to be, 
Maytera. I'm looking at it." 
"This?" She drummed her fingers on it, a quick metallic  _tap-tap-
tap_. 
"This is my faceplate, really. I used to have a face like yours. I 
would say like Dahlia's, but she was before your time. Like Teasel's 
or Nettle's, and there were things in it, little bits of alnico, that 
let 
me really smile or frown when I moved them with the coils behind 
my faceplate. But all that's gone except for the coils." 
	"It's a beautiful face," Silk insisted, "because it's yours." 
	"My other face wasn't, and what it was showed in your own every 
 time you saw it. I resented that, and you resented my resentment 
and turned to me to ease your loneliness. But we were much more 
alike than you realized, not that I've ever cared, myself, for 
machines like this. I never thought they could be people, really, no matter how many times they said they were. Now I'm just a message 
written on those teeny gold doodads you see in cards. But I'm still me, a person, because I always was." 
Silk fumbled Remora's ruined robe for a handkerchief, and finding none blotted his eyes on his sleeve. 
"I didn't tell you that to make you feel sorry for me, Patera. Neither of me were easy to love, no more than I am now. You were 
able to love one just the same, and not very many men could have, 
not even many augurs. I thought that if you knew how you came to 
love and not like me, it might help you some other time with some 
other woman." 

"It will, I know." Silk sighed. "Thank you, Maytera. With myself, most of all." 
"Let's not talk about it any more. What do you think of the 
Ayuntamiento's terms? Still what you told Loris?" 
Silk made a last dab at his eyes, feeling the grit in the cloth, knowing that he was dirtying his already-soiled face and not caring. "I suppose so." 
Maytera Marble nodded. "They're perfectly hopeless. Not a single thing for Trivigaunte, and why should the Guard hand over its 
senior officers, why should Generalissimo Oosik allow it? But if we offered trials, regular ones with judges--" 
"Man back!" A big hand glittering with rings had appeared on the windowsill. It was followed by a yellow-sleeved arm and a whiff of 
musk rose. 
"That's why you wanted to stay here." Silk stood up a trifle unsteadily, helped by the cane, and crossed the room to the 
window. "So your son could join us." 
"Why no, Patera. Not at all." 
Leaning over the sill, Silk spoke to Blood. "Here, hold onto my hand. I'll help you up." 
"Thanks," Blood said. "I should have brought a stool or something." 
"Take mine, too, Bloody." Maytera Marble braced one foot on the sill in imitation of Silk. 
Flushed redder than ever with exertion, Blood's face rose on the other side of the window. With a grunt and a heave, he tumbled into 
the room. 
"Now for my granddaughter. She'll be easy after Bloody." 
Bending over the sill again, Maytera Marble clasped skeletally 
thin hands and lifted in an emaciated young woman with a seared 
cheek. 
"Poor girl!" 
Silk nodded his agreement as he returned to his chair. "Hello, Mucor. Sit down, please, so that I may sit. We're neither of us 
strong." 
"Needlers're no good 'gainst the soldiers," Blood puffed. He 
brushed off the front of his tunic and reached beneath it. "So I'm giving you this, Calde Silk." 
"This" was an azoth, its long hilt rough with rubies and chased with gold; its sharply curved guard was more elaborate than that of the one Doctor Crane had given him at Hyacinth's urging, and 
diamonds ringed its pommel. 
Silk resumed his seat. "I should have anticipated that. Doctor Crane told me you had two." 
"Don't you want it?" Blood did not trouble to hide his surprise. "No. Not now, at least." 
"It's worth--" 
"I know what it's worth, and how effective a weapon it can be in
a
strong hand like yours. At the moment, I don't have one, though that's the least of my reasons for refusing." 
Silk settled back in his chair. "I asked your daughter to sit down, 
and she was good enough to oblige me. I can't invite you to sit in your house, and I'm very aware that I'm occupying your former 
seat; but there are many others." 
Blood sat. 
"Thank you. Maytera--" 
"Cat come!" 
It did, almost before Oreb's agitated whoop, springing lightly 
over the windowsill to land noiselessly in the middle of the room and 
glare at Blood with eyes like burning amber. Maytera Marble 
gathered her skirts as if it were a mouse; Silk asked, "Is that Lion? 
I 

