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  The stone wall that had separated the garden from the street was largely intact, though the gate and rusted padlock were gone. Inside, weeds and blackberry brambles, and-yes-a straggling grape vine climbing the blackened stump of the fig tree. Enough of their arbor remained to sit on. He sat, leaned back, and shut his eyes; and in time a youthful sibyl sat down across from him, extracted a recorder from one of the voluminous pockets of her black bombazine habit, and began to play.

  Sun Street had taken him to the market, and Manteion Street to the Palatine. Here was the Calde's Palace, its fallen wall repaired with new mortar and stones that almost matched.

  "Patera… Patera?" The voice was soft yet thick-oddly wrong. He looked around, not so much to find the woman who spoke as to locate the augur she addressed.

  "Patera… Patera Silk?"

  He stepped back and scanned the windows. The shadow of a head and shoulders showed at one on the topmost floor. "Mucor?" He tried to keep his voice low, while making it loud enough to be heard fifty or sixty cubits overhead.

  "She's not here… She's not here, Patera."

  It's the bird, he thought. The bird makes her think I'm Silk. He realized even as he formed the thought that Oreb was gone, that he had sent Oreb away with Pig.

  "Please… "

  He had not heard the rest, yet he knew what he had been asked to do. The massive doors were locked. He banged them with the heavy brass knocker, each blow as loud as the report of a slug gun.

  There was no answering sound from within the palace; and at last he turned away, tramping wearily down the balustraded steps to the street. The high window was empty now, and the thick, soft voice (female but not feminine) silent. He squinted up at the motionless sun. The shade was almost down; the market would be closing. He had told-had promised-Pig that he would rejoin him in Ermine's before evening, but Ermine's was only two or three streets away.

  He had just crossed the first when fingers, thin but hard and strong, closed on his elbow. He turned to see a slight, stooped figure no larger than a child, muffled in what appeared to be sacking. "Please… Please, Patera. Please, won't you talk to… Please won't you talk to me?"

  "I'm not an augur. You're thinking of somebody else."

  "You've forgotten… You've forgotten me." The muffled sound that followed might or might not have been a sob. "Have you forgotten unhappy Olivine… Have you forgotten unhappy Olivine, Patera?"

  There was something amiss in the angle of her head, and the high, hunched shoulders. Pity almost choked him. "No," he said, "I haven't forgotten you, Olivine." It was not a lie, he told himself fiercely; one could not forget what one had not known.

  "You'll bless… You'll bless me?" There was joy in the voice from the sackcloth. "Sacrifice, the way you used… Sacrifice, the way you used to? Father's gone… Father's gone away. He's been gone a long, long time… He's been gone a long, long time, Patera." She was drawing him after her, back toward the Calde's Palace. "There's a… There's a woman? In the north… In the north, Patera."

  Someone who might help her, obviously. Someone who might be able to cure whatever disease afflicted the pathetic figure before him. "A wise woman," he hazarded.

  "Oh… Oh, yes! Oh, I hope… Oh, I hope so!"

  They dodged down a side street. The wall of the Calde's Palace, elegantly varied with high narrow windows in elaborate stone frames, gave way to the almost equally imposing, windowless wall of the Calde's Garden, a wall of heroic stones, rough and misshapen yet fitted like the pieces of a puzzle.

  The diminutive, limping figure drew him on far faster than he would willingly have walked. Leprosy? It had been only a word in the Writings to him. There were running sores, or pus oozing from the skin-something disgusting. Good people in the Writings, theodidacts such as Patera Silk particularly, were exceedingly kind to those who suffered this dread disease, which he had heard was rare-had heard from an augur, probably. From someone such as Patera Remora, who had attended the schola.

  Abruptly they stopped. A door of iron so low that he would almost have to crawl through like Pig was deeply set between mammoth stones, in a dark little recess that also held an empty bottle and brown, wind-blown leaves. From some recess equally dark within her sackcloth, Olivine produced a brass key bruised with verdigris; there was a dim flash, as of polished steel. Thrust into the iron door, the key rattled and squealed. A bolt thumped solidly, and Olivine whispered, "Quadrifons…

  The iron door swung back.

