Nightside the Long Sun (38 page)

“Perhaps he's in love with her.”

“Uh-huh. It could be, but I'll bet he's got some kind of lock. It'd be worth your while to find out what it is, and I'd like to hear about it when you do. I'd like to see this azoth you got from her, too. Suppose I come around tomorrow night. Would you let me see it?”

“You may look at it now, if you like.” Silk pulled the azoth from beneath his tunic and passed it across the table to Auk. “I brought it to Orchid's today because I feared I might require some sort of weapon.”

Auk whistled softly, then held the azoth up, admiring the play of light along its gleaming grip. “Twenty-eight hundred easy. Might bring three thousand. Whoever gave it to her probably paid five or six for it.”

Silk nodded. “I believe I may have some idea who that was, although I don't know where he could have gotten that much money.” Auk regarded him quizzically, but Silk shook his head. “I'll tell you later, if it appears that I may be correct.”

He held out his hand for the azoth, which Auk returned with a final grunt of admiration.

“I want to ask you about Hyacinth's needier. Blood took out the needles before he gave it back to me. Can you tell me where I might buy more without a brevet?”

“Sure, Patera. No problem at all. Have you got that with you, too?”

Silk took Hyacinth's engraved needier from his pocket and passed it to Auk.

“The smallest they make. I know 'em.” He returned the needier and rose. “Listen, can you get by without me for a minute? I got to—you know.”

“Of course.” Silk directed his attention to his chops; there had been three, and hungry though he was, he had thus far eaten only the first. He attacked the second without neglecting the tender dumplings, buttered squash with basil, and shallots in oil and vinegar that the eating house had provided (apparently at no additional charge) to accompany them.

Mere worry, mere concern, would not save the manteion. It would be necessary to devise a plan, and that plan need not necessarily involve stealing twenty-six thousand cards. Enlisting the sympathy of some magnate might do as well, for example, or …

Silk was discovering that he had devoured his third and final chop without realizing he had finished the second when Auk returned.

Chapter 13

S
ILK FOR
C
ALDÉ

Doctor Crane shut and bolted the door of his infirmary. It had been a hard day; he was glad to be back again, very glad that Blood (who had put in a grueling day as well) would not entertain tonight. With luck, Crane thought, he might get a good night's sleep, an uninterrupted night's sleep, a night in which the cats clawed no one, Musk's hawks refrained from footing Musk and his helper—most of all, a night in which none of the fools that Viron called women decided that some previously unnoticed mole was in fact the first symptom of a fatal disease.

Shuffling into his bedroom, which had no door to the hall, he closed the door to the infirmary and bolted it as well. Let them call him through the glass, if they wanted him. He removed his shoes and flung his stockings onto the pile of soiled clothing in a corner, reminding himself again that he must take those clothes to the laundry in the other wing.

Had he put the black stocking he'd cut off that fellow Silk in there? No, he'd thrown it away.

In bare feet, he padded to the window and stood staring out through the grille at the shadowy grounds. The weather had been fine all summer, glowing with the hot, dry heat of home; but it would be autumn soon. The sun would dim, and the winds bring chill, drenching rains. The calendar called it autumn already. He hated rain and cold, snow, and coughs and runny noses. For a month or more, the thermometer would fluctuate between ten and ten below, as if chained to the freezing point. Human beings were never intended for such a climate.

When he had pulled down the shade, he glanced at the calendar, his eyes following his thought. Tomorrow would be Scylsday; the market would be closed, officially at least, and nearly empty. That was the best time for turning in a report, and the trader would be leaving on Hieraxday. There were still five of the little carved Sphigxes left.

He squared his shoulders, reminding himself that he too was a trooper of a sort, brought out his pen case, the black ink, and several sheets of very thin paper. As always, it would be necessary to write in a way that would not reveal his identity, should his report be intercepted.

And to report sufficient progress to prevent his being withdrawn. Tonight that would not be difficult.

Not that he would not like to go home, he told himself, and particularly to go home before the rains arrived, though they said that home had once been as wet as this place. Or rather, as wet as this place normally was.

