Nightside the Long Sun (24 page)

Blood had several floaters, obviously, just as he had implied. Silk said, “No, not with you. I came with another man, but he left before I did.”

“I didn't think so. See, I tell them about Doc Crane on the way out. Sometimes they get worried about the girls and boys. Know what I mean, Patera?”

“I think so.”

“So I tell them forget it. We got a doctor right there to check everybody over, and if they got some kind of little problem of their own … I'm talking about the older bucks, Patera, you know? Why, maybe he could help them out. It's good for Doc, because sometimes they give him something. And it's good for me, too. I've had quite a few of them thank me for telling them, after the party.”

“I fear I have nothing to give you, my son,” Silk said stiffly. It was perfectly true, he assured himself; the two cards in his pocket were already spent, or as good as spent. They would buy a fine victim for Scylsday, less than two days off.

“That's all right, Patera. I didn't figure you did. It's a gift to the Chapter. That's how I look at it.”

“I can give you my blessing, however, when we separate. And I will.”

“That's all right, Patera,” the driver said. “I'm not much for sacrifice and all that.”

“All the more reason you may require it, my son,” Silk told him, and could not keep from smiling at the sepulchral tones of his own voice. It was a good thing the driver could not see him! With Blood's villa far behind them, the burglar was fading and the augur returning; he had sounded exactly like Patera Pike.

Which was he, really? He pushed aside the thought.

“Now this here, this feels just like a boat, and no mistake. Don't it, Patera?”

Their floater was rolling like a barrel as it dodged pedestrians and rattling, mule-drawn wagons. The road had become a street in which narrow houses vied for space.

Silk found it necessary to grasp the leather-covered bar on the back of the driver's seat, a contrivance he had previously assumed was intended only to facilitate boarding and departure. “How high will these go?” he asked. “I've always wondered.”

“Four cubits empty, Patera. Or that's what this one'll do, anyhow. That's how you test them—run them up as high as they'll go and measure. The higher she floats, the better shape everything's in.”

Silk nodded to himself. “You couldn't go over one of these wagons, then, instead of around it?”

“No, Patera. We got to have ground underneath to push against, see? And we'd be getting too far away from it. You remember that wall we cleared when I took the shortcut?”

“Certainly.” Silk tightened his grip on the bar. “It must have been three cubits at least.”

“Not quite, Patera. It's a little lower than that at the place where I went over. But what I was going to say was we couldn't have done it if we'd been full of passengers like we were coming out. We'd have had to stay on the road then.”

“I understand. Or at any rate, I think I do.”

“But look up ahead, Patera.” The floater slowed. “See him lying in the road?”

Silk sat up straight to peer over the driver's liveried shoulder. “I do now. By Phaea's fair face, I hope he's not dead.”

“Drunk more likely. Watch now, and we'll float right across him. You won't even feel him, Patera. Not no more than he'll feel you.”

Silk clenched his teeth, but as promised felt nothing. When the prostrate man was behind them, he said, “I've seen floaters go over childen like that. Children playing in the street. Once a child was hit in the forehead by the cowling, right in front of our palaestra.”

“I'd never do that, Patera,” the driver assured Silk virtuously. “A child might hold up his arm and get it in the blowers.”

Silk hardly heard him. He attempted to stand, bumped his head painfully against the floater's transparent canopy, and compromised on a crouch. “Wait! Not so fast, please. Do you see that man with the two donkeys? Stop for a moment and let me out. I want a word with him.”

“I'll just put down the canopy, Patera. That'll be a little safer.”

Auk glanced sourly at the floater when it settled onto the roadway beside him. His eyes widened when he saw Silk.

“May every god bless you tonight,” Silk began. “I want to remind you of what you promised in the tavern.”

Auk opened his mouth to speak, but thought better of it.

“You gave me your word that you'd come to manteion next Scylsday, remember? I want to make certain you'll keep that promise, not only for your sake but for mine. I must talk to you again.”

“Yeah. Sure.” Auk nodded. “Maybe tomorrow if I'm not too busy. Scylsday for sure. Did you…?”