  Ducking through the doorway, he had to bend lower still to pass beneath the massive limbs of an ancient oak. Beyond was a bed of bright chrysanthemums, glorious in the last flickering sunshine. Somewhere a fountain played. "I didn't know there were doors like that," he said, sounding inane even to himself. "I mean doors that had to have a word, and a key as well." And then, "That is a sacred name. So sacred that it's hardly ever used. I'm surprised you know it."

  She stopped and looked back him. He thought he caught the gleam of thick spectacles between the rough cloth that covered her head and the fold of rough cloth that masked her face. "It's just a… It's just a word. The one for the… The one for the door. My… My mother." (Something deeply pathetic had entered her voice.) "I don't remember… I don't remember her. She was a… She was a sibyl? That's what my father… That's what my father says. She was a… She was a sibyl."

  "Would you like to me to tell you about Quadrifons?"

  Olivine nodded, the motion almost imperceptible beneath the shadowing oak limbs and the folds of cloth. "Would you… Would you, Patera?"

  "I'm not Patera Silk," he said. "You're wrong about that. But I'll tell you what I know, which isn't much."

  His back felt as though it might break; kneeling was a great relief. "Quadrifons is the most holy of the minor gods. I mean, he's called that in the Chrasmologic Writings. If it were left to me-as plainly it is not-I'd say that the Outsider is the most holy god, and indeed that he's the only god, major or minor, who's really holy at all." He laughed, a trifle nervously. "So you see why I'm not an augur, Olivine. But the Writings say it's Quadrifons, and the Chapter says that his name is so holy that it should hardly ever be used, so it won't be profaned."

  "Go… Go on."

  "I don't know you, so I really don't know whether you would be inclined to profane the name of a god-"

  She shook her head.

  "But I'm inclined to doubt it. You don't strike me as a fortunate person, and it's commonly the fortunate among us who do that. On the chance that I'm wrong, however, I must tell you that we don't harm the gods when we mingle their names with our curses and obscenities. We harm ourselves. I said that I didn't regard most gods as holy, but they don't have to be for our malice and mockery to recoil upon ourselves." He looked up at her shrouded face, hoping to see he had made his point, but learned nothing. "There is much more I might say, Olivine-things I may say to you another time, when we know each other better. But you wanted to know about Quadrifons."

  She nodded.

  "I really know very little about him, however, and I doubt that anyone knows much more than I. Just as Pas is said to be a twoheaded god-do you know about that?"

  "Oh… Oh, yes." She sounded despondent.

  "Quadrifons is a four-faced one. That is to say, he has only one head, but there is a face on every side of it, so that he looks east and west, and north and south, all at the same time. He's the god of bridges, passageways, and intersections, although he's clearly more important than those few and simple things would appear to imply. I told you he had four faces."

  There was no sound but the tinkling of the fountain; then she said, "I've got a little statue with the two… I've got a little statue with the two heads."

  "I'd like to see it. You do realize, don't you, that it's only a conventional representation? We need to picture Pas to ourselves during our private devotions sometimes, and statuettes and colored prints help us do it. I should tell you that just as Pas is depicted occasionally as a whirlwind, Quadrifons is sometimes s
hown as a sort of monster, combining Pas's eagle with Sphigx's lion. May I talk about Sphigx for a moment? It will seem to you that I've left the subject, but I assure you that what I want to say bears upon it."

  "Go… Go ahead." By a sort of controlled collapse, she sat down opposite him, hugging her knees to her chest. Even through several thicknesses of sackcloth, it was apparent that she had sharp knees.

  "This morning two friends and I were discussing Sphigx. She's the patroness of Trivigaunte, but she won't let the Trivigauntis make pictures or statues representing her, and we talked about that."

  "Uh… Uh-huh."

  "That's what I used to say to Patera Silk." He smiled at the memory. "He'd tell me to think of the honor of our Sun Street Palaestra, and say yes instead."

  "I remember when… I remember when you were calde."

  "When Patera Silk was, you mean. My own name is Horn."

  She nodded again.

