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  CALDE OF THE LONG SUN

  ( Book of the Long Sun - 3 )

  Gene Wolfe

  The Book of the Long Sun (1993–1996) is a series of four science fantasy novels.

  A young priest Patera Silk tries to save his manteion (neighborhood church and school) from destruction by a ruthless crime lord. As he learns more about his world, a vast generation ship called the Whorl, he learns to distrust the gods he has worshiped and to revere the supposedly minor god known as The Outsider who has enlightened him. He becomes a revolutionary leader and prophet.

  It is a second book of series.

  Chapter 1 -- The Slaves of Scylla

  As unruffled by the disturbances shaking the city as by the furious

  thunderstorm that threatened with every gust to throw down its

  shiprock and return its mud brick to the parent mud, His Cognizance

  Patera Quetzal, Prolocutor of the Chapter of This Our Holy

  City of Viron, studied his present sere and sallow features in the

  polished belly of the silver teapot.

  As at this hour each day, he swung his head to the right and

  contemplated his nearly noseless profile, made a similar inspection

  of its obverse, and elevated his chin to display a lengthy and notably

  wrinkled neck. He had shaped and colored face and neck with care

  upon arising, as he did every morning; nevertheless, there remained

  the possibility (however remote) that something had gone awry by

  ten: thus the present amused but painstaking self-examination.

  "For I am a careful man," he muttered, pretending to smooth one

  thin white eyebrow.

  A crash of thunder shook the Prolocutor's Palace to its

  foundations at the final word, brightening every light in the room to a

  glare; rain and hail drummed the windowpanes.

  Patera Remora, Coadjutor of the Chapter, nodded solemnly.

  "Yes indeed, Your Cognizance. You are indeed a most--ah--advertent man."

  Yet there was always that possibility. "I'm growing old, Patera.

  Even we careful men grow old."

  Remora nodded again, his long bony face expressive of regret.

  "Alas, Your Cognizance."

  "As do many other things, Patera. Our city... The whorl itself

  grows old. When we're young, we notice things that are young, like

  ourselves. New grass on old graves. New leaves on old trees."

  Quetzal lifted his chin again to study his bulging reflection through

  hooded eyes.

  "The golden season of beauty and--um--elegiacs, Your Cognizance."

  Remora's fingers toyed with a dainty sandwich.

  "As we notice the signs of advancing age in ourselves, we see them

  in the whorl. Just a few chems today who ever saw a man who saw a

  man who remembered the day Pas made the whorl."

  A little bewildered by the rapid riffle through so many generations,

  Remora nodded again. "Indeed, Your Cognizance. Indeed

  not." Surreptitiously, he wiped jam from one finger.

  "You become conscious of recurrences, the cyclical nature of

  myth. When first I received the baculus, I had occasion to survey

  many old documents. I read each with care. It was my custom to

  devote three Hieraxdays a month to that. To that alone, and to

  inescapable obsequies. I gave my prothonotary the straitest instructions

  to make no appointments for that day. It's a practice I recommend, Patera."

  Thunder rattled the room again, lightning a dragon beyond the windows.

  "I will, um, reinstitute this wise usage at once, Your Cognizance."

  "At once, you say?" Quetzal looked up from the silver pot,

  resolved to repowder his chin at the first opportunity. "You may go

  to young Incus and so instruct him, if you want. Tell him now,

  Patera. Tell him now."

  "That is--ah--unfeasible, I fear, Your Cognizance. I sent Patera

  Incus upon a--um--errand Molpsday. He has not--um--rejoined us."

  "I see. I see." With a trembling hand, Quetzal raised his cup until

  its gilt rim touched his lips, then lowered it, though not so far as to

  expose his chin. "I want beef tea, Patera. There's no strength in this.

  I want beef tea. See to it, please."

  Long accustomed to the request, his coadjutor rose. "I shall

  prepare it with my own hands, Your Cognizance. It will--ah--occupy

  only an, um, trice. Boiling water, an, um, roiling boil. Your

  Cognizance may rely upon me."

  Slowly, Quetzal replaced the delicate cup in its saucer as he

  watched Remora's retreating back; he even spilled a few drops

  there, for he was, as he had said, careful. The measured closing of

  the door. Good. The clank of the latchbar. Good again. No one

  could intrude now without noise and a slight delay; he had designed

  the latching mechanism himself.

  Without leaving his chair, he extracted the puff from a drawer on

  the other side of the room and applied flesh-toned powder delicately

  to the small, sharp chin he had shaped with such care upon arising.

  Swinging his head from side to side as before, frowning and smiling

  by turns, he studied the effect in the teapot. Good, good!

  Rain beat against the windows with such force as to drive trickles

  of chill water through crevices in the casements; it pooled invitingly

  on the milkstone windowsills and fell in cataracts to soak the carpet.

  That, too, was good. At three, he would preside at the private

  sacrifice of twenty-one dappled horses, the now-posthumous offering

  of Councillor Lemur--one to all the gods for each week since

  Thin more substantial than a shower had blessed Viron's fields. They

  could be convened to a thank offering, and he would so convert them.

