Nightside the Long Sun

“This’s getting interesting.” Blood leaned forward, his wide, red face redder than ever. “Would you really have killed me, Patera?”

Silk, who would not have, felt certain he would not be believed. “I hoped that it wouldn’t be necessary.”

“I see. I see. And it never crossed your mind that I’d yell for some friends in the City Guard the minute you left? That I wouldn’t even have had to use my own people on you, because the Guard would do their work instead?” Blood laughed, and Musk concealed his smile behind his hand.

Silk sipped again, wondering briefly whether the drink was drugged. If they wanted to drug him, he reflected, they would have no need of subterfuge. Whatever it was, the drink was very strong, certainly. Drugged or undrugged, it might dull the pain in his ankle. He ventured a cautious swallow. He had drunk brandy already tonight, the brandy Gib had given him; it seemed a very long time ago. Surely Blood would make no charge for this drink, whatever else he might do. (Not once in a month did Silk drink anything stronger than water.)

“Well, didn’t you?” Blood snorted in disgust. “You know, I’ve got a few people working for me that don’t think any better than you do, Patera.”

Silk returned his drink to the tray. “I was going to make you sign a confession. It was the only thing I could think of, so it was what I planned.”

“Me? Confess to what?”

“It didn’t matter.” Fatigue had enfolded Silk like a cloak. He had never known that a chair could be as comfortable as this one, a chair in which he could sleep for days. “A conspiracy to overthrow the Ayuntamiento, perhaps. Something like that.” Recalling certain classroom embarrassments, he forced himself to breathe deeply so that he would not yawn; the faint throbbing in his foot seemed very far away, driven beyond the fringes of the most remote Vironese lands by the kindly sorcery of the squat tumbler. “I would have given it to one of my—to another augur, one I know well. I was going to seal it, and make him promise to deliver it to the Juzgado if anything happened to me. Something like that.”

“Not too bad.” Blood took Hyacinth’s little needler from his waistband, thumbed off its safety catch, and aimed it carefully at Silk’s chest.

Musk frowned and touched Blood’s arm.

Blood chuckled. “Oh, don’t worry. I only wanted to see how he’d behave in my place. It doesn’t seem to bother him much.” The needler’s tiny, malevolent eye twitched to the right and spat, and the squat tumbler exploded, showering Silk with shards and pungent liquor.

He brushed himself with his fingers. “What would you like me to sign over to you? I’ll be happy to oblige. Give me the paper.”

“I don’t know.” Blood dropped Hyacinth’s gold-plated needler on the stand that had held his drink. “What have you got, Patera?”

“Two drawers of clothing and three books. No, two; I sold my personal copy of the Writings. My beads—I’ve got those here, and I’ll give them to you now if you like. My old pen case, but it’s still in my robe up in that woman’s room. You could have somebody bring it, and I’ll confess to climbing onto your roof and entering your house without your permission, and give you the pen case, too.”

Blood shook his head. “I don’t need your confession, Patera. I have you.”

“As you like.” Silk visualized his bedroom, over the kitchen in the manse. “Pas’s gammadion. That’s steel, of course, but the chain’s silver and should be worth something I also have an old portable shrine that belonged to Patera Pike. I’ve set it up on my dresser, so I suppose you could say it’s mine now. There’s a rather attractive triptych, a small polychrome lamp, an offertory cloth, and so on, with a teak case to carry them in. Do you want that? I had hoped—foolishly no doubt—to pass it on to my successor.”

Blood waved the triptych aside. “How’d you get through the gate?”

“I didn’t. I cut a limb in the forest and tied it to this rope.” Silk pointed to his waist. “I threw the limb over the spikes on your wall and climbed the rope.”

“We’ll have to do something about that.” Blood glanced significantly at Musk. “You say you were up on the roof, so it was you that killed Hierax.”

Silk sat up straight, feeling as if he had been wakened from sleep. “You gave him the name of the god?”

“Musk did. Why not?”

Musk said softly, “He was a griffon vulture, a mountain bird. Beautiful. I thought I might be able to teach him to kill for himself.”

“But it was no go,” Blood continued. “Musk got angry with him and was going to knife him. Musk has the mews out back.”

Silk nodded politely. Patera Pike had once remarked to him that you could never tell from a man’s appearance what might give him pleasure; studying Musk, Silk decided that he had never accorded Patera Pike’s sagacity as much respect as it had deserved.

“So I said that if he didn’t want him, he could give him to me,” Blood continued, “and I put him up there on the roof for a pet.”

“I see.” Silk paused. “You clipped his wings.”