He chose a crow quill and meticulously touched up its point. “There is a movement to restore the Charter. It is centered upon one Silk, a young augur of no family. He is said to have been the object of miracles, attributed to Pas or Scylla. Thus far it seems confined to the lower orders. The watchword ‘Silk for caldé' is written on walls, although not” (it was a guess, but Crane felt confident of his ground) “on the Palatine. I am in contact with him and am gaining his trust. I have seen to it that he has an azoth. This can be reported if it proves necessary to destroy him.”

Crane grinned to himself; that had been pure luck, but it would open their eyes.

“The Civil Guard is being expanded again. All units are at or over full strength. There is talk of forming a reserve brigade, officered by veterans.”

For nearly half a minute, he sat staring at what he had written; better to say too little than too much. He dipped the crow quill for the twentieth time. “The bird has been freed. Its trainer says this is necessary. He will try to lure it back within the next few days. Lemur and Loris are reported to have observed its release.”

And to have emerged from the subcellar, as upon several previous occasions, Crane reminded himself. Unquestionably the Ayuntamiento was making extensive use of the half-flooded construction tunnels, though its headquarters was not there.

Or could not be located if it was, although so many had perished there searching for it. Besides Viron's dormant army, there were Vironese soldiers in those tunnels, as well as several taluses.

Crane shook his head, then smiled at the thought of the Rani's reward. Turning to his glass, he clapped his hands. “Monitor!”

The floating face appeared.

“Code. Snakeroot. What have you got for me?”

Blood's fleshy features filled the glass. “Councillor Lemur ought to hear this.”

Blood's face was replaced by the deceptively cheerful-looking visage of Potto. “You can give me the message.”

“I'd rather—”

Crane smiled at Blood's reluctance.

“That doesn't matter. What is it?”

Crane edged nearer the glass.

When Blood had faded and the monitor reappeared to tell him there were no further exchanges of interest, Crane dipped his quill again. “Later. The bird has come back of its own volition. It is said to be in good condition.”

He wiped the quill carefully and returned it to his pen case, blew on the paper, and folded and refolded it until it was scarcely larger than his thumbnail. When he pressed it into Sphigx's swordless left hand, the hand closed upon it.

Crane smiled, put away his pen case and the remaining paper, and considered the advisability of a long soak in the tub before bed. There was a good light in the bathroom—he had installed it himself—and if he read for an hour, the tightly folded sheet would have taken on the brown hue of the elaborately carved wood before he retired. He always liked seeing that, enjoyed making sure. He was, as he had to be, a very careful man.

*   *   *

“Thanks,” Auk said as he resumed his seat. “I feel better now. Listen, Patera, do you know how to use that thing?”

“The needler?” Silk shrugged. “I fired it, as I told you. Not other than that.”

Auk refilled his goblet. “I meant the azoth. No, naturally you don't, but I'll tell you about the needler anyhow.”

He drew his own needler, twice the size of the engraved and gold-plated weapon in Silk's pocket. “Notice I got the safety on? There's a lever like this on both sides.”

“Yes,” Silk said. “So it won't shoot. I know about that.”

“Fine.” Auk pointed with his table knife. “This pin here, sticking out? You call this the status pin. If it's pushed out like that, you've got needles left.”

Silk took Hyacinth's needler from his pocket again. “You're right, it's flush with the side.”

“Now watch. I can empty mine by pulling this loading knob back.”

A silver fountain of needles sprang from the breach of Auk's needler and scattered over the table. Silk picked one up.

“There's not much to see,” Auk said. “Just little rods of solid alloy—some kind of stuff that a lodestone pulls a lot better than steel.”

Silk tested the tip with his finger. “I thought they'd be sharper.”

“Huh-uh. They wouldn't work as good. If a thing as little as that went straight through somebody, it probably wouldn't do much damage. You want it to slew around so it cuts sidewise. The point's rounded just a shade to make it feed into the barrel, but not much.”

Silk put down the needle. “What makes the noise?”

“The air.” Auk smiled at Silk's surprise. “When you were a sprat, didn't some other sprat ever sling a rock at you and almost hit you? So you heard the rock go past your ear?”

