Gene Wolfe - The Shadow of the Torturer

Roche waved an arm and shouted, and a driver vaulted into the seat, cracked his whip, and came rattling to meet us. When we were inside, I asked Roche if he knew who we were, and he said, “We’re two optimates who had business in the Citadel and are bound now for the Echopraxia and an evening of pleasure. That’s all he knows and all he needs to know.”

I wondered if Roche were much more experienced at such pleasures than I was myself. It seemed unlikely. In the hope of discovering whether he had visited our destination before, I asked where the Echopraxia lay. “In the Algedonic Quarter. Have you heard of it?”

I nodded and said that Master Palaemon had once mentioned that it was one of the oldest parts of the city.

“Not really. There are parts farther south that are older still, a waste of stone where only omophagists live. The Citadel used to stand some distance north of Nessus, did you know that?”

I shook my head.

“The city keeps creeping upriver. The armigers and optimates want purer water—not that they drink it, but for their fishponds, and for bathing and boating. Then too, anyone living too near the sea is always somewhat suspect. So the lowest parts, where the water’s the worst, are gradually given up. In the end the law goes, and those who stay behind are afraid to kindle a fire for fear of what the smoke may draw down on them.”

I was looking out the window. We had already passed through a gate unknown to me, dashing by helmeted guards; but we were still within the Citadel, descending a narrow close between two rows of shuttered windows. “When you are a journeyman you can go into the city any time you want, provided you’re not on duty.”

I knew that already, of course; but I asked Roche if he found it pleasant. “Not pleasant, exactly… I’ve only gone twice, to tell you the truth. Not pleasant, but interesting. They know who you are, naturally.”

“You said the driver didn’t.”

“Well, he probably doesn’t. Those drivers go all over Nessus. He may live anywhere, and not get to the Citadel more than once a year. But the locals know. The soldiers tell. They always know, and they always tell, that’s what everybody says. They can wear their uniforms when they go out.”

“These windows are all dark. I don’t think there’s anyone in this part of the Citadel at all.”

“Everything’s getting smaller. Not much anybody can do about that. Less food means fewer people until the New Sun comes.”

Despite the cold, I felt stifled in the fiacre. “Is it much farther?” I asked.

Roche chuckled. “You’re bound to be nervous.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Certainly you are. Just don’t let it bother you. It’s natural. Don’t be nervous about being nervous, if you see what I mean.”

“I’m quite calm.”

“It can be quick, if that’s what you want. You don’t have to talk to the woman if you don’t want to. She doesn’t care. Of course, she’ll talk if that’s what you like. You’re paying—in this case I am, but the principle’s the same. She’ll do what you want, within reason. If you strike her or use a grip, they’ll charge more.”

“Do people do that?”

“You know, amateurs. I didn’t think you’d want to, and I don’t think anybody in the guild does it, unless perhaps they’re drunk.” He paused. “The women are breaking the law, so they can’t complain.”

With the fiacre sliding alarmingly, we wheeled out of the close and into a still narrower one that ran crookedly east.

Our destination was one of those accretive structures seen in the older parts of the city (but so far as I know, only there) in which the accumulation and interconnection of what were originally separate buildings produce a confusion of jutting wings and architectural styles, with peaks and turrets where the first builders had intended nothing more than rooftops. The snow had fallen more heavily here—or perhaps had only been failing while we rode. It surrounded the high portico with shapeless mounds of white, softened and blurred the outlines of the entrance, made pillows of the window ledges, and masking and robing the wooden caryatids who supported the roof, seemed to promise silence, safety, and secrecy.

There were dim yellow lights in the lower windows. The upper stories were dark.

In spite of the drifted snow, someone within must have heard our feet outside. The door, large and old and no longer in the best condition, swung back before Roche could knock. We entered and found ourselves in a narrow little room like a jewel box, in which the walls and ceiling were covered with blue satin quilting. The person who had admitted us wore thicksoled shoes and a yellow robe; his short, white hair was smoothed back from a wide but rounded brow above a beardless and unlined face. As I passed him in the doorway, I discovered that I was looking into his eyes as I might have looked into a window. Those eyes could truly have been of glass, so unveined and polished they seemed—like a sky of summer drought.

“You are in good fortune,” he said, and handed us each a goblet. “There is no one here but yourselves.”

Roche answered, “I’m sure the girls are lonesome.”

“They are. You smile… I see you do not believe me, but it is so. They complain when too many attend their court, but they are sad, too, when no one coles. Each will try to fascinate you tonight. You’ll see. They’ll want to boast when you are gone that you chose them. Besides, you are both handsome young men.” He paused, and though he did not stare, seemed to look at Roche more closely. “You have been here previously, have you not? I remember your red hair and high color. Far to the south, in the narrow lands, the savages paint a fire spirit much like you. And your friend has the face of an exultant… that is what my young women like best of all. I see why you brought him here.” His voice might have been a man’s tenor or a woman’s contralto. Another door opened. It had a stained-glass insert showing the Temptation. We went into a room that seemed (no doubt in part because of the constriction of the one we had just left) more spacious than the building could well contain. The high ceiling was festooned with what appeared to be white silk, giving it the air of a pavilion. Two walls were lined with colonnades—these were false, the pretended columns being only half-round pilasters pressed against their blue-painted surfaces, and the architrave no more than a molding; but so long as we remained near the center, the effect was impressive and nearly perfect. At the farther end of this chamber, opposite the windows, was a high-backed chair like a throne. Our host seated himself in it, and almost at once I heard a chime somewhere in the interior of the house. In two lesser chairs, Roche and I waited in silence while its clear echoes died. There was no sound from outside, yet I could sense the falling snow. My wine promised to hold the cold at bay, and in a few swallows I saw the bottom of the cup. It was as though I were awaiting the beginning of some ceremony in the ruined chapel, but at once less real and more serious.

“The Chatelaine Barbea,” our host announced.

A tall woman entered. So poised was she, and so beautifully and daringly dressed, that it was several moments before I realized she could be no more than seventeen. Her face was oval and perfect, with limpid eyes, a small, straight nose, and a tiny mouth painted to appear smaller still. Her hair was so near to burnished gold that it might have been a wig of golden wires. She posed herself a step or two before us and slowly began to revolve, striking a hundred graceful attitudes. At the time I had never seen a professional dancer; even now I do not believe I have seen one so beautiful as she. I cannot convey what I felt then, watching her in that strange room. “All the beauties of the court are here for you,” our host said. “Here in the House Azure, by night flown here from the walls of gold to find their dissipation in your pleasure.”