us to free our city. Since those who have left to fight have gone at
her behest, we may confidently expect them to triumph.'
He dedicated the heart and liver to Scylla.
A young man had joined the children, the old women, and the old
men. There was something familiar about him, although Silk,
nearsightedly peering at his bowed head, was unable to place him.
A small man, his primrose silk tunic gorgeous with gold thread, his
black curls gleaming in the sunshine.
The bull's heart sizzled and hissed, then burst loudly--fulminated
was the euchologic term--projecting a shower of sparks. It was a
sign of civil unrest, but a sign that came too late; riot had become
revolution, and it seemed entirely possible that the first to fall in this
revolution had fallen already.
Indeed, laughing Doctor Crane had fallen already, and the
solemn young trooper. This morning (only this morning!) he had
presumed to tell the captain that nonviolent means could be
employed to oust the Ayuntamiento. He had envisioned refusals to
pay taxes and refusals to work, possibly the Civil Guard arresting
and detaining officials who remained obedient to the four remaining
councillors. Instead he had helped unleash a whirlwind; he
reminded himself gloomily that the whirlwind was the oldest of Pas's
symbols, and strove to forget that Echidna had spoken of 'the Eight
Great Gods.'
With a last skillful cut he freed the final flap of hide from the
bull's haunch; he tossed it into the center of the altar fire. 'The
benevolent gods invite us to join in their feast. Freely, they return to
us the food we offer them, having made it holy. I take it that the
giver is no longer present? In that case, all those who honor the gods
may come forward.'
The young man in the primrose tunic started toward the bull's
carcass; an old woman caught his sleeve, hissing, 'Let the children
go first!' Silk reflected that the young man had probably not
attended sacrifice since he had been a child himself.
For each, he carved a slice of raw bull-beef, presenting it on the
point of the sacrificial knife--the only meat many of these children
would taste for some time, although all that remained would be
cooked tomorrow for the fortunate pupils at the palaestra.
If there was a tomorrow for the palaestra and its pupils.
The last child was a small girl. Suddenly bold, Silk cut her a piece
substantially thicker than the rest. If Kypris had chosen to possess
Chenille because of her fiery hair, why had she chosen Maytera
Mint as well, as she had confided to him beneath the arbor before
they went to Limna? Had Maytera Mint loved? His mind rejected
the notion, and yet... Had Chenille, who had stabbed Orpine in a
nimiety of terror, loved something beyond herself? Or did self-love
please Kypris as much as any other son? She had told Orchid flatly
that it did not.
He gave the first old woman an even larger slice. These women,
then the old men, then the lone young man, and finally, to Maytera
Marble (the only sibyl present) whatever remained for the palaestra
and the cenoby's kitchen. Where was Maytera Rose this morning?
The first old man mumbled thanks, thanking him and not the
gods; he remembered then that others had done the same thing at
Orpine's final rites, and resolved to talk to the congregation about
that next Scylsday, if he remained free to talk.
Here was the last old man already. Silk cut him a thick slice, then
glanced past him and the young man behind him to Maytera
Marble, thinking she might disapprove--and abruptly recognized
the young man.
For a moment that seemed very long, he was unable to move.
Others were moving, but their motions seemed as labored as the
struggles of so many flies in honey. Slowly, Maytera Marble inched
toward him, her face back-tilted in a delicate smile; evidently she
felt as he did: palaestra tomorrow was worse than problematical.
Slowly, the last old man bobbed his head and turned away, gums
bared in a toothless grin. Ardently, Silk's right hand longed to enter
his trousers pocket, where the gold-plated needler Doctor Crane
had given Hyacinth awaited it; but it would have to divest itself of
the sacrificial knife first, and that would take weeks if not years.
The flash of oiled metal as Musk drew his needler blended with
the duller gleam of Maytera Marble's wrists. The report was
drowned by the screech of a wobbling needle, unbalanced by its
passage through the sleeve of Silk's robe.
Maytera Marble's arms locked around Musk. Silk slashed at the
hand that grasped the needler. The needler fell, and Musk shrieked.
The old women were hurrying away (they would call it running),
some herding children. A small boy dashed past Silk and darted
around the casket, reappearing with Musk's needler precariously
clutched in both hands and ridiculously trained upon Musk himself.
Two insights came to Silk simultaneously. The first was that Villus
might easily fire by accident, killing Musk. The second, that he,
Silk, did not care.
Musk's thumb dangled on a rag of flesh, and blood from his hand
mingled with the white bull's. Still trying to comprehend the
situation, Silk asked, 'He sent you to do this, didn't he?' He
pictured the flushed, perspiring face of Musk's employer vividly,
although at that moment he could not recall his name.
Musk spat thick, yellow phlegm that clung to Silk's robe as
Maytera Marble wrestled him toward the altar. Horribly, she bent
him over the flames. Musk spat again, this time into her face, and
struggled with such desperate strength that she was lifted off her feet.
Villus asked, 'Should I shoot him, Maytera?' When she did not
answer, Silk shook his head.
'This fine and living man,' she pronounced slowly, 'is presented to
me, to Divine Echidna.' Her hands, the bony blue-veined hands of a
elderly bio, glowed crimson in the flames. 'Mother of the Gods.
Incomparable Echidna, Queen of the _Whorl_. Fair Echidna! Smile
upon us. Send us beasts for the chase. Great Echidna! Put forth thy
green grass for our kine...'
