Nightside the Long Sun (28 page)

“No cage?”

Crane nudged Silk's arm to get his attention, and shook his head.

“Correct. No cage.” Silk took the cage from the table and raised it over his head, high enough for the bird to see it. “Now watch this.” With both hands, he dashed it to the floor, and slender twigs snapped like squibs. He stepped on it with his good foot, then picked up the ruined remnant and tossed it into the kindling box.

Crane shook his head. “You're going to regret that, I imagine. It's bound to be inconvenient at times.”

With its sound wing flapping furiously, the black bird fluttered from the top of the larder to the table.

“Good bird!” Crane told it. He sat down on the kitchen stool. “I'm going to pick you up, and I want you to hold still for a minute. I'm not going to hurt you any more than I have to.”

“I was a prisoner myself for a while last night,” Silk remarked, more than half to himself. “Even though there was no actual cage, I didn't like it.”

Crane caught the unresisting bird expertly, his hands gentle yet firm. “Get my bag for me, will you?”

Silk nodded and returned to the sellaria. He closed the garden door, then picked up the dark bundle that Crane had displayed to him. As he had guessed, it was his second-best robe, with his old pen case still in its pocket; it had been wrapped around his missing shoe. Although he had no stocking for his right foot, he put on both, shut the brown medical bag, and carried it into the kitchen.

The bird squawked and fluttered as Crane stretched out its injured wing. “Dislocated,” he said. “Exactly like a dislocated elbow on you. I've pushed it back into place, but I want to splint it so he won't pop it out again before it heals. Meanwhile he'd better stay inside, or a cat will get him.”

“Then he must stay in on his own,” Silk said.

“Stay in,” the bird repeated.

“Your cage is broken,” Silk continued severely, “and I certainly don't intend to bake in here with all the windows shut, merely to keep you from getting out.”

“No out,” the bird assured him. Crane was rummaging in his bag.

“I hope not.” Silk pulled the blanket from the garden window, threw it open, and refolded the blanket.

“What time are you supposed to meet Blood at the yellow house?”

“One o'clock, sharp.” Silk carried the blanket into the sellaria; when he returned, he added, “I'm going to be late, I imagine; I doubt that he'll do anything worse than complain about it.”

“That's the spirit. He'll be late himself, if I know him. He likes to have everybody on hand when he shows up. I doubt if that'll be before two.”

Stepping across to the Silver Street window, Silk took down the dishrag and the dish towel and opened it as well. It was barred against thieves, and it occurred to him that he was caged in literal fact, here in this old, four-room manse he had taught himself to call home. He pushed away the thought. If Crane's litter had been on Silver Street, it was gone now; no doubt Maytera Marble had performed her errand and it was waiting on Sun Street.

“This should do it.” Crane was fiddling with a small slip of some stiff blue synthetic. “You'll be ready to go when I get back?”

Silk nodded, then felt his jaw. “I'll have to shave. I'll be ready then.”

“Good. I'll be running late, and the girls get cranky if they can't go out and shop.” Crane applied a final strip of almost invisible tape to keep the little splint in place. “This will fall right off after a few days. When it does, let him fly if he wants to. If he's like the hawks, you'll find that he's a pretty good judge of what he can and can't do.”

“No fly,” the bird announced.

“Not now, that's for sure. If I were you, I wouldn't even move that wing any more today.”

Silk's mind was elsewhere. “It's diabolic possession, isn't it? At the yellow house?”

Crane turned to face him. “I don't know. Whatever it is, I hope you have better luck with it than I've had.”

“What's been happening there? My driver and I heard a scream last night, but we didn't go inside.”

The little physician laid a finger to his nose. “There are a thousand reasons why a girl might scream, especially one of those girls. Might have been a stain on her favorite gown, a bad dream, or a spider.”

A tiny needle of pain penetrated the protection of the wrapping; Silk opened the cabinet that closed the kitchen's pointed north corner and got out the stool Patera Pike had used at meals. “I doubt that Blood wants me to exorcise his women's dreams.”