“It went precisely as you had predicted,” Silk told him. “However, our manteion's safe for the time being, I believe. Good night, and Phaea bless you. Knock at the manse if you don't find me in the manteion.”

Auk said something more; but the driver had overheard Silk's farewell, and the transparent dome of the canopy had risen between them; it latched, and Auk's voice was drowned by the roar of the blowers.

“You better watch your step, talking to characters like that, Patera,” the driver remarked with a shake of his head. “That sword's just for show, and there's a needier underneath that dirty tunic. Want to bet?”

“You would win such a bet, I'm certain,” Silk admitted, “but no needier can turn a good man to evil. Not even devils can do that.”

“That why you want to see Orchid's place, Patera? I kind of wondered.”

“I'm afraid I don't understand you.” Crane's mystery had just given Silk a particularly painful job. He wiggled it into a new position as he spoke. Deciding that it would be harmless to reveal plans Blood knew of already, he added, “I'm to meet your master there tomorrow afternoon, and I want to be certain I go to the correct house. That's the yellow house, isn't it? Orchid's? I believe he mentioned a woman named Orchid.”

“That's right, Patera. She owns it. Only he owns it, really, or maybe he owns her. You know what I mean?”

“I think so. Yes, of course.” Silk recalled that it was Musk, not Blood, whose name appeared on the deed to his manteion. “Possibly Blood holds a mortgage upon this house, which is in arrears.” Clearly Blood would have to protect his interest in some fashion against the death of the owner of record.

“I guess so, Patera. Anyhow, you talked about devils, so I thought maybe that was it.”

The hair at the back of Silk's neck prickled. It was ridiculous (as if I were a dog, he said to himself later) but there it was; he tried to smooth it with one hand. “It might be useful if you would tell me whatever you know about this business, my son—useful to your master, as well as to me.” How sternly his instructors at the schola had enjoined him, and all the acolytes, never to laugh when someone mentioned ghosts (he had anticipated the usual wide-eyed accounts of phantom footsteps and shrouded figures after Blood's mention of exorcism) or devils. Perhaps it was only because he was so very tired, but he discovered that there was not the least danger of his laughing now.

“I never seen anything myself,” the driver admitted. “I hardly ever been inside. You hear this and that. Know what I mean, Patera?”

“Of course.”

“Things get messed up. Like, a girl will go to get her best dress, only the sleeves are torn off and it's all ripped down the front. Sometimes people just, like, go crazy. You know? Then it goes away.”

“Intermittent possession,” Silk said.

“I guess so, Patera. Anyhow, you'll get to see it in a minute. We're almost there.”

“Fine. Thank you, my son.” Silk studied the back of the driver's head. Since the driver thought he had been a guest at Blood's, it would probably do no harm if he saw the object Crane had conveyed to him; but there was a chance, if only a slight one, that someone would question the driver when he returned to Blood's villa. Satisfied that he was too busy working the floater through the thickening stream of men and wagons to glance behind him, Silk took it out.

As he had suspected, it was an azoth. He whistled on a small footlight he had noticed earlier, holding the azoth low enough to keep the driver from seeing it, should he look over his shoulder.

The demon was an unfacetted red gem, so it was probably safe to assume it was the azoth he had taken from Hyacinth's drawer and she had snatched out of the coiled rope around his waist. It occurred to Silk as he examined the azoth that its demon should have been a blue gem, a hyacinth. Clearly the azoth had not been embellished in a style intended to flatter Hyacinth, as the needler in his pocket had been. It was even possible that it was not actually hers.

Rocking almost imperceptibly, the floater slowed, then settled onto the roadway. “Here's Orchid's place, Patera.”

“On the right there? Thank you, my son.” Silk slid the azoth into the top of the stocking on his good foot and pulled his trousers leg down over it; it was a considerable relief to be able to lean back comfortably.

“Quite a place, they tell me, Patera. Like I said, I've only been inside a couple times.”

Silk murmured, “I very much appreciate your going out of your way for me.”

Orchid's house seemed typical of the older, larger city houses, a hulking cube of shiprock with a painted façade, its canary arches and fluted pillars the phantasmagoria of some dead artist's brush. There would be a courtyard, very likely with a dry fishpond at its center, ringed by shady galleries.

