The entrance to the Hall of Justice was not far from this shop. A crowd of a hundred or so was milling before it, and since the people pointed and elbowed one another when they caught sight of my fuligin, we retreated again to the courtyard where the destriers were tethered. A portreeve from the Hall of Justice found us there — an imposing man with a high, white forehead like the belly of a pitcher. “You are the carnifex,” he said. “I was told you are well enough to perform your office.”
I told him I could do whatever was necessary today, if his master required it.
“Today? No, no, that's not possible. The trial won't be over until this afternoon.”
I remarked that since he had come to make certain I was well enough to carry out the execution, he must have felt certain the prisoner would be found guilty.
“Oh, there's no question of that — not the least. Nine persons died, after all, and the man was apprehended on the spot. He's of no consequence, so ther's no possibility of pardon or appeal. The tribunal will reconvene at midmorning, but you won't be required until noon.”
Because I had had no direct experience with judges or courts (at the Citadel, our clients had always been sent to us, and Master Gurloes deal; with those officials who occasionally came to inquire about the disposition of some case or other), and because I was eager to actually perform the act in which I had been drilled for so long, I suggested that the chiliarch might wish to consider a torchlight ceremony that same night.
“That would be impossible. He must meditate his decision. How would it look? A great many people feel already that the military magistrates are hasty and even capricious. And to be frank, a civil judge would probably have waited a week, and the case would be all the better for it, since there would have been ample time, then, for someone to come forward with fresh evidence, which of course no one will actually do.”
“Tomorrow afternoon then,” I said. “We'll require quarters for the night. Also I'll want to examine the scaffold and block, and ready my client. “Will I need a pass to see him?”
The portreeve asked if we could not stay in the lazaret, and when I shook my head, we — the portreeve, Dorcas, and I — went there to permit him to argue with the physician in charge, who, as I had predicted, refused to have us. That was followed by a lengthy discussion with a noncommissioned officer of the xenagie, who explained that it was impossible for us to stay in the barracks with the troopers, and that if we were to use one of the rooms set aside for the higher ranks, no one would want to occupy it in the future. In the end a little, windowless storeroom was cleared out for us, and two beds and some other furniture (all of which had seen hard use) brought in. I left Dorcas there, and after assuring myself that I was unlikely to step through a rotten board at the critical moment, or to have to saw the client's head off while I held him across my knee, I went to the cells to make the call that our traditions demand. Subjectively at least, there is a great difference between detention facilities to which one has become accustomed and those to which one has not. If I had been entering our own oubliette, I would have felt I was, quite literally, coming home — perhaps coming home to die, but coming home nevertheless. Although I would have realized in the abstract that our winding metal corridors and narrow gray doors might hold horror for the men and women confined there, I would have felt nothing of that horror myself, and if one of them had suggested I should, I would have been quick to point out their various comforts — clean sheets and ample blankets, regular meals, adequate light, privacy that was scarcely ever interrupted, and so on.
Now, going down a narrow and twisted stone stair into a facility a hundredth the size of ours, my feelings were precisely the reverse of what I would have felt there. I was oppressed by the darkness and stench as if by a weight. The thought that I might myself be confined there by some accident (a misunderstood order, for example, or some unsuspected malice on the part of the portreeve) recurred no matter how often I pushed it aside.
I heard the sobbing of a woman, and because the portreeve had spoken of a man, assumed that it came from a cell other than the one that held my client. That, I had been told, was the third from the right. I counted: one, two, and three. The door was merely wood bound with iron, but the locks (such is military efficiency!) had been oiled. Within, the sobbing hesitated and almost ceased as the bolt fell back.
Inside a naked man lay upon straw. A chain ran from the iron collar about his neck to the wall. A woman, naked too, bent over him, her long, brown hair falling past her face and his so that it seemed to unite them. She turned to look at me, and I saw that it was Agia.
She hissed, “Agilus!” and the man sat up. Their faces were so nearly alike that Agia might have been holding a mirror to her own.
“It was you,” I said. “But that isn't possible.” Even while I spoke, I was recalling the way Agia had behaved at the Sanguinary Field, and the strip of black I had seen by the hipparch's ear.
“You,” Agia said. “Because you lived, he has to die.” I could only answer, “Is it really Agilus?”
“Of course.” My client's voice was an octave lower than his twin's, though less steady. “You still don't understand, do you?”
I could only shake my bead.
“It was Agia in the shop. In the Septentrion costume. She came in through the rear entrance while I was speaking to you, and I made a sign to her when you wouldn't even talk of selling the sword.”
Agia said, “I couldn't speak — you would have known it for a woman's voice — but the cuirass hid my breasts and the gauntlets my hands. Walking like a man isn't as hard as men think.”
“Have you ever looked at that sword? The tang should be signed.” Agilus's hands lifted for a moment, as though he would have taken it still if he could. Agia added in a toneless voice, “It is. By Jovinian. I saw it in the inn.” There was a tiny window high up in the wall behind them and from it, suddenly, as though the ridge of a roof, or a cloud, had now fallen below the sun, a beam of light came to bathe them both. I looked from one aureate face to the other.
“You tried to kill me. Just for my sword.”
Agilus said, “I hoped you would leave it — don't you remember? I tried to persuade you to leave, to flee in disguise. I would have given the clothes to you, and as much money as I could.”
“Severian, don't you understand? It was worth ten times more than our shop, and the shop was all we had.”
“You've done this before. You must have. Everything went too smoothly. A legal murder, with no body to weight for Gyoll.”
“You're going to kill Agilus, aren't you? That must be why you're here — but you didn't know it was us until you opened the door. What have we done that you're not going to do?”