seem to remember him." 
The lynx turned its glare on him and nodded. 
"Patera's been making everybody sit," Maytera Marble told 
Mucor. "It would be nicer if you had your big kitty sit too, Darling. 
I 
wouldn't mind him so much then." 
Lion lay down obediently, dividing his attention between Blood and Oreb. 
"Sphigx bless you." Maytera Marble traced the sign of addition. 
"I--it's rather amusing now that I come to think of it, the sort of 
thing 
the children enjoy. Patera thought I wanted this window open so 
your Papa could come in, and I said, no, I hadn't even thought of it, 
which was the plain truth. I wanted it opened because you told me 
the first time, Darling, not to stay in rooms with the doors and 
windows shut, because you might have to drop in again, and that 
would make it harder. So I was happy when he opened this one, and 
now you've come in through it, and your long-legged kitty, too." 
	"I didn't know she could take over an animal like that." Blood 
had 
his thumb on the demon. "We didn't know she had any power left till Lemur taped the calde talking to Crane, but it sounds like she's been paying visits to both of you." 
"Sneaking outside the window, Bloody? You shouldn't do that." "I didn't." 
"A listening device." Silk sighed. "I'm disappointed. I'd thought there might be a secret door behind one of these big paintings. 
When I was a sprat, boys' books were full of them, but I've never 
actually seen one." 
"You knew I'd come?" 
"I surmised you might. Do you want the entire thing?" 
Maytera Marble sniffed loudly. "I do, Patera." 
"I wish you wouldn't make that noise," he told her. 
"Then I won't, or at least not very often. But Bloody's my son, and I meant I have a right to know." 
"All right, the entire thing." Silk leaned back in his chair, eyes half 
closed. "On Hieraxday, I walked some distance through the city with 
His Cognizance, and from the East Edge to Ermine's; it was about 
evenly divided between Maytera Mint's insurgents and the Guard. I 
slept at Ermine's for a few hours, as I told you; when I woke up, 
half 
the Guard seemed to have gone over to Maytera Mint." 
Maytera Marble said, "All of it but the Second, I'm told." 
"Good. Before I was brought here, I was in the tunnels or in the 
cellar, so I didn't see much; but there were councillors here. It 
seemed likely they were directing their forces in person, and I 
didn't 
think they'd do that unless the situation was critical. Then too, you told me you'd walked out here with the children and mentioned a 
general from Trivigaunte--" 
"General Saba. A very good woman at heart, from what I saw of 
her, though quite large and rather prone to obstinacy." 
"I assume it was her airship that attacked us when His Cognizance and I were riding in Oosik's floater." 
"Her airship's been over the city, certainly. It's been shooting
and
dropping explosives. It's huge." 
"Your Doctor Crane was a spy from Trivigaunte," Silk told Blood. 
"You must know that by now. He told me once, joking, that if I were 
in need of rescue all I'd have to do was kill him. He had a device in his chest that let others find him and told them whether his heart 
was beating. He was shot Rieraxday morning, due to a 
misunderstanding. 

I imagine the attack on us resulted from a similar mix-up--the 
Trivigauntis had been told the Guard was opposing us. When 
they saw a Guard floater surrounded by officers on horseback, they attacked it." 
"I don't see what this has to do with me," Blood grunted. 
"It has everything to do with you," Silk told him, "and I was right 
about it, too--the only thing I've been completely right about. You 
were fighting in a losing cause; this house was about to be 
destroyed, and you might easily be wounded or killed. You knew 
about the tunnels, and no doubt you've been down there. So have I, 
as I've said--more than I like. I couldn't imagine your leaving this 
house in flames and trudging off underground unless there were no 
alternative." 
"I worked shaggy hard to get this place." 
"Don't swear, Bloody. It doesn't become you." 
"I did! Your kind thinks it's easy. One wrong move and you're 
packed for Mainframe, day after day, and nobody to help me I 
could trust till I found Musk, nobody at all. It'd kill both of you 
in a 
week. Shag yes, it would! Twelve years I did it before I ever took my first crap in this place." 
"Bloody!" 
"It's only a guess," Silk admitted, "and I can't pretend an intimate 
familiarity with your mental processes; but I'd imagine you've been looking for an opportunity to change sides since sometime last 
night." 
"What's the shaggy Ayuntamiento ever done for me? Worked me 
for payoffs and favors every month. Shut me down to make 
themselves look good. What the shag do I owe them?" 
"I've no idea. Then--about an hour ago, perhaps--your mother 
entered the picture, ostensibly and no doubt principally to help me, but clearly with influence on the other side and eager to save you as well. So when I realized Maytera wanted us to stay in this room, I 
expected you to step from behind a picture." Silk smiled and 
shrugged apologetically. 
Mucor surprised them all by asking, "Would you like me to see what they're doing?" 
"I'd rather have you eat something," Silk told her, "but I don't suppose there's anything in here. Go ahead, if Lion will behave 
himself." 
He waited for her reply, but none came. 
"Girl go." Oreb's croak was scarcely audible. "No here." Lion 
stretched himself on the floor and closed his eyes. 
"Actually, I was surprised you didn't come sooner," Silk told 
Blood conversationally, "but of course you had to fetch Mucor and 
get her dressed--perhaps even clean her up a bit with the help of 
one of your maids, and I hadn't allowed for that. The point that 
puzzles me is that Mucor seems to have felt it necessary to send Lion ahead of her." 
"Did she?" Blood eyed his adopted daughter curiously. 
"So it seems. Oreb--my bird, up there--must have glimpsed him or, more likely heard him, because he told us several times that there was a cat about." 
"She probably didn't realize that the soldiers wouldn't be afraid
of
him," Maytera Marble suggested. 
	"Bad cat," Oreb muttered. 
"Not too loud," Silk cautioned him, "he might hear you." 
"It was nice of you to join us, Bloody." Maytera Marble smoothed 
her skirt. "It's to your advantage, no doubt, just as Patera says. 
But 
you're taking a big risk just the same." 

