in their floater, but it was starting to burn, and he knew that if the
fire didn't go out their ammunition would explode, the bullets for
the buzz guns. He wasn't wearing armor like the troopers outside,
just a helmet, so he pulled it off and threw it away, and the--your
people thought he was one of them, most of them. He said that
sometimes swords would cut the men's armor. It's polymeric, did
you know that, Patera? Sometimes they silver it, private guards and
so on do, like a glazier silvers the back of a mirror. But it's still
polymeric under that, and the troopers' is painted green like a
soldier.'
'It will stop needles, won't it?'
Shell nodded vigorously. 'Mostly it will. Practically always. But
sometimes a needle will go through the opening for the man's eyes,
or where he breathes. when it does that, he's usually killed, they
say. And sometimes a sword will cut right through their armor, if it's
a big heavy sword, and the man's strong. Or stabbing can split the
breastplate. A lot of your people had axes and hatchets. For
firewood, you know. And some had clubs with spikes through them.
A big club can knock down a trooper in armor, and if there's a spike
in it, the spike will go right through.' Shell paused for breath.
'But the soldiers aren't like that at all. Their skin's all metal, steel
in the worst places. Even a slug from a slug gun will bounce off a
soldier sometimes, and nobody can kill or even hurt a soldier with a
club or a needler.'
Silk said, I know, I shot one once, then realized that he had not
spoken aloud. I'm like poor Mamelta, he thought--I have to
remember to speak, to breathe out while I move my lips and tongue.
'One told me she saw two men trying to take a soldier's slug gun.
They were both holding onto it, but he lifted them right off their feet
and threw them around. This wasn't the driver but a woman I talked
to, one of your people, Patera. She had her washing stick, and she
got behind him and hit him with it, but he shook off the two men
and hit her with the slug gun and broke her shoulder. A lot of your
people had gotten slug guns from troopers by then, and they were
shooting at the soldiers with them. Somebody shot the one fighting
her. She would've been killed if it hadn't been for that she said. But
the soldiers shot a lot of them, too, and chased them up Cheese
Street and a lot of other streets. She tried to fight, but she didn't
have a slug gun, and with her shoulder she couldn't have shot one if
she'd had it. A slug hit her leg, and the doctors here had to cut it
off.'
'I'll pray for her,' Silk promised, 'and for everyone else who's
been killed or wounded. If you see her again, Patera, please tell her
how sorry I am that this happened. Was Maytera--was General
Mint hurt?'
'They say not. They say she's planning another attack, but
nobody really knows. Were you wounded very badly, Patera?'
'I don't believe I'm going to die.' For seconds that grew to a
minute or more, Silk stared in wonder at the empty flask hanging
from the bedpost. Was life such a simple thing that it could be
drained from a man as red fluid, or poured into him? Would he
eventually discover that he held a different life, one which longed
for a wife and children, in a house that he had never seen? It had not
been his own blood--not his own life--surely. 'I believed I was, not
long ago. Even when you came, Patera. I didn't care. Consider the
wisdom and mercy of the god who made us so that when we're about
to die we no longer fear death!'
'If you don't think you're going to die--'
'No, no. Shrive me. The Ayuntamiento certainly intends to kill
me. They can't possibly know I'm here; if they did, I'd be dead
already.' Silk pushed aside his quilt.
Hurriedly, Shell replaced it. 'You don't have to kneel, Patera.
You're still ill, terribly ill. You've been badly hurt. Turn your head
toward the wall, please.'
Silk did so, and the familiar words seemed to rise to his lips of
their own volition. 'Cleanse me, Patera, for I have given offense to
Pas and to other gods.' It was comforting, this return to ritual
phrases he had memorized in childhood; but Pas was dead, and the
well of his boundless mercy gone dry forever.
'Is that all, Patera?'
'Since my last shriving, yes.'
'As penance for the evil you have done, Patera Silk, you are to
perform a meritorious act before this time tomorrow.' Shell paused
and swallowed. 'I'm assuming that your physical condition will
permit it. You don't think it's too much? The recitation of a prayer
will do.'
'Too much?' With difficulty, Silk forced himself to keep his eyes
averted. 'No, certainly not. Too little, I'm sure.'
'Then I bring to you, Patera Silk, the pardon of all the god--'
Of _all_ the gods. He had forgotten that aspect of the Pardon, fool
that he was! Now the words brought a huge sense of relief. In
addition to Echidna and her dead husband, in addition to the Nine
and truly minor gods like Kypris, Shell was empowered to grant
amnesty for the Outsider. For all the gods. Hence he, Silk, was
forgiven his doubt.
He turned his head so that he could see Shell. 'Thank you, Patera.
You don't know--you can't--how much this means to me.'
Shell's hesitant smile shone again. 'I'm in a position to do you
another favor, Patera. I have a letter for you from His Cognizance.'
Seeing Silk's expression, he added quickly, 'It's only a circular
letter, I'm afraid. All of us get a copy.' He reached into his robe.
'When I told Patera Jerboa you had been captured, he gave me
yours, and it's about you.'
The folded sheet Shell handed him bore the seal of the Chapter in
mulberry-colored wax; beside it, a clear, clerkly hand had written:
'Silk, Sun Street.'
'It's a very important letter, really,' Shell said.
Silk broke the seal and unfolded the paper.