Crane snapped his medical bag shut. “No one except the woman herself is really occupying the consciousness of what people like you choose to call a ‘possessed' woman, Silk. Consciousness itself is a mere abstraction—a convenient fiction, actually. When I say that a man's unconscious, I mean no more than that certain mental processes have been suspended. When I say that he's regained consciousness, I mean that they've resumed. You can't occupy an abstraction as if it were a conquered city.”

“A moment ago you said the woman herself occupied it,” Silk pointed out.

With a last look at the injured bird, Crane rose. “So they really do teach you people something besides all that garbage.”

Silk nodded. “It's called logic.”

“So it is.” Crane smiled, and Silk discovered to his own surprise that he liked him. “Well, if I'm going to look in on this sick girl of yours, I'd better scoot. What's the matter with her? Fever?”

“Her skin felt cold to me, but you're a better judge of diseases than I.”

“I should hope so.” Crane picked up his bag. “Let's see—through the front room there for Sun Street, isn't it? Maybe we can talk a little more on our way to Orchid's place.”

“Look at the back of her neck,” Silk said.

Crane paused in the doorway, shot him a questioning glance, then hurried out.

Murmuring a prayer for Teasel under his breath, Silk went into the sellaria and shut and bolted the Sun Street door, which Crane had left standing open. As he passed a window, he caught sight of Crane's litter. Maytera Marble reclined beside the bearded physician, her intent metal face straining ahead as though she alone were urging the litter forward by sheer force of thought. While Silk watched, its bearers broke into a trot and it vanished behind the window frame.

He tried to recall whether there was a rule prohibiting a sibyl from riding in a man's litter; it seemed likely that there was, but he could not bring a particular stricture to mind; as a practical matter, he could see little reason to object as long as the curtains were up.

The lioness-headed walking stick lay beside the chair in which he had sat for Crane's examination. Absently, he picked it up and flourished it. For as long as the wrapping functioned he would not need it, or at least would need it very little. He decided that he would keep it near at hand anyway; it might be useful, particularly when the wrapping required restoration. He leaned it against the Sun Street door, so that he could not forget it when he and Crane left for the yellow house.

A few experimental steps demonstrated once again that with Crane's wrapping in place he could walk almost as well as ever. There seemed to be no good reason for him not to carry a basin of warm water upstairs and shave as he usually did. He re-entered the kitchen.

Still on the table, the night chough cocked its head at him inquiringly. “Pet hungry,” it said.

“So am I,” he told it. “But I won't eat again until after midday.”

“Noon now.”

“I suppose it is.” Silk lifted a stove lid and peered into the firebox; for once a few embers still glowed there. He breathed upon them gently and added a handful of broken twigs from the ruined cage, reflecting that the night chough was clearly more intelligent than he had imagined.

“Bird hungry.”

Flames were flickering above the twigs. He debated the need for real firewood and decided against it. “Do you like cheese?”

“Like cheese.”

Silk found his washbasin and put it under the nozzle of the pump. “It's hard, I warn you. If you're expecting nice, soft cheese, you're going to be disappointed.”

“Like cheese!”

“All right, you can have it.” A great many vigorous strokes of the pump handle were required before the first trickle of water appeared; but Silk half filled his basin and set it on the stove, and as an afterthought replenished the night chough's cup.

“Cheese now?” the night chough inquired. “Fish heads?”

“No fish heads—I haven't got any.” He got out the cheese, which was mostly rind, and set it next to the cup. “You'd better watch out for rats while I'm away. They like cheese too.”

“Like rats.” The night chough clacked its crimson beak and pecked experimentally at the cheese.

“Then you won't be lonely.” The water on the stove was scarcely warm, the twigs beneath it nearly out. Silk picked up the basin and started for the stair.

“Where rats?”

He paused and turned to look back at the night chough. “Do you mean you like them to eat?”

“Yes, yes!”

“I see. I suppose you might kill a rat at that, if it wasn't too big. What's your name?”

“No name.” The night chough returned its attention to the cheese.

“That was supposed to be my lunch, you know. Now I'll have to find lunch somewhere or go hungry.”