Blood stood. "I know it. You don't think much of me, do you, Calde?" 
"I think a great deal of your shrewdness," Silk told him. "I'd be glad to have your cunning mind on our side. I'm aware that you 
have no morals." 
"Colonel Oosik," Blood gestured with the azoth. "He's your man, from what I've heard. This General Saba's there for the Rani, 
Colonel Oosik for you." 
"Generalissimo Oosik." 
Blood snorted. "You trust him and you won't trust me, but I've had him in my pocket for years." 
Maytera Marble said, "Sit down, Bloody. Or are you going to do something?" 
"I want a drink, but since the calde doesn't want it, I think 
I'll 
hang onto my azoth as long as that cat's in here. Will you fix me 
one, 
Mama?" 
"Certainly." She rose. "A little more gin, I imagine?" 
Silk began, "If it's not too much trouble, Maytera--" 
"And ice. There's ice behind the big doors underneath." 
"I'll be happy to. Brandy, or--" she examined bottles. "Here's a nice red wine, Patera." 
"Just water and ice, please. The same for Mucor, I think." 
Blood shook his head. "No ice, Mama. She'll throw it. Believe me,I know." 
"Poor bird!" 
"A cup of plain water for Oreb, if you would, Maytera. I 
believe he'll come down to drink it if you leave it on top of the cabinet." 
"Plain water for Oreb." Revealing two fingers' width of silvery
leg
as she stood on tiptoe, she put a brimming tumbler on the cabinet. 
"Soda water and ice for Patera, and ice, gin. and soda water for you, Bloody. Soda water without ice for my granddaughter. It's nice and 
cool, though." As she placed the final tumbler before Mucor, she 
added, "I must say she doesn't look as if you've been taking good 
care of her." 
Blood picked up his drink. "We've got to force-feed her, mostly, and she tears off her clothes." 
"Who was her mother?" Silk asked. 
"She never had one." Blood sipped his drink and eyed it with 
disfavor. "You know about frozen embryos? You can buy them now 
and then if you want them, but you don't always get what you paid 
for." 
Recalling dots of rotting flesh, Silk shuddered. 
"The old calde, Tussah his name was, was supposed to have done 
it. That leaked out after he died. So I decided to give it a try. Buy 
myself an embryo with spooky powers. I got one of the girls to carry 
it." 
"And you were actually able to purchase such a thing? An embryo 
that would develop into someone with Mucor's powers?" 
	Blood nodded unhappily. "Like I said, you don't always get what 
you pay for, but I was careful and I did. She's got the stuff, but 
she's 
crazy. Always has been." 
"You engaged a specialist to operate on her brain." 
"Sure, trying to cure her, only it didn't work. If it had, I'd be calde." 
"She's been my friend," Silk told him, "a difficult one, perhaps,
but
helpful just the same. She likes me, I believe, and the good god knows I'd like to help her in return." 
Oreb caught at the phrase. "Good god?" 

