Oosik was capable of any quantity of double-dealing, if he was any
judge of men.
It did not matter.
He took his clothing from the chair and spread it on the bed. If
Oosik intended him to escape, he must escape as Oosik intended. If
Oosik intended him to be killed escaping, he must escape just the
same, doing his best to remain alive.
His tunic was crusted with his own blood and completely
unwearable; he threw it down and sat on the bed to pull on his
undershorts, trousers, and stockings. When he had tied his shoes,
he rose and jerked open a drawer of the bureau.
Most of the tunics were cheerful reds and yellows; but he found a
blue one, apparently never worn, so dark that it might pass for black
under any but the closest scrutiny. He laid it on the pillow beside the
letters, and put on a yellow one. The closet yielded a small traveling
bag. Slipping both letters into a pocket, he rolled up his robe,
stuffed it into the bag, and put the dark blue tunic on top of it.
The magazine status pin of the big needler indicated it was
loaded; he opened the action anyway trying to recall how Auk had
held his that night in the restaurant, and remembering at the last
moment Auk's adjuration to keep his finger off the trigger. The
magazine appeared to be full of long, deadly-looking needles, or
nearly full. Auk had said his needler held how many? A hundred or
more, surely; and this big needler that had been Musk's must hold at
least as many if not more. It was possible, of course, that it had been
disabled in some way.
There was no one in the hall outside. Silk closed the door, and
after a moment's thought put the quilt against its bottom and shut
the window, then sat down on the bed, sick and horribly weak.
When had he eaten last?
Very early that morning, in Limna, with Doctor Crane and that
captain whose name he had never learned or had forgotten, and the
captain's men. Kypris had granted another theophany, had
appeared to them, and to Maytera Marble and Patera Gulo, and
they had been full of the wonder of it, all three of them newly come
to religious feeling, and feeling that no one had ever come to it
before. He had eaten a very good omelet, then several slices of hot,
fresh bread with country butter, because the cook, roused from
sleep by a trooper, had popped the loaves that had been rising
overnight into the oven. He had drunk hot, strong coffee, too;
coffee lightened with cream the color of Hyacinth's stationery and
sweetened with honey from a white, blue-flowered bowl passed to
him by Doctor Crane, who had been putting honey on his bread.
Now Doctor Crane was dead, and so was one of the troopers, the
captain and the other trooper most likely dead too, killed in the
fighting before the Alambrera.
Silk lifted the big needler.
Someone had told him that he, too, should be dead--he could not
remember whether it had been the surgeon or Colonel Oosik.
Perhaps it had been Shell, although it did not seem the sort of thing
that Shell would say.
The needler would not fire. He tugged its trigger again and
returned it to the windowsill, congratulating himself on having
resolved to test it; saw that he had left the safety catch on, pushed it
off, took aim at a large bottle of cologne on the dresser, and
squeezed the trigger. The needler cracked in his hand like a
bullwhip and the bottle exploded, filling the room with the clean
scent of spruce.
He reapplied the safety and thrust the needler into his waistband
under the yellow tunic. If Musk's needler had not been disabled,
there was no point in testing Hyacinth's small one, too. He made
sure its safety catch was engaged, forced himself to stand, and
dropped it into his trousers pocket.
One thing more, and he could go. Had the young man whose
bedroom this was never written anything here? Looking around, he
saw no writing materials.
What of the owner of the perfumed scarf? She would write to
him, almost certainly. A woman who cared enough to drop a silk
scarf from her window would write notes and letters. And he would
keep them, concealing them somewhere in this room and replying in
notes and letters of his own, though perhaps less frequently. The
study, if there was one, would belong to his father. Even a library
would not be sufficiently private. He would write to her here,
surely, sitting--where?
There had been no chair in the room until Shell brought one. The
occupant could only have sat on the bed or the floor, assuming that
he had sat at all. Silk sat down again, imagined that he held a quill,
pushed aside the chair Shell had put in front of the little night table,
and pulled it over to him. Its shallow drawer held a packet of
notepaper, a discolored scrap of flannel, a few envelopes, four
quills, and a small bottle of ink.
Choosing a quill, he wrote:
<blockquote>
Sir, events beyond my control have forced me to occupy
your bedchamber for several hours, and I fear I have broken
a bottle of your cologne, and stained your sheets. In extreme
need, I have, in addition, appropriated two of your tunics
and your smallest traveling bag. I am heartily sorry to have
imposed on you in this fashion. I am compelled, as I
indicated.
When peace and order return to our city, as I pray that
they soon will, I will endeavor to locate you, make restitution,
and return your property. Alternately, you may apply
to me, at any time you find convenient. I am Pa. Silk, of Sun Street
</blockquote>
For a long moment he paused, considering, the feathery end of the
gray goose-quill tickling his lips. Very well.
With a final dip into the ink, he added a comma and the word