  Would the congregation know by then of Lemur's demise?

  Quetzal debated the advisability of announcing the fact if they did

  not. It was a question of some consequence and at length, for the

  temporary relief the act afforded him, he pivoted his hinged fangs

  from their snug grooves in the roof of his mouth, snapping each

  gratefully into its socket and grinning gleefully at his distorted image.

  The rattle of the latch was. nearly lost in another crash of thunder,

  but he had kept an eye on the latchbar. There was a second and

  louder rattle as Remora, on the other side of the door, contended

  with the inconveniently-shaped iron handle that would, when its

  balky rotation had been completed, laboriously lift the clumsy bar

  clear of its cradle.

  Quetzal touched his lips almost absently with his napkin; when he

  spread it upon his lap again, his fangs had vanished. "Yes, Patera?"

  he inquired querulously. "What is it now? Is it time already?"

  "Your beef tea, Your Cognizance." Remora set his small tray on

  the table. "Shall I--um--decant a cup for you? I have, er, obtained a

  clean cup for the purpose."

  "Do, Patera. Please do." Quetzal smiled. "While you were gone, I

  was contemplating the nature of humor. Have you ever considered it?"

  Remora resumed his seat. 'i fear not, Your Cognizance."

  "What's become of young Incus? You hadn't exp
ected him to be

  gone so long?"

  "No, Your Cognizance. I dispatched him to Limna." Remora spooned beef salts

  into the clean cup and added water from the small copper kettle he had

  brought, producing a fine plume of steam. "I am--ah--moderately

  concerned. An, um, modicum of civil unrest last night, eh?" He stirred

  vigorously. "This--ah--stripling Silk. Patera Silk, alas. I know him."

  "My prothonotary told me." With the slightest of nods, Quetzal

  accepted the steaming cup. "I'd have thought Limna would be safer."

  "As would I, Your Cognizance. As did I."

  A cautious sip. Quetzal held the hot, salty fluid in his mouth,

  drawing it deliciously through folded fangs.

  "I sent him in search of a--ah, um--individual, Your Cognizance.

  A, er, acquaintance of this Patera Silk's. The Civil Guard is

  searching for Patera himself, hey? As are, er, certain others.

  Other--ah--parties. So I am told. This morning, Your Cognizance, I

  dispatched still others to look for young Incus. The rain, however,

  ah, necessitous, will hamper them all, hum?"

  "Do you swim, Patera?"

  "I, Your Cognizance? At the--um--lakeside, you mean? No. Or

  at least, not for many years.

  "Nor I."

  Remora groped toward a point he had yet to discern. "A healthful

  exercise, however. For those of, um, unaugmented years, eh? A hot

  bath before sacrifice, Your Cognizance? Or--I have it!--springs.

  There are, er, reborant springs at Urbs. Healing springs, most

  healthful. Possibly, while--affairs are so--ah--unsettled here, eh?"

  Quetzal shook himself. He had a way of quivering like a fat man

  when he did that, although on the few occasions when Remora had

  been obliged to lift him into bed, his body had in fact been light and

  sinuous. "The gods..." He smiled.

  "Must be served, to be sure, Your Cognizance. I would be on the

  spot--ah--ensuring that the Chapter's interests were vigilantly

  safeguarded, hey?" Remora tossed lank black hair away from his

  eyes. "Each rite carried out with--um--"

  "You must recall the story, Patera." Quetzal swayed from side to

  side, perhaps with silent mirth. "A-man and Wo-man like rabbits in

  a garden. The--what do you call them?" He held up a thin,

  blue-veined hand, palm cupped.

  "A cobra, Your Cognizance?"

  "The cobra persuaded Wo-man to eat fruit from his tree, miraculous

  fruit whose taste conferred wisdom."

  Remora nodded, wondering how he might reintroduce the

  springs. "I recollect the--um--allegory."

  Quetzal nodded more vigorously, a wise teacher proffering praise

  to a small boy. "It's all in the Writings. Or nearly all. A god called

  Ah Lah barred Wo-man and her husband from the garden." He

  ceased to speak, apparently wandering among thoughts. "We seem

  to have lost sight of Ah Lah, by the way. I can't recall a single

  sacrifice to him. No one ever asks why the cobra wanted Wo-man to

  eat his fruit."

  "From sheer, er, wickedness, Your Cognizance? That is what I

  had always supposed."

  Quetzal swayed faster, his face solemn. "In order that she would

  ditrib his tree, Patera. The man likewise. Their story's not over

  because they haven't climbed down. That's why I asked if you had

  considered the nature of humor. Is Patera Incus a strong swimmer?"

  "Why, I've--ah--no notion, Your Cognizance."

  "Because you think you know why the woman you sent him to

  look for visited the lake with our scamp Silk, whose name I see on

  walls."

  "Why, er, Your Cognizance is--ah--great penetration, as always."

  Remora fidgeted.

  "I saw it scratched on one five floors up, yesterday," Quetzal

  continued as though he had not heard, "and went wide."

  "Disgraceful, Your Cognizance!"