"The Outsider, I ought to have said." 
Mucor herself said, "They're arguing about you." Her voice 
sounded faint and far away; the tumbler Maytera Marble had filled 
for her waited untouched on the low table before her. 
Silk sipped from his own, careful not to drink too much too fast. "Men and women breed children from their bodies on impulse. We 
augurs rail against it; but although inexcusable, it is at least 
understandable. They are swept away by the emotions of the 
moment; and if they weren't, perhaps the whole whorl would stand 
empty. Adoption, on the other hand, is a considered act, consummated 
only with the assistance of an advocate and a judge. Thus an 
adoptive parent cannot say, 'I didn't know what I was doing,' or 'I 
didn't think it would happen.' Worthless though those protestations 
are, he has no claim to them." 
"You think I knew she'd turn out like this? She was a baby." Blood 
glared at his daughter. "I'm twice your age, Patera, maybe more. When you're as old as I am, maybe you'll have a few little things that you regret too." 
"There are many already." 
"You think there are. Women, you mean. My. Oh shag it, what's 
the use?" Blood set his drink aside and wiped his damp left hand on 
his thigh. "I don't care much for them. Neither would you, if you'd 
been in my business as long as I have. I started when I was seven or 
eight, just a dirty little sprat going up to men in the market. 
Anyhow, Mucor's the only child I'll ever have, probably." 
	Maytera Marble told him, "She's the only granddaughter I'll ever 
have, too, Bloody. If you won't take proper care of her, I will." 
	Blood looked angrier than ever. "Like you did me?" 
	"It would be better if we kept our voices down," Silk said. 
 "You're 
not supposed to be here." 
"I wish I wasn't." A smile twisted Blood's mouth. "That would be the elephant, wouldn't it? Shot for trying to pick up a couple bits down at the market. Hey, Patera, you want to meet my sister? She'll give you some hot mutton." 
"Bloody, don't!" 
"It's pretty late to tell me that, Mama. Or don't you think so?" 
	Without waiting for an answer, he turned to Silk. "I'm going to 
 outline a deal. If you take it, I'm in, and I'll do everything I can 
to 
get you out of here in one piece." 
	Silk opened his mouth to speak. 
"When I say you, that's you and the other augur, the old man, Mama here, and that big piece from Orchid's. Even your bird. All of you. All right?" 
"Certainly." 
"If you don't take it, I'm out the window, understand? No hard feelings, but no deal either." 
"You could be shot going out the window, too, Bloody," Maytera Marble warned him. "I'm surprised that you weren't, you and my 
granddaughter, before you got back inside." 
Blood shook his head. "There's a truce, remember? And I'll stick the azoth back under my tunic. They aren't going to shoot an 
unarmed man and a girl that never even come close to the wall." 
	"As good as a secret passage." Maytera Marble's eyes gleamed 
with amusement. 
"Right, it is." Blood went to the window. "Now here's what I say, Calde. I'll come over to you and Mint, gun, goat, and gut, and try to see to it that all of us get clear. When we do, I'll sign over your manteion to you for one card and other considerations, as we say, 
and you can owe me the card." 
He waited for Silk to speak, but Silk said nothing. 
"After we get out, I'm still your bucky. I've done plenty of 

