Gene Wolfe: CALDE OF THE LONG SUN

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