The Claw Of The Conciliator (16 page)

I hungered then for light as a starving man for meat, and at last I risked the Claw. Perhaps I should say that it risked me; it seemed I had no control of the hand that slid into my boot-top and grasped it.

At once the pain faded, and there came a rush of azure light. The hubbub redoubled as the other wretched inhabitants of the place, seeing that radiance, feared some new terror was to be thrust among them. I pushed the gem down into my boot once more, and when its light was no longer visible began to grope for Jonas.

He was not unconscious, as I had supposed, but lay writhing, some twenty steps from where we had rested. I carried him back (finding him astonishingly light) and when I had covered us both with my cloak touched his forehead with the Claw. In a short time he was sitting up. I told him to rest, that whatever it was that had been in the prison chamber with us was gone.

He stirred and muttered, “We must get power to the compressors before the air goes bad.”

“It’s all right,” I told him. “Everything is all right, Jonas.” I despised myself for it, but I was talking to him as if he were the youngest of apprentices, just as, years before, Master Malrubius had spoken to me.

Something hard and cold touched my wrist, moving as if it were alive. I grasped it, and it was Jonas’s steel hand; after a moment I realized he had been trying to clasp my own hand with it. “I feel weight!” His voice was growing louder. “It must be only the lights.” He turned, and I heard his hand ring and scrape as it struck the wall. He began talking to himself in a nasal, monosyllabic language I did not understand.

Greatly daring, I drew out the Claw again and touched him with it once more. It was as dull as it had been when we had first examined it that evening, and Jonas became no better; but in time I was able to calm him. At last, long after the remainder of the room had grown quiet, we lay down to sleep.

When I woke, the dim lamps were burning again, though I somehow felt that it was yet night outside, or at least no more than earliest morning.

Jonas lay beside me, still asleep. There was a long tear in his tunic, and I saw where the blue fire had branded him. Recalling the man-ape’s severed hand, I made certain no one was observing us and began to trace the burn with the Claw. It sparkled in the light much more brightly than it had the evening before; and though the black scar did not vanish, it seemed narrower, and the flesh to either side less inflamed. To reach the lower end of the wound, I lifted the cloth a trifle. When I thrust in my hand, I heard a faint note; the gem had struck metal. Drawing back the cloth more, I saw that my friend’s skin ended as abruptly as grass does where a large stone lies, giving way to shining silver. My first thought was that it was armor; but soon I saw that it was not. Rather, it was metal standing in the place of flesh, just as metal stood in the place of his right hand. How far it continued I could not see, and I was afraid to touch his legs for fear of waking him.

Concealing the Claw again, I rose. And because I wanted to be alone and think for a few moments, I walked away from Jonas and into the center of the room. It had been a strange enough place the day before, when everyone was awake and active. Now it seemed stranger still, a ragged blot of a room, frayed with odd corners and crushed under its lowering ceiling. Hoping that exercise would set my mind in motion (as it often does), I decided to pace off the room’s length and width, treading softly so as not to wake the sleepers.

I had not gone forty paces when I saw an object that seemed completely out of place in that collection of ragged people and filthy canvas pallets. It was a woman’s scarf woven of some rich, smooth material the color of a peach. There is no describing the scent of it, which was not that of any fruit or flower that grows on Urth, but was very lovely.

I was folding this beautiful thing to put in my sabretache when I heard a child’s voice say, “It’s bad luck. Terrible luck. Don’t you know?”

Looking around, then down, I saw a little girl with a pale face and sparkling midnight eyes that seemed too large for it; and I asked, “What’s bad luck, Mistress?”

“Keeping findings. They come back for them later. Why do you wear those black clothes?”

“They’re fuligin, the hue that is darker than black. Hold out your hand and I’ll show you. Now, do you see how it seems to disappear when I trail the edge of my cloak across it?”

Her little head, which small though it was seemed much too big for the shoulders below it, nodded solemnly. “Burying people wear black. Do you bury people? When the navigator was buried there were black wagons and people in black clothes walking. Have you ever seen a burying like that?”