favors 
for the Ayuntamiento, see? I can help you too, and I will, 
everything that I can. I've got Mucor, remember," Blood nodded 
toward her, "and I know what she can do now. Lemur's crowd never got anything half as good as that." 
Silk sipped from his tumbler. 
"More talk," Oreb muttered; it was not clear whether it was a suggestion or a complaint. 
"Here's all I want from you, Calde. No gelt, just three things. 
Firstly, I get to hang onto my other property. That means my real 
estate, my accounts at the fisc, and the rest. Number two, I stay in 
business. I'm not asking you to make it legal. I don't even want you 
to. Only you don't shut me down, see? Last, I don't have to pay 
anybody anything above regular taxes. I'll open my books to you, 
but no more payoffs on top of that. You understand what I'm telling 
you?" 
Blood leaned against the window frame. "Look it over, and you'll 
see I'm making you as good a deal as anybody could ask for. I'm 
giving you my complete, unlimited support, plus some valuable 
property, and all I want from you is that you leave me alone. Let me 
keep what's mine and earn my living, and don't come down on me 
any harder than you do on anybody else. What do you say?" 
	For a few seconds, Silk did not say anything. The tramp of 
rubber-shod metal feet came faintly from the wide foyer on the 
other side of the carved walnut door, punctuated by Potto's strident 
tones; embroidered hangings stirred, whispering, in the cool wind 
from the window. 
"I've been expecting to be tested." Silk glanced at his tumbler, 
surprised to find that he had drunk more than half his soda water. 
"Tested by the Outsider. He's been testing me physically, and I felt 
quite confident that he would soon take my measure morally as 
well. When you began, I was certain this was it. But this is so 
easy!" 
Lion raised his head to look at him inquiringly, then rose, 
stretched, and padded over to rub his muscled, supple body against Silk's knees. 
Maytera Marble shook her finger at her son. "What you've been 
doing is very wrong, Bloody. You sell rust, don't you? I thought so." 
	"To begin," Silk told Blood, "you must turn my manteion over to 
me--you're going to do that right now. If you didn't bring along the deed, you can go out that window and get it. I'll wait." 
"I brought it," Blood admitted. He fished a folded paper from an inner pocket of his tunic. 
"Good. My manteion, for three cards." 
Blood crossed the room to an inlaid escritoire; after a time, Mucor stood as well, her mouth working silently as though she were pronouncing the labored scratchings of Blood's pen. 
"I'm not much of a scholar," he said at length, "but here you 
are, 
Patera. I had to sign for Musk, but it should be all right. I've got 
his 
power of advocacy." 
The ink was not yet dry; Silk waved the deed gently as he read. "Fine." He took three of Remora's cards from his pocket and handed them to Blood. 
"You're to do everything in your power to end the fighting 
without further loss of life," he told Blood, "and so am I. If I'm calde 
when it's over, as you obviously expect, you will be prosecuted for 
any crimes you may have committed, in accordance with the law. 
No unfair advantage will be taken beyond that which I just took. 
That's a large concession, but I make it. I warn you, however, that 
nothing that you may have done will be overlooked, either. If you're 
found guilty on any charge, as I expect that you will be, I'll ask 

the 
court to take into consideration whatever assistance you've rendered our city in this time of crisis. Am I making myself clear?" 
	Blood glowered. "You extorted that property from me. You took 
it under false pretences." 
"I did." Silk nodded agreement. "I committed a crime to right the 
wrong done to the people of our quarter by an earlier one. Why 
should men like you be free to do whatever you wish whenever you 
wish, guaranteed that you yourself will never be victimized? You 
may, if you choose, complain about what I've done when peace has 
been restored. You have a witness in the person of your mother." 
	He gave the lynx a last pat before pushing him away. "I wouldn't 
advise you to call your adopted daughter, however. She's not 
competent to testify, and she might tell the court about the nativity 
of her pets." 
"You had better not ask me to testify, either, Bloody," Maytera Marble told him. "I'd have to tell the judge that you tried to bribe our calde." 
"They're coming," Mucor announced to Silk. "Councilior Loris has finished talking to Councillor Tarsier through the glass. They've 
decided to kill you and send your body back with the woman that 
killed Musk." 
Silk froze, his eyes on Blood. 
Oreb squawked, "Watch out!" 
Instinctively, Maytera Marble reached out to her son, a plea for forgiveness and understanding. 
His grip on the azoth tightened, and the shimmering horror that 
was its blade divided the cosmos, leaving Maytera Marble on one 
side and the hand she had held out to him on the other. It dropped 
to the carpet as the hideous discontinuity swung up, showering them 
with plaster and sundered lath. Silk shouted a warning; absurdly, he 
tried to shield her from Blood's downward cut with Xiphias's cane. 
	Its thin wooden casing exploded in blazing splinters; but the 
azoth's blade sprang back from the double-edged steel blade the 
casing had concealed, having notched it to the spine. 
	It seemed to Silk then that his arm moved of itself--that he 
merely watched it, a spectator fully as horrified as she, and fully 
as 
separated from his arm's acts. As the door flew in with a crash, that arm swung the ruined blade. 
From behind Sergeant Sand and a second soldier equally soldier large, Potto barked, "_Shoot him?_" 
The notched blade slid forward, penetrating Blood's throat as 
readily as the manteion's old bone-handled sacrificial knife had ever entered that of a ram. 
"Shoot the calde?" Sand's hand caught the other soldier's slug 
gun. 
Blood's knees buckled as the light left his eyes. The doubleedged 
blade, scarlet to within a hand's breadth of the notch with Blood's 
own blood, retreated from his throat. 
"Yes, the calde!" 
For a moment it seemed to Silk that Maytera Marble should have 
knelt to catch Blood's blood; perhaps it seemed so to her as well, 
for 
she crouched, her remaining hand extended to her son as he fell. 
Silk turned, the sword still in his hand. Sand's slug gun was no longer pointed at him, if it had ever been. Sand fired, and the 
second soldier a fraction of a second after him. Potto fell, his 
cheerful face slack with surprise. 
"Take this, Patera." Maytera Marble was pressing Blood's azoth 
into his free hand. "Take it before I kill you with it." 
	He did, and she took Xiphias's ruined sword from him, and with 
its crook wedged between her small black shoes, contrived to wipe 

its blade with a big handkerchief that she shook from her sleeve. 
There was a clash of heels and a crash of weapons as Sand and the 
second soldier saluted. Soldiers and men in silvered armor peering 
around them began to salute as well. Silk nodded in response, and 
when that seemed inadequate traced the sign of addition the air. 