“It's only one story in back, Patera. You can get in that way, too, off of Music Street. That might be closer for you.”

“No,” Silk said absently. It would not do to arrive at the rear entrance like a tradesman.

He was studying the house and the street, visualizing them as they would appear by day. That shop with the white shutters would be the pastry cook's, presumably. In an hour or two there would be chairs and tables for customers who wished to consume their purchases on the spot, the mingled smells of maté and strong coffee, and cakes and muffins in the windows. A shutter swung back as Silk watched.

“In there,” the driver jerked his thumb at the yellow house, “they'll be getting set to turn in now. They'll sleep till noon, most likely.” He stretched, yawning. “So will I, if I can.”

Silk nodded weary agreement. “What is it they do in there?”

“At Orchid's?” The driver turned to look back at him. “Everybody knows about Orchid's, Patera.”

“I don't, my son. That was why I asked.”

“It's a—you know, Patera. There's thirty girls, I guess, or about that. They put on shows, you know, and like that, and they have a lot of parties. Have them for other people, I mean. The people pay them to do it.”

Silk sighed. “I suppose it's a pleasant life.”

“It could be worse, Patera. Only—”

Someone screamed inside the yellow house. The scream was followed at once by the crash of breaking glass.

The engine sprang to life, shaking the whole floater as a dog shakes a rat. Before Silk could protest, the floater shot into the air and sped up Lamp Street, scattering men and women on foot and grazing a donkey cart with a clang so loud that Silk thought for a moment it had been wrecked.

“Wait!” he called.

The floater turned almost upon its side as they rounded a corner, losing so much height that its cowling plowed the dust.

“That might be a—whatever the trouble is.” Silk was holding on desperately with both hands, pain and the damage the white-headed one had done to his arm forgotten. “Go back and let me out.”

Wagons blocked the street. The floater slowed, then forced its way between the wall of a tailor shop and a pair of plunging horses.

“Patera, they can take care of it. It's happened there before, like I told you.”

Silk began, “I'm supposed—”

The driver cut him off. “You got a real bad leg and a bad arm. Besides, what if somebody saw you going in there—a place like that—at night? Tomorrow afternoon will be bad enough.”

Silk released the leather-covered bar. “Did you really float away so quickly out concern for my reputation? I find that difficult to believe.”

“I'm not going to go back there, Patera,” the driver said stubbornly, “and I don't think you could walk back if you tried. Which way from here? To get to your manteion, I mean.” The floater slowed, hovered.

This was Sun Street; it could not have been half an hour since they had floated past the talus and out Blood's gate. Silk tried to fix the Guard post and soiled statue of Councillor Tarsier in his memory. “Left,” he said absently. And then, “I should have Horn—he's quite artistic—and some of the older students paint the front of our manteion. No, the palaestra first, then the manteion.”

“What's that, Patera?”

“I'm afraid I was talking to myself, my son.” They had almost certainly been painted originally; it might even be possible to find a record of the original designs among the clutter of papers in the attic of the manse. If money could be found for paint and brushes as well—

“Is it far, Patera?”

“Another six blocks perhaps.”

He would be getting out in a moment. When he had left Blood's reception hall, he had imagined that the night was already gray with the coming of shadeup. Imagination was no longer required; the night was virtually over, and he had not been to bed. He would be getting out of the floater soon—perhaps he should have napped upon this soft seat after all, when he had the opportunity. Perhaps there was time for two or three hours sleep in the manse, though no more than two or three hours.

A man hauling bricks in a handcart shouted something at them and fell to his knees, but whatever he had shouted could not be heard. It reminded Silk that he had promised to bless the driver when they parted. Should he leave this walking stick in the floater? It was Blood's stick, after all. Blood had intended for him to keep it, but did he want to keep anything that belonged to Blood? Yes, the manteion, but only because the manteion was really his, not Blood's, no matter what the law, or even the Chapter, might say. Patera Pike had owned the manteion, morally at least, and Patera Pike had left him in charge of it, had made him responsible for it until he, too, died.