I crouched to look more easily into the solemn face. “No one wears fuligin clothes at funerals, Mistress, for fear they might be mistaken for members of my guild, which would be a slander of the dead—in most cases. Now here is the scarf. See how pretty it is? Is it what you call a finding?”

She nodded. “The whips leave them, and what you ought to do is push them out through the space under the doors. Because they’ll come and take their things back.” Her eyes were no longer on mine. She was looking at the scar that ran across my right cheek.

I touched it. “These are the whips? The ones who do this? Who are they? I saw a green face.”

“So did I.” Her laughter held the notes of little bells. “I thought it was going to eat me.”

“You don’t sound frightened now.”

“Mama says the things you see in the dark don’t mean anything—they’re different almost every time. It’s the whips that hurt, and she held me behind her, between her and the wall. Your friend is waking up. Why are you looking so funny?”

(I recalled laughing with other people; three were young men, two were women of about my own age. Guibert handed me a scourge with a heavy handle and a lash of braided copper. Lollian was preparing the firebird, which he would twirl on a long cord.)

“Severian!” It was Jonas, and I hurried over. “I’m glad you’re here,” he said when I was squatting beside him. “I … thought you’d gone away.”

“I could hardly do that, remember?”

“Yes,” he said. “I remember now. Do you know what this place is called, Severian? They told me yesterday. It’s the antechamber. I see you already knew.”

“No.”

“You nodded.”

“I recalled the name when you pronounced it, and I knew it was the right one. I … Thecla was here, I think. She never considered it a strange place for a prison, I suppose because it was the only one she had seen before she was taken to our tower, but I find I do. Individual cells, or at least several separate rooms, seem more practical to me. Perhaps I’m only prejudiced.”

Jonas pulled himself up until he was sitting with his back to the wall. His face had gone pale under the brown, and it shone with perspiration as he said, “Can’t you imagine how this place came to be? Look around you.”

I did so, seeing no more than I had seen before: the sprawling room with its dim lamps.

“This used to be a suite—several suites, probably. The walls have been torn away, and a uniform floor laid over all the old ones. I’m sure that’s what we used to call a drop ceiling. If you were to lift one of those panels, you’d see the original structure above it.”

I stood and tried; but though the tips of my fingers brushed the rectangular panes, I was not tall enough to exert much force on them. The little girl, who had been watching us from a distance of ten paces or so, and listening, I feel sure, to every word, said, “Hold me up and I’ll do it.”

She ran toward us. I lifted her and found that with my hands around her waist I could easily raise her over my head. For a few seconds her small arms struggled with the square of ceiling above her. Then it went up, showering dust. Beyond it I saw a network of slender metal bars, and through them a vaulted ceiling with many moldings and a flaking painting of clouds and birds. The girl’s arms weakened, the panel sunk again, with more dust, and my view was cut off. When she was safely down, I turned back to Jonas. “You’re right. There was an old ceiling above this one, for a room much smaller than this. How did you know?”

“Because I talked to those people. Yesterday.” He raised his hands, the hand of steel as well as the hand of flesh, and appeared to rub his face with both. “Send that child away, will you?”

I told the little girl to go to her mother, though I suspect she only crossed the room, then made her way back along the wall until she was within earshot of us.

“I feel as if I were waking up,” Jonas said. “I think I said yesterday that I was afraid I would go mad. I think perhaps I’m going sane, and that is as bad or worse.” He had been sitting on the canvas pad where we had slept. Now he slumped against the wall just as I have since seen a corpse sit with its back to a tree.

“I used to read, aboard ship. Once I read a history. I don’t suppose you know anything about it. So many chiliads have elapsed here.”

I said, “I suppose not.”

“So different from this, but so much like it too. Queer little customs and usages … some that weren’t so little. Strange institutions. I asked the ship and she gave me another book.”

He was still perspiring, and I thought his mind was wandering. I used the square of flannel I carried to wipe my sword blade to dry his forehead.

“Hereditary rulers and hereditary subordinates, and all sorts of strange officials. Lancers with long, white mustaches.” For an instant the ghost of his old humorous smile appeared. “The White Knight is sliding down the poker. He balances very badly, as the King’s notebook told him.”