  "Respect for our cloth, Patera. I myself swim well. Not so well as a

  fish, but very well indeed. Or I did."

  "I'm pleased to hear it, Your Cognizance."

  "The jokes of gods are long in telling. That's why you ought to sift

  the records of the past on Hieraxdays, Patera. Today's Hieraxday.

  You'll learn to think in new and better ways. Thank you for my beef

  tea. Now go."

  Remora rose and bowed. "As Your Cognizance desires."

  His Cognizance stared past him, lost in speculation.

  Greatly daring, Remora ventured, "I have often observed that

  your own way of thinking is somewhat--ah--unlike, as well as much

  more, um, select than that of most men."

  There was no reply. Remora took a step backward. "Upon every--ah--topic

  whatsoever, Your Cognizance's information is quite, um, marvelous."

  "Wait." Quetzal had made his decision. "The riots. Has the

  Alambrera fallen?"

  "What's that? The Alambrera? Why--ah--no. Not to my

  knowledge, Your Cognizance."

  "Tonight." Quetzal reached for his beef tea. "Sit down, Patera.

  You're always jumping about. You make me nervous. It can't be

  good for you. Lemur's dead. Did you know it?"

  Remora's mouth gaped, then snapped shut. He sat.

  "You weren't. It's your responsibility to learn things."

  Remora acknowledged his responsibility with a shamefaced nod.

  "May I inquire, Your Cognizance--?"

  "How I know? In the same way I knew the woman you sent Incus

  after had gone to Lake Limna with Patera Calde Silk."

  "Your Cognizance!"

  Once again, Quetzal favored Rernora with his lipless smile. "Are

  you afraid I'll be arrested, Patera? Cast into the pits? You'd be

  Prolocutor, presumably. I've no fear of the pits." Quetzal's long-skulled,

  completely hairless head bobbed above his cup. "Not at my

  age. None."

  "None the less, I implore Your Cognizance to be more--ah--circumspect."

  "Why isn't the city burning, Patera?"

  Caught by surprise, Remora glanced at the closest window.

  "Mud brick and shiprock walls. Timbers supporting upper floors.

  Thatch or shingles. Five blocks of shops burned last night. Why isn't

  the whole city burning today?"

  "It's raining, Your Cognizance," Remora summoned all his courage.

  "It's been raining--ah--forcibly since early this morning."

  "Exactly so. Patera Calde Silk went to Limna on Molpsday with a

  woman. That same day, you sent Incus there to look for an

  acquaintance of his. A woman, since you were reluctant to speak of

  it. Councillor Loris spoke through the glass an hour before lunch."

  Remora tensed. "He told you Councillor Lemur was no longer

  among us, Your Cognizance?"

  Quetzal swung his head back and forth. "That Lemur was still

  alive, Patera. There are rumors. So it would appear. He wanted me

  to denounce them this afternoon."

  "But if Councillor Loris--ah--assures--"

  "Clearly Lemur's dead. If he weren't, he'd speak to me in person.

  Or show himself at the Juzgado. Or both."

  "Even so, Your Cognizance--"

  Another crash of thunder made common cause with Quetzal's

  thin hand to interrupt.

  "Can the Ayuntamiento prevail without him? That's the question,

  Patera. I want your opinion."

  To give himself time to consider, Rerno
ra sipped his now tepid

  tea. "Munitions, the--ah--thews of contention, are stored in the

  Alambrera, as well as in the, um, cantonment of the Civil Guard,

  cast of the city."

  "I know that."

  "It is an, er, complex of great--um--redoubtability, Your

  Cognizance. I am informed that the outer wall is twelve cubits

  in--ah--laterality. Yet Your Cognizance anticipates its surrender

  tonight? Before venturing an opinion, may I enquire as to the

  source of Your Cognizance's information?"

  "I haven't any," Quetzal told him. "I was thinking out loud. If the

  Alambrera doesn't fall in a day or so, Patera Calde Silk will fail.

  That's my opinion. Now I want yours."

  "Your Cognizance does me honor. There is also the--um--dormant army

  to consider. Councillor Lemur--ah--Loris will undoubtedly issue

  an--ah--call to arms, should the, um, situation,

  in his view, become serious."

  "Your opinion, Patera."

  Remora's cup rattled in its saucer. "As long as the--ah--fidelity of

  the Civil Guard remains--um--unblemished, Your Cognizance," he

  drew a deep breath, "it would appear to me, though I am assuredly

  no--um--master hand at matters military, that--ah, um--Patera

  Calde cannot prevail."

  Quetzal appeared to be listening only to the storm; for perhaps

  fifteen tickings of the coffin-shaped clock that stood beside the

  door, the howling of the wind and the lash of rain filled the room.

  At last he asked, "Suppose that you were to learn that part of the

  Guard's gone over to Silk already?"

  Remora's eyes widened. "Your Cognizance has--?"

  "No reason to think so. My question's hypothetical."

  Remora, who had much experience of Quetzal's hypothetical

  questions, filled his lungs again. "I should then say, Your Cogni

  zance, that should any such unhappy circumstance--ah--circumstances

  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