Shadows of the New Sun: Stories in Honor of Gene Wolfe (32 page)

Plus there was the matter of the item contained within the headsman’s sabretache. Something Agia referred to as “a sentimental trinket,” but Hethor suspected was of considerable value, and might mean more to his client than revenging her brother’s death. Ultimately, once the object was cupped in Hethor’s hand, it was he who would decide its fate.

The role of assassin was beneath him—or had been until recently. Now, having been forced to leave his ship without permission, he was on the surface of a backward planet without the means to support himself. So he had agreed to murder Severian. But how? It was no small thing to kill a professional killer. But if Hethor was to collect the second half of his fee, he would have to find a way. Perhaps the greatest problem was not the man so much as the weapon he carried. A beautiful sword called Terminus Est. By quickening his pace Hethor was able to draw even with Severian. “I will carry your sword, Master.”

The carnifex turned to frown at him. He had a straight nose, sunken cheeks, and dark hair. He was dressed in a long cloak the color of which was fuligin, a black so black its folds were rendered invisible. “No. Not now or ever.”

Hector looked down to his dusty boots. “I feel pity for you, Master, seeing you walk with it on your shoulder so. It must be very heavy.”

Severian’s expression softened. “Thank you, but no, it isn’t as heavy as you might think.”

Hethor was about to respond when the group rounded the side of a hill and Piteous Gate appeared in the distance. The road led straight to it and was crowded with people, animal-drawn carts, and heavily laden wagons. And that was enough to rouse Dr. Talos. He was a small man with fiery red hair and a quantity of gold teeth. Having seen the wall, and apparently inspired by it, he began to lecture those around him. All of which was quite boring insofar as Hethor was concerned. As for the sword, well, Severian was human. And humans must sleep.

At that point a man named Jonas appeared. He was mounted on a merychip and spoke to Severian. Hethor knew Jonas, and fell back lest he be recognized. And for that reason he was unable to hear what the men said.

Fortunately, once the conversation was over, Dr. Talos spoke to Jolenta, and Hethor was close enough to hear. “I think the angel of agony there, and your understudy, will remain with us awhile longer.”

Hethor took that to mean that instead of returning to the center of Nessus as originally planned, Severian was going to pass through the gate with the rest of them. Hethor felt a stab of fear. He understood the gate better than his companions did. Here was a world without a port . . . a place so backward that it was listed as “primitive” on the charts. Still, it hadn’t always been so. And one didn’t need to look far to find ancient devices still in use. Were the gate’s detectors in working order? Or had they, like so many things on the planet, been allowed to fail? His life could depend on the answer.

They were very close to the wall by then—and Piteous Gate was straight ahead. Looking into it was like looking into the entrance of a well-lit mine because the wall was extremely thick and honeycombed with corridors, rooms, galleries, hallways, chambers, and chapels. And one could expect those spaces to be thickly populated with men, women, and creatures that possessed features belonging to both. Hethor heard Severian ask about them.

“They’re soldiers,” Dr. Talos answered. “The Pandours of the Autarch.”

And there was more, but as Dr. Talos spoke, the man named Jonas guided his merychip in close, forcing Hethor to fall back once again. Should he turn back? And look for other employment? Or follow Severian into the tunnel-like maw? After a moment’s hesitation, the would-be assassin chose option two. The one that would line his pockets with money and, depending on what lay hidden within Severian’s sabretache, could provide him with something of even greater value.

It was, as Hethor quickly discovered, the wrong decision.

There was a commotion up ahead as some members of the throng attempted to turn back. That frightened others, including a Waggoner, who was headed south. The man’s lash flew, the metal tip kissed Dorcas’s cheek, and she uttered a cry of pain. Severian went after the lout. Having been jerked from his seat, the Waggoner fell to the ground, where he was crushed by a succession of heavy wheels.

No sooner had that horror been realized than Hethor saw the reason for the stampede. At least a dozen beast men were charging straight at him! They had horns, and as one of them opened its mouth Hethor saw teeth that looked like nails and hooks.

Hethor turned to run, but the beasts were on him in a matter of seconds and quickly bore him away. Hethor struggled and called for help, but to no avail. A door opened and slammed behind them.