Silk nodded.

“All right, there wasn't a bang like with a slug gun, was there? It was just a rock, and the other sprat threw it with his sling. What you heard was the rock going through the air, just like you might hear the wind in the chimney. The bigger the rock was, and the faster it was going, the more noise it would make.”

“I see,” Silk murmured, and with the words the entire scene returned, glowing with the vivid colors and hot shame of youth: the whizzing stones, his futile defense and final flight, the blood that had streamed from his face down his best white tunic to dye its embroidered flowers.

“All right, a needle's just a tiny little thing, but when it's shot out it goes so fast that the rock might just as well be traveling backwards. So it makes that noise you heard. If it had got slewed around before it hit that jug you shot, it would have screeched like a tomcat.” Auk swept his needles into a pile with his hands. “They drop down inside the handle. See? All right. Right under my finger is a little washer with a hole in the middle and a lot of sparks in it.”

Silk raised his eyebrows, more than ready to grasp at any distraction. “Sparks?”

“Just like you see if you pet a cat in the dark. They got put into the washer when this needler was made, and they chase each other around and around the hole in that washer till you need them. When I close the breech, that'll stick the first needle into the barrel, see?” Auk flicked on the safety. “If I'd have pulled the trigger, that would tap off some sparks for the coil. And as long as it's got sparks, that coil works like a big lodestone. It's up front here looped around the barrel, and it sucks the needle to it real fast. You'd think it would stay right there after it gets there, wouldn't you?”

Silk nodded again. “Or be drawn back to the coil, if it overshot.”

“Right. Only it don't happen, because the last spark is through the coil before the needle ever gets there. Are you finished, Patera? I've told you just about everything I know.”

“Yes, and the entire meal was delightful. Superb, in fact. I'm extremely grateful to you, Auk. However, I do have one more question before we go, though no doubt it will seem a very silly one to you. Why is your needler so much bigger than this one? What advantages are secured by the increase in size?”

Auk weighed his weapon in his hand before thrusting it away. “Well, Patera, for one thing mine holds a lot more needles. Full up, there's a hundred and twenty-five. I'd say your little one there most likely only holds fifty or sixty. Mine are longer, too, which is why I can't give you some of mine to use in yours. Longer needles mean a wider cut when they slew around, and a wider cut takes your cull out of the fight quicker. My barrel's longer, too, and the needles are a hair thicker. All that gives 'em half a dog's cheek more speed, so they'll go in deeper.”

“I understand.” Silk had drawn back the loading knob of Hyacinth's needler and was peering at the rather simple-looking mechanism revealed by the open breech.

“A needler like yours is all right inside a house or a place like this, but outside you'd better be up close before you pull the trigger. If you're not, your needle's going to start slewing around in the air before it ever gets to your cull, and once it starts doing that, don't even Pas's sprats—your pardon, Patera—know where it's going to end up.”

Looking thoughtful, Silk got out one of Blood's cards. “If you would allow me, Auk. I'm heavily indebted to you.”

“I already paid, Patera.” Auk rose, pushing back his chair until it thumped the wall. “Some other time, maybe.” He grinned. “Now then. You remember I said don't even the gods know where your needles are going?”

“Of course.” Silk rose as well, finding his ankle less painful than he had anticipated.

“Well, maybe they don't. But I do, and I'll tell you soon as we get outside. I know where you and me are going to go, too.”

“I should return to my manteion.” By an effort of will, Silk was able to walk almost normally.

“This won't take more than a couple hours, and I got two or three surprises I want to show you.”

The first was a litter for one, with a pair of bearers. Silk climbed into it with some trepidation, wondering whether there would be any such conveyance to carry him to the manse when the business of the evening was done. The shade had risen until no sliver of gold remained, and a dulcet breeze whispered soothingly that the dust and heat of vanquished day had been but empty lies. It fanned Silk's flushed cheeks, and the sensual pleasure it gave him told him he had drunk one goblet of wine too many. Sadly, he resolved to watch himself more strictly in the future.