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