“You Silk?”

“Yes, that's my name. You heard Doctor Crane use it, I suppose. But we need a name for you.” He considered the matter. “I believe I'll call you Oreb—that's a raven in the Writings, and you seem to be some sort of raven. How do you like that name?”

“Oreb.”

“That's right. Musk named his bird after a god, which was very wrong of him, but I don't believe that there could be any objection to a name from the Writings if it weren't a divine name, particularly when it's a bird's name there. So Oreb it is.”

At his washstand upstairs, he stropped the big, bone-handled razor that had waited in his mother's bureau until he was old enough to shave, lathered his face, and scraped away his reddish-blond beard. As he wiped the blade clean, it occurred to him, as it did at least once a week, that the razor had almost certainly been his father's. As he had so many times before, he carried it to the window to look for some trace of ownership. There was no owner's name and no monogram, not even a maker's mark.

As often in this weather, Maytera Rose and Maytera Mint were enjoying their lunch at a table carried from the cenoby and set in the shade of the fig tree. When he had dried his face, Silk carried the basin back to the kitchen, poured out his shaving water, and joined the two sibyls in the garden.

By a gesture, Maytera Rose offered him the chair that would normally have been Maytera Marble's. “Won't you join us, Patera? We've more than enough here for three.”

It stung, as she had no doubt intended. Silk said, “No, but I ought to speak with you for a moment.”

“And I with you, Patera. I with you.” Maytera Rose began elaborate preparations for rising.

He sat down hurriedly. “What is it, Maytera?”

“I had hoped to tell you about it last night, Patera, but you were gone.”

A napkin-draped basket at Silk's elbow exuded the very perfume of Mainframe. Maytera Marble had clearly baked that morning, leaving the fruit of her labor in the cenoby's oven for Maytera Mint to remove after she herself had left with Crane. Silk swallowed his saliva, muttered, “Yes,” and left it at that.

“And this morning it had quite escaped my mind. All that I could think of was that awful man, the little girl's father. I will be sending Horn to you this afternoon for correction, Patera. I have punished him already, you may be sure. Now he must acknowledge his fault to you—that is the final penalty of his punishment.” Maytera Rose paused to render her closing words more effective, her head cocked like the night chough's as she fixed Silk with her good eye. “And if you should decide to punish him further, I will not object. That might have a salutary effect.”

“What did he do?”

The synthetic part of Maytera Rose's mouth bent sharply downward in disgust; as he had on several similar occasions, Silk wondered whether the aged, disease-ridden woman who had once been Maytera Rose was still conscious. “He made fun of you, Patera, imitating your voice and gestures, and talking foolishness.”

“Is that all?”

Maytera Rose sniffed as she extracted a fresh roll from the basket. “I would say it was more than enough.”

Maytera Mint began, “If Patera himself—”

“Before Patera was born, I endeavored to inculcate a decent respect for the holy calling of augur, a calling—like that of we sibyls—established by Our Sacred Scylla herself. I continue that effort to this day. I try, as I have always tried, to teach every student entrusted to my care to respect the cloth, regardless of the man or woman who wears it.”

“A lesson to us all.” Silk sighed. “Very well, I'll talk to him when I can. But I'm leaving in a few minutes, and I may not be back until late. That was what I wanted to tell you—to tell Maytera Mint particularly.”

She look up, a question in her melting brown eyes.

“I'll be engaged, and I can't say how long it may take. You remember Auk, Maytera. You must. You taught him, and you told Maytera Marble about him yesterday, I know.”

“Oh, Patera, I do indeed.” Maytera Mint's small, not uncomely face glowed.

Maytera Rose sniffed, and Maytera Mint dropped her eyes again.

“I spoke to him last night, Maytera, very late.”

“You did, Patera?”

Silk nodded. “But I'm forgetting something I should tell you. I'd seen him earlier that evening, and shriven him. He's trying, quite sincerely I believe, to amend his life.”

Maytera Mint looked up again, her glance bright with praise. “That's truly wonderful, Patera!”