Inside, one wall of the chamber was taken up with windows that looked out onto the chaos outside. A sad-looking collection of what Hethor supposed to be pickpockets, bandits, and other criminals lined another. Most of the dejected prisoners were seated on the floor under the watchful gaze of a horned guard. It was a holding room, then, a place where those who had been sifted out of the passing crowd could be held until soldiers came to fetch them.

That was when a stern-looking man entered. He wore a tonsure, signifying his rank, and a robe so long that it brushed the floor. The man gave orders in a language that consisted of grunts and growls. The beast men put Hethor down and searched him . . . and there was plenty to find beneath the loose-fitting clothes. A pair of brass knuckles clattered to the floor, quickly followed by a double-edged dagger, two mirrors made of shiny metal, a copper vial that was filled with poison, a square of folded cloth, a crust of moldy bread, and matches in a brass box. One of the beast men uttered a grunt, and the human nodded.

“Well done. My name is Savek. And you are?”

“H-H- Hethor.”

“Well, Hethor, you were brought here because you carry proscribed materials.”

“Everyone h-h-has a right to defend themselves,” Hethor replied. “And I use the knife to slice bread.”

“I wasn’t referring to the dagger,” Savek said, as he bent to retrieve the mirrors and cloth. “I was talking about these. Where did you get them?”

“Beyond the western sea,” Hethor lied. “That, oh lord, is w-w- where maidens with gleaming hair pour sweet nectar, where flowers perfume the air, and the bazaars of O-O-Opar open their arms at night. Dreams can be bought there—and potions such as to stir the blood! Even as s-s- stars fall from the sky, light-filled orbs float suspended in the air, and blind men see.”

“So you purchased the objects,” Savek said impatiently. “Y-y-yes, lord. If it pleases you.”

“It does not please me,” Savek said, “as you are about to learn.” Savak waved a hand and the beast men took Hethor away.

Severian was furious. Having been denied the opportunity to torture the careless Waggoner, he turned to find that Dr. Talos, Jolenta, Baldanders, and precious Dorcas had disappeared. But there, no more than half a chain away, was Hethor. His feet were walking on air as two beast men carried him away. And though of no great concern in and of itself, that raised the possibility that the others had been abducted as well.

Severian shouted at the beast men soldiers to stop, but either they couldn’t hear him over the surrounding tumult or chose not to acknowledge him. A door swung open, Hethor was taken inside, and the barrier closed again. Fearful that a similar fate had befallen Dorcas and the others, Severian hurried forward.

“Out of the way!” he shouted. And the combination of his commanding manner, the fuligin cloak, and the drawn sword was sufficient to clear a path to the metal-strapped door. The sword made a thumping sound as the hilt struck dark wood. “Open up!” Severian demanded, as he tugged on a bronze handle.

There was no response at first. Then a head- high door within the door opened to reveal a leering face. It had a low brow, pink-hued eyes, and a hog-wide nose. But the creature’s mouth was disturbingly human, as were its ears.

“My name is Severian . . . I am a Journeyman of the Seekers of Truth and Penitence. Let me in.”

The beast uttered a grunt, the window slammed closed, and Severian was left to fume for at least a minute before the larger door opened. Having returned Terminus Est to its scabbard, Severian stepped inside. His eyes swept the chamber, saw the prisoners, and checked them one by one. Dorcas was nowhere to be seen, nor were the others.

“My name is Kevas. I am the Assistant Exsecutor here. Can I be of assistance?” The voice was light and delightfully melodic.

Severian turned to find himself looking at a woman with black hair, a high forehead, and large, luminous eyes that seemed to peer right through him. “My name is Severian. I saw your soldiers snatch my servant off the street and bring him here. His name is Hethor. And I’m looking for the rest of my party as well. That includes a small man with red hair, a giant, and a woman almost as beautiful as you.”

That was a lie, since Severian had never seen a woman as comely as Jolenta, but he figured a little flattery couldn’t hurt. But the compliment had no visible effect on the Exsecutor. Her eyes were like deep wells. “There was a man,” she said softly. “My superior is about to question him. As for the others, no, they aren’t here.”