Epilogue 

It had been hastily erected, Calde Silk reflected, studying the 
triumphal arch that spanned the Alameda--very hastily. But surely 
this new generalissimo from Trivigaunte would understand the 
situation, would realize the difficulties they had labored under in organizing a formal welcome in a city still at war with what remained of its Ayuntamiento, and make allowances. 
Now, this wind. 
It stirred yellow dust from the gutters, whistled among the 
chimneys, and shook the ramshackle arch until it trembled like an aspen. Flowers covering the arch would have been nice, but that 
moment of searing heat on Hieraxday had made flowers out of the 
question. So much the better, Silk thought; this wind would surely have stripped off every petal an hour ago. Even as he watched, a long streamer of colored paper pulled free, becoming a flying jade snake that mounted to the sky. 
There the Trivigaunte airship fought its straining tether, so 
high 
that its vast bulk appeared, if not festive, at least unthreatening. 
From that airship, it should be simple to gauge the advance of 
Generalissimo Siyuf's troops. Silk wished that there had been time 
to arrange for signals of some sort: a flag hung from the gondola 
when she entered the city, for example, or a smoke pot lit to warn 
that she had been delayed. Rather to his own surprise, he discovered 
that he was eager to go up in the airship himself, to see Viron 
like the skylands again, and travel among the clouds as the fliers 
did. 
There were a lot of them out today, riding this cold wind. More, he decided, than he had ever seen before. A whole flock, like a 
flight of storks, was just now appearing from behind the airship. 
What city sent them forth to patrol the length of the sun, and what good did those patrols do? Speculation about the Fliers had been 
dismissed as bootless at the schola, until the Ayuntamiento had 
condemned them as spies. 
Had the Ayuntamiento known? Did Councillor Loris, who 
wielded what authority remained to it, know now? 
Might it not be possible to track Fliers in the airship, anchor 
at 
last at that fabled city, learn its name, and offer whatever assistance 
in its sacred labor Viron and Trivigaunte could provide? 
(Buried, he had been wherever he had thought to be.) 
A fresh gust, colder and wilder than any before it, roared up the 
Alameda, shaking its raddled poplars like rats. To his right General 
Saba stiffened, while he himself shivered without shame. He was 
wearing the Cloak of Lawful Governance over his augur's robe; it 
fell to his shoe-tops and was of the thickest tea-colored velvet, 
stiff 
with gold thread. He ought to have been awash in his own 
perspiration; he found himself wishing ardently for some sort of 
head-covering instead. General Saba had a dust-colored military 
cap and Generalissimo Oosik beyond her a tail helmet of green 
leather topped with a plume, but he had nothing. 
	He recalled the broad-brimmed straw hat he had worn while 
repairing the roof of the manteion--which would be missing more 

shingles, surely, thanks to this wind. He had pulled that hat down so that Blood's talus could not identify him later, and it had known him by that. 
(Dead by his hand, Blood and the talus both.) 
He had lost that recollected hat somehow. Might not this wind return it to him? All sorts of rubbish was blowing about, and 
stranger things had happened. 
His wound throbbed. Mentally he pushed it aside, forcing himself to fill his lungs with cold air. 
The shade had not climbed far yet, but what should have been a 
bright streak of purest gold seemed faint, and flushed with brownish purple. The Aureate Path was empty and failing visibly, signally the end of mankind's dream of paradise, of some inconceivable fraternity with its gods. For one vivid instant he remembered Iolar, the 
dying Flier. But no doubt the sun was merely dimmed at the 
moment, stained and darkened by dust. Winter was long overdue in 
any event. Was Maytera Mint, who would be so conspicuously 
absent from this, her victory parade, cold too? Wherever she was? 
	Was Hyacinth? Silk shivered again. 
Far away, a band struck up, and ever so faintly he heard, or seemed to hear, the sound of bugles, the tramp of marching feet, and the clatter of cavalry. 
That was a good sign, surely.