Gene Wolfe - Exodus from the Long Sun

“No tricks, Councillor. There was a theophany during my sacrifice at the Grand Manteion.” Simultaneously, Maytera Mint received the impression that Quetzal was never excited, and that he was excited now.

Potto snorted and set his steaming teakettle on the table. “Another one? Who was it this time? Sphigx?”

Quetzal shook his head. “Pas.”

“Pas is dead!”

Quetzal turned from Potto. “Great Pas, Maytera. Lord Pas, the Father of the Seven. If it wasn’t him, it was his ghost. Which in point of fact is what the god himself said.”

He himself had shut this door from inside and shot the bolt; it had been the final action of his exorcism. But if this door (the obscure side door of what had been a manteion, and what many passers-by no doubt assumed was a manteion still) was used to admit patrons who did not want to be seen entering Orchid’s, there should be someone to answer his knock. By summer habit, he squinted up to gauge the width of the narrowing sun; it was masked by clouds dark with rain or snow, and the awe-inspiring mummy-colored bulk of the Trivigaunti airship.

He knocked again. His bearers had put down the litter and were making themselves comfortable. Did he dare risk their seeing him pound on a door to which nobody came? What would Commissioner Newt have to say about the effect on his prestige and popularity? What would Oosik say? Would it replace the fighting as the talk of the city?

He was smiling at the thought when the door was opened by a small and markedly unattractive woman with a faded rag over her graying hair. “Come — uh. It ain’t any more, Patera.”

“I am Orchid’s spiritual advisor,” Silk told her firmly. “Admit me.” The woman backed away; he stepped inside and bolted the door behind him. “Take me to her.”

“I’m cleaning up in here.” She eyed Oreb with disfavor.

Silk conceded privately that the former manteion could use a cleaning. He glanced up at the stage to see whether the new backdrop was as blasphemous as the one he had cut down, and was illogically pleased to find that it was merely obscene.

“She’ll be in her room. She might not be up yet.”

“Take me to her,” he repeated, and added, “At once!”

“I won’t knock.” The small woman sounded frightened.

“Never mind. I remember the way.” He pushed past her and strode across the former manteion with scarcely a twinge from his ankle. Here was the step on which he had sat to talk to Musk. Musk was dead now. The memory of Musk’s tortured face returned.

The courtyard beyond the manteion was deserted but by no means empty, littered with scraps of food over which crows and pigeons squabbled, spilled liquors, bottles, and broken glass. Oreb, bigger than the biggest crow, watched fascinated, cocking his head this way and that.

Orpine’s naked corpse had sprawled on this wooden stair. There was no point in looking for bloodstains today, or in trying not to step on such stains as might be present. Silk climbed, his eyes resolutely fixed on the gallery above.

What faith he’d had then! That Silk would be praying now, as confident as a child that the gods heard each word, a prayer to Molpe as patroness of the day, and one to Pas, who was as dead as Crane, Orpine, and Musk. Most of all, that earlier Silk would have prayed devoutly to the Outsider, though the Outsider had warned that he would send no aid.

Yet the Outsider had come with healing when he had lain near death. And to be more accurate (Silk paused at the top of the steps, remembering) the Outsider had not actually said that he would get no help, but warned him to expect none — which was not precisely the same thing.

Buoyed by the thought, he walked along the creaking gallery to the door that Crane had opened when he came out to examine Orpine’s body, and was about to open it himself when it was opened from within.

He blinked, gasped, and blinked again. Oreb, whom few things surprised, whistled before croaking, “Lo, girl.”

“Hi, Oreb. Hello, Patera. All the blessings on you this afternoon and all that.”

Silk smiled, finding it easier than he had expected; there was nothing to be gained by berating her, surely. “Chenille, it’s good to see you. I’ve been wondering where you were. I have people searching for you and Auk.”

“You thought I was finished with this.” The expression of her coarse, flat-cheeked face was by no means easy to read, but she sounded despondent.

“I hoped you were,” Silk said carefully. “I still hope you are — that last night was the last night.” If the gods did not care, why should he? He thrust the thought aside.

“Nobody last night, Patera. There wasn’t enough to keep the other dells busy. You’re thinking how about rust, aren’t you? I can tell from the way you look at me. Not since the funeral. Come on in.” She stepped back.

He entered, careful not to brush her jutting breasts.

“Now you’re wondering how long it’ll last. Me too. You didn’t know I was a regular mind reader, did you?” She srniled, and the smile made him want to put his arms around her.

He nodded instead. “You’re very perceptive. I was.”

Oreb felt he had been left out long enough. “Where Auk?”

“I don’t know. You want to come to my room, Patera? You can sit, and we could talk like we did that other time.”

“I must speak to Orchid — but if you wish it.”

“We don’t have to. Come on, she’s probably about dressed. Her room’s up this way.” Chenille led him along a corridor he recalled only vaguely. “Maybe I could come by tomorrow to talk? Only you’re not at the place on Sun Street anymore, are you?”

“No,” Silk said, “but I’m going there when I leave here. Would you like to come?” When Chenille did not reply, he added, “I have a litter; I’ve been trying to spare my ankle.”

She was shocked. “You can’t let people see me with you!”

“We’ll put the curtains down.”

“Then we could talk in there, huh? All right.”

Silk, too, had come to a decision. “I’d like to have you with me when I speak to Orchid. Will you do it?”

“Sure, if you want me.” She stopped before Orchid’s door. “Only I hope you’re not going to get her mad.”

Recalling the small woman’s fear, Silk knocked. “Were you leaving just now, Chenille? We can arrange to meet later, if this is inconvenient.”

She shook her head. “I saw you out my window and put this gown on, that’s all.”

Orchid’s door had opened. Orchid, in a black peignoir that reminded Silk vividly of the pink one she had worn when she had admitted him with Crane, was staring open mouthed.

He tore his own gaze from her gaping garment. “May I speak with you when you’ve finished dressing, Orchid? It’s urgent; I wouldn’t have troubled you otherwise.”

Numbly, the fat woman retreated.

“Come on, Patera.” Chenille led the way in. “She can put on a, you know, more of a wrap-up.” To Orchid she added, “He’s gimp, remember? Maybe you could invite him to sit.”

Orchid had recovered enough to tug at the lace-decked edges of the peignoir, covering bulging flesh that would reappear the moment she released them. “I — you’re the calde now. The new one. Everybody’s talking about you.”

Oreb offered proof. “Say Silk!”

“I’m afraid I am. I’m still the same man, however, and I need your help.”

Chenille said firmly. “Have a seat, Patera.”

“Yeah, sit down. Do I call you Calde or Patera?”

“I really prefer to stand as long as you and Chenille are standing. May I say it’s pleasant to see you again? Pleasant to see you both. I’ve been looking for Chenille, as I told her, and I’ve met so many new people — commissioners at the Juzgado and so forth — that you seem like old friends.”