Severian considered that. Dorcas was out on the road somewhere. Dr. Talos and Baldander would look after her, to some extent at least, but not with the care that he would. So part of him wanted to leave right away. But what of Hethor? For some reason Severian was reminded of Triskele, the three-legged dog he had rescued, and even dreamt of the night before. Could he leave Hethor with the beast men? No, he couldn’t. Time was of the essence, however, so he hoped to find Hethor and free him as quickly as possible. “I would like to see Hethor. Now, please.”

The luminous eyes stared up at him. And as the clean scent of her found his nostrils, Severian could imagine how her soft melodic voice would sound interposed with the piteous screams of a well- flayed client. A musical counterpoint of sorts. A duet unsung.

“Your servant was carrying proscribed artifacts. Was he carrying them for you?” she asked. “Perhaps you aren’t seeking the man so much as the items he carried.”

Suddenly Severian was in a trap, or teetering on the edge of one, and wondered what if anything Hethor had confessed to. He sensed movement, but it was too late. A pair of beast men stepped in to grab his arms. Severian chose not struggle, lest doing so seem to confirm his guilt. “I am a member of the torturer’s guild,” he said, mustering all the dignity that he could.

“And a subject of the Autarch,” Kevas said primly. The grunts and growls that followed meant nothing to Severian and were unseemly coming from her full-lipped mouth. Severian felt a tug as Terminus Est was removed from its scabbard. Then, having been on the receiving end of a powerful shove, the carnifex was led away.

A door opened and closed as Severian was forced into a great emptiness. And as the carnifex looked upward he could see what appeared to be endless flights of stairs that led to precarious galleries, ramps that zigzagged back and forth across the face of the pitted metal wall, and platforms for which there was no obvious purpose, all lit by the beams of dusty sunlight that slanted down from above.

As Severian was escorted ever higher, he passed tiers of cells all filled with miserable human beings. Some, having left all sanity behind, screamed words that no one knew. Others, upon seeing the deathly darkness of his cloak, shrank into the recesses of their filthy cells. In spite of their misery, they were still eager to live out another minute, hour, or day. Steel clashed with steel somewhere, chains rattled, and Severian heard the high, eerie sound of a song, the words filled with longing. And here, he decided, was where hell lay, not in the land beyond death.

The Chamber of Truth was equipped to accommodate the needs of a professional torturer, though none was in attendance. So that as Hethor was questioned, it was in a room furnished with a chair of spikes, also called a Confession Chair. In one corner an Iron Maiden stood, her hinged body open to receive the next offender. And that was to say nothing of the bench-mounted skull crusher, the dangling chain whip, the horizontal rack, the stork, the thumbscrew, or the aptly named knee splitter. All of which was frequently sufficient to loosen tongues without the sending for a member of the torturer’s guild. All Hethor could do was stall, try to retrain control of his bowels, and hope that something would break his way.

Hethor was seated on a sturdy chair that occupied a platform. It was located below a bright light, which caused him to squint. “What is your real name?” the Exsecutor demanded.

“I have many n-n-names,” Hethor replied. “I am called the buyer, seller, and transporter of goods useful and otherwise. A merchant am I, sailing the shining seas, always far from home. Andeth, Fosfer, and Umbay. I am known by all and n-n-none of those. For names are as numerous as pebbles on a beach and of no particular importance.”

“I grow weary of your witless prattling,” Savek said sternly. “Perhaps I will send for a torturer. All we need is your tongue. The rest can be cut away.”

There was a momentary commotion as the door was thrown open. Severian stumbled into the room, caught his balance, and looked around. A woman entered behind him.

“M-M-Master,” Hethor said pitifully, “is it truly you?”

The woman spoke. “Yes, your master came looking for you, or what you were carrying. The question is which. Tell me Hethor, who do the objects on this table belong to? You? Or your employer?”

“ T-T- Tome.”

“The lout could be lying,” Savek observed, “but we will come back to that. Now,” Savek said, as he removed two mirrors from a nearby table. “Tell me what these devices are.”

Hethor accepted one in each hand. He held them up as if to admire himself. “T-T-They are mirrors, lord, which I planned to sell.”

“Our devices tell a different story,” Savek countered. “And these are not ordinary mirrors. They have a numinous aura of some kind. Are they haunted?”

“No, lord. Not that I know of,” Hethor replied, as he continued to manipulate the mirrors. Once they faced each other he blew so as to fog them.