seated on the tunnel floor, Hammerstone with Chenille's launcher
across his steel lap, Incus telling his beads, Urus staring back up the
tunnel toward them.
'All right, Hackum.'
Here were his hanger and his tunic. He laid down Dace's corpse,
sheathed the hanger, and put on his tunic again.
'Man good!' Oreb's beak snapped with appreciation.
'You been eating off him? I told you about that.'
'Other man,' Oreb explained. 'My eyes.'
Auk shrugged. 'Why not?'
'Let's get out of here. Please, Hackum.' Chenille was already
several steps ahead.
He nodded and picked up Dace.
'I've got this bad feeling. Like he's still alive back there or
something.'
'He ain't.' Auk reassured her.
As they reached the three who had waited, Incus pocketed his
beads. 'I would gladly have brought the _Pardon of Par_ to our late
comrade. But his spirit has _flown_.'
'Sure,' Auk said. 'We were just hoping you'd bury him, Patera, if
we can find a place.'
'It's _Patera_ now?'
'And before. I was saying Patera before. You just didn't notice,
Patera.'
'Oh, but I _did_, my son.' Incus motioned for Hammerstone and
Urus to rise. 'I would do what I _can_ for our unfortunate comrade in
any case. Not for your sake, my son, but for _his_.'
Auk nodded. 'That's all we're asking, Patera. Gelada's dead.
Maybe I ought to tell everybody.'
Incus was eyeing Dace's body. 'You cannot bear such a weight
_far_, my son. Hammerstone will have to carry him, I suppose.'
'No,' Auk said, his voice suddenly hard. 'Urus will. Come're,
Urus. Take it.'
Chapter 4 -- The Plan of Pas
'I'm sorry you did that, Mucor,' Silk said mildly.
The old woman shook her head. 'I wasn't going to kill you. But I
could've.'
'Of course you could.'
Quetzal had picked up the needler; he brushed it with his fingers,
then produced a handkerchief with which to wipe off the white bull's
blood. The old woman turned to watch him, her eyes widening as
her death's-head grin faded.
'I'm sorry, my daughter,' Silk repeated. 'I've noticed you at
sacrifice now and then, but I don't recall your name.'
'Cassava.' She spoke as though in a dream.
He nodded solemnly. 'Are you ill, Cassava?'
'I...'
'It's the heat, my daughter.' To salve his conscience, he added,
'Perhaps. Perhaps it's the heat, in part at least. We should get you
out of the sun and away from this fire. Do you think you can walk,
Villus?'
'Yes, Patera.'
Quetzal held out the needler. 'Take this, Patera. You may need
it.' It was too large for a pocket; Silk put it in his waistband beneath
his tunic, where he had carried the azoth. 'Farther back, I think,'
Quetral told him. 'Behind the point of the hip. It will be safer there
and just as convenient.'
'Yes, Your Cognizance.'
'This boy shouldn't walk.' Quetzal picked up Villus. 'He has
poison in his blood at present, and that's no little thing, though we
may hope there's only a little poison. May I put him in your manse,
Patera? He should be lying down, and this poor woman, too.'
'Women are not--but of course if Your Cognizance--'
'They are with my permission,' Quetzal told him. 'I give it. I also
permit you, Patera, to go into the cenoby to fetch a sibyl's habit.
Maytera here,' he glanced down at Maytera Marble, 'may regain
consciousness at any moment. We must spare her as much embarrassment
as we can.' With Villus over his shoulder, he took
Cassava's arm. 'Come with me, my daughter. You and this boy will
have to nurse each other for a while.'
Silk was already through the garden gate. He had never set foot in
the cenoby, but he thought he had a fair notion of its plan: sellaria,
refectory, kitchen, and pantry on the lower floor; bedrooms (four at
least, and perhaps as many as six) on the upper floor. Presumably
one would be Maytera Marble's, despite the fact that Maytera
Marble never slept.
As he trotted along the graveled path, he recalled that the altar
and Sacred Window were still in the middle of Sun Street. They
should be carried back into the manteion as soon as possible,
although that would take a dozen men. He opened the kitchen door
and found himself far from certain of even that necessity. Pas was
dead--no less a divine personage than Echidna had declared it--and
he, Silk, could not imagine himself sacrificing to Echidna again, or
so much as attending a sacrifice honoring her. Did it actually matter,
save to those gods, if the altar of the gods or the Window through
which they so rarely condescended to communicate were ground
beneath the wheels of dung carts and tradesmen's wagons?
Yet this was blasphemy. He shuddered.
The cenoby kitchen seemed almost familiar, in part, he decided,
because Maytera Marble had often mentioned this stove and this
woodbox, these cupboards and this larder; and in part because it