There was a disturbance at the farther end of the room. Prisoners who had been sleeping, or talking quietly in small groups, were rising and walking toward it. Jonas seemed to assume that I would go as well, and gripped my shoulder with his left hand; it felt as weak as a woman’s. “None of it began so.” There was a sudden intensity in his quavering voice. “Severian, the king was elected at the Marchfield. Counts were appointed by the kings. That was what they called the dark ages. A baron was only a freeman of Lombardy.”

The little girl I had lifted to the ceiling appeared as if from nowhere and called to us, “There’s food. Aren’t you coming?” and I stood up and said, “I’ll get us something. It might make you feel better.”

“It became ingrained. It all endured too long.” As I walked toward the crowd, I heard him say, “The people didn’t know.”

Prisoners were walking back with small loaves cradled in one arm. By the time I reached the doorway the crowd had thinned, and I was able to see that the doors were open. Beyond it, in the corridor, an attendant in a miter of starched white gauze watched over a silver cart. The prisoners were actually leaving the antechamber to circle around this man. I followed them, feeling for a moment that I had been set free.

The illusion was dispelled soon enough. Hastarii stood at either end of the corridor to bar it, and two more crossed their weapons before the door leading to the Well of Green Chimes.

Someone touched my arm, and I turned to see the white-haired Nicarete. “You must get something,” she said. “If not for yourself, then for your friend. They never bring enough.”

I nodded, and by reaching over the heads of several persons I was able to pick up a pair of sticky loaves. “How often do they feed us?”

“Twice a day. You came yesterday just after the second meal. Everyone tries not to take too much, but there is never quite enough.”

“These are pastries,” I said. The tips of my fingers were coated with sugar icing flavored with lemon, mace, and turmeric.

The old woman nodded, “They always are, though they vary from day to day. That silver biggin holds coffee, and there are cups on the lower tier of the cart. Most of the people confined here don’t like it and don’t drink it. I imagine a few don’t even know about it.”

All the pastries were gone now, and the last of the prisoners, save for Nicarete and me, had drifted back into the low-ceilinged room. I took a cup from the lower tier and filled it. The coffee was very strong and hot and black, and thickly sweetened with what seemed to me thyme honey.

“Aren’t you going to drink it?”

“I’m going to carry it back to Jonas. Will they object if I take the cup?”

“I doubt it,” Nicarete said, but as she spoke she jerked her head toward the soldiers.

They had advanced their spears to the position of guard, and the fires at the spearheads burned more brightly. With her I stepped back into the antechamber, and the doors swung closed behind us.

I reminded Nicarete that she had told me the day before that she was here by her will, and asked if she knew why the prisoners were fed on pastries and southern coffee.

“You know yourself,” she said. “I hear it in your voice.”

“No. It’s only that I think Jonas knows.”

“Perhaps he does. It is because this prison is not supposed to be a prison at all. Long ago—I believe before the reign of Ymar—it was the custom for the Autarch himself to judge anyone accused of a crime committed within the precincts of the House Absolute. Perhaps the autarchs felt that by hearing such cases they would be made aware of plots against them. Or perhaps it was only that they hoped that by dealing justly with those in their immediate circle they might shame hatred and disarm jealousy. Important cases were dealt with quickly, but the offenders in less serious ones were sent here to wait—”

The doors, which had closed such a short time ago, were opening again. A little, ragged, gap-toothed man was pushed inside. He fell sprawling, then picked himself up and threw himself at my feet. It was Hethor.

Just as they had when Jonas and I had come, the prisoners swarmed around him, lifting him up and shouting questions. Nicarete, soon joined by Lomer, forced them away and asked Hethor to identify himself. He clutched his cap (reminding me of the morning when he had found me camping on the grass by Ctesiphon’s Cross) and said, “I am the slave of my master, far-traveled, m-m-map-worn Hethor am I, dust-choked and doubly deserted,” looking at me all the while with bright, deranged eyes, like one of the Chatelaine Lelia’s hairless rats, rats that ran in circles and bit their own tails when one clapped one’s hands.