  "In that case, Calde Bison must have let you stay on when he attained to the office. That was good of him."

  "I don't think… I don't think he knows I'm here. Were you going to say Sphigx was like Quadrifons, keeping his name… Were you going to say Sphigx was like Quadrifons, keeping his name secret?"

  "That's very perceptive of you. Yes, I was. You see, Olivine, there used to be a woman with a table in the market who sold images of Sphigx. They would have been quite similar to your image of Pas, I suppose."

  "Mine's ivory… Mine's ivory, Patera."

  He nodded thoughtfully. "These were wood. Or at least, they appeared to be wood. This woman was a Trivigaunti spy, and what she was doing-using the little wooden images to send informationwas really very clever, because no one who knew the customs of her city would associate images of Sphigx with Trivigaunte. Later on Blue, I learned that Trivigauntis who go abroad often buy images of Sphigx, which they carry home with them and hide."

  "I don't… I don't understand." Olivine cocked her head, and again he caught the glint of glass.

  "Why they want them? Because they're not supposed to have them, I suppose. Or because they feel that they provide special access to the goddess. Quadrifons' name-with your key-gives you special access to this lovely garden." He paused, looking beyond the branches that concealed them. "I used to live in the Calde's Palace too, Olivine. It had just been reopened, and this was weeds and a few trees; but Viron itself was thronged with people. When you and Quadrifons opened the door for me, those leaves and weeds were all that I expected to see. It never occurred to me that this garden would be tended as it was in the days of Calde Tussah when so much of the city lies in ruins. I find it heartening."

  She had risen, and he rose too. "I merely wanted to say that by prohibiting the possession of her image in Trivigaunte, Sphigx has made it highly valued there. Quadrifons may have had something of the same kind in mind when he restricted the use of his name. Or he may have hoped to link himself to the Outsider, whose true name is unknown."

  They left the spreading branches and crossed a bright, soft lawn. Seeing them, a white-haired man dropped his hoe and knelt.

  "He wants your blessing…"

  There seemed to be no help for it; he sketched the sign of addition over the old man's head. "Blessed be you in the Most Sacred Name of Pas, Father of the Gods, in those of his living children, in that of the patron of doors and crossroads, and in that of the Obscure Outsider, whom we pray will bless this, our Holy City of Viron."

  "Come on… Come on, Patera." Olivine tugged his sleeve. "We've got to get some… We've got to get some bread." He followed, reflecting gloomily that the old man had probably noticed how very irregular his blessing had been, although he had kept his voice low and spoken as rapidly as he could.

  A door (wooden, this time, although bound with iron) opened on a scullery, the scullery on the kitchen he vaguely remembered. A cook paring carrots froze as they entered, her mouth a perfect circle of surprise. The door of a cupboard rattled and banged; then Olivine was drawing him up a dark stair, her limp more pronounced than ever. Almost running, they passed a landing.

  The next had a small window; he stopped before it to gasp for breath. "This floor."

  "No… No, Patera. I was born down there… I was born down there, but my room's under the roof."

  "I know, my child. I saw you there."

  She shifted the small loaf to her other hand, and reached out to stroke his tunic. "You're… You're dirty."

  "I've been traveling rough, I'm afraid. Last night I slept on the floor. It was a very dirty floor, too. Besides you were sitting on the ground, remember? And I knelt on it. I don't believe I even dusted my knees when I stood up. But, Olivine, I'd like to ask a personal question. May I?" She was rubbing a double thickness of his soiled tunic between her forefinger and thumb, and he had seen clearly that they were metal.

  "Wouldn't you like… Wouldn't you like clean clothes?"

  "Very much. I'd like a bath, too; but I'm afraid both are impossible."

  She glanced up, her face inscrutable behind its swaddling sackcloth. "I know a… I know a place."

  "Where I might take a bath? That's very good of you. It's wonderful of you, in fact; but before we leave this floor, there is something I must see-a certain room into which I must go, if I possibly can. I can find it for myself, I believe, and I'll rejoin you here afterward, or anywhere you choose."

  "Here… Here, Patera." She opened a door; and he saw a corridor lined with more. He had forgotten it or thought he had, but the pattern in its carpet was like a blow.

  "Yes, there. My-Nettle and I stayed here once. It was only for a few days, though it seemed forever then." He spoke to himself more than to her, but found it impossible to stop. "It was always cold, and we took blankets from other rooms-from empty rooms, I ought to say. There was a little fireplace, and the first one to get back at night would raid the woodbox in the kitchen." He paused to look at the hand that held the bread Olivine had gotten there. "And make a fire. There was an old brass pan you filled with coals to warm the bed, and we'd strip and bathe and huddle naked under the blankets trying to keep warm."

  He pushed past her, stepping into the remembered corridor and half afraid it might vanish. They had not used this stair, he decided, but another larger one nearer the front, reaching the kitchen from the ground floor. "We were wonderfully happy here, as happy as we were capable of being-which was very happy indeed in those days-and happier than we were ever to be on Blue, though we were very happy there, too, sometimes."

  Olivine pointed to a door.

  "No, it was down that way, I'm sure."

  "Where you can… Where you can wash? I'll find clean… I'll find clean clothes."

  "I can't let you steal for me, my child, if that's what you're proposing."

  "From an old storeroom… From an old storeroom, Patera. Nobody… Nobody cares." She stepped back into the stairwell again, and shut the door.

  Shrugging, he opened the one she had indicated. A small bedroom, smaller even than the one he had shared with Mother so long ago. The bed, a chest of drawers, and a bedside table so small that it might almost have been a toy. No washstand, which presumably meant that the door that appeared to belong to a closet led to a lavatory. The thought of a bath, even a sponge bath with cold water, was irresistible; removing his tunic with one swift gesture, he threw open the door.

  11. MY TRIAL

  Now that I have leisure to write again, I am ready to throw the whole thing overboard. We put out night before last, having waited half a day for a wind, and have been coasting ever since, bedeviled by light airs. I spent yesterday-or most of it-rereading everything that I have written since I began to write back in Gaon. I have covered a lot of paper and wasted hundreds of hours, all without more than mentioning my search for Patera Silk in the Whorl-the central reason for my trip; and (I must face the fact) the great failure of my life.

  Nor have I described my trial and the overthrow of Dorp's judges, which I promised to do again and again the last time I w
rote and which I intend to do in a moment. Perhaps I shall never pen an account of my return to Old Viron, of meeting my father there, and the rest of it. Perhaps it is better so.

  Hoof and Hide were afraid they would be arrested. I assured them that as long as they were circumspect they had nothing to fear. And so it proved, although Wijzer and Wapen, both local men with extensive connections among the sailors and boat owners, accomplished much more. At the end (which is to say after I had been removed from Aanvagen's in chains) Beroep and Strik joined them. They had little time in which to work, but they brought us more than a hundred fighters between them-so many that the slug guns I had bought were insufficient, and they had to buy more by ones and twos out of their own pockets. Once the rebellion was under way, we were joined by many more who had only knives and clubs; but I am proud to say that all our original men had slug guns, every one of them.

  In the matter of women we followed General Mint's example and used them mostly to care for the wounded and bring ammunition to the fighters. A few fought, however, and those acquitted themselves very well. There were plans for them to supply food, but our rebellion did not last long enough to require it. These women, most of them young and poor, were organized entirely by Vadsig; all she accomplished and the shrewdness and courage with which she did it are beyond praise.

  But I am getting ahead of my account. First of all, I should say that I had been hoping above all else for help from Mora and Fava. As I sat in my cell in the Palace of Justice, I managed to convince myself that everything depended on them, that if they came and were able to possess Judge Hamer, I would go free. I tried very hard not to think of my punishment if they did not come, and waited with no great hope for some sign from them. My cell was dark, cold, and indescribably filthy. I felt certain that if I knew I was to be confined for years in such a place I would take my own life, and sooner rather than later. I had left my azoth with Hide, and did not know that he had entrusted it to Vadsig, fearing he would be rearrested. If I had it, I might well have killed myself then and there-or cut my way out and fled, as is more likely.