“That why you want to see Orchid’s place, Patera? I kind of wondered.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand you.” Crane’s mystery had just given Silk a particularly painful job. He wiggled it into a new position as he spoke. Deciding that it would be harmless to reveal plans Blood knew of already, he added, “I’m to meet your master there tomorrow afternoon, and I want to be certain I go to the correct house. That’s the yellow house, isn’t it? Orchid’s? I believe he mentioned a woman named Orchid.”
“That’s right, Patera. She owns it. Only he owns it, really, or maybe he owns her. You know what I mean?”
“I think so. Yes, of course.” Silk recalled that it was Musk, not Blood, whose name appeared on the deed to his manteion. “Possibly Blood holds a mortgage upon this house, which is in arrears.” Clearly Blood would have to protect his interest in some fashion against the death of the owner of record.
“I guess so, Patera. Anyhow, you talked about devils, so I thought maybe that was it.”
The hair at the back of Silk’s neck prickled. It was ridiculous (as if I were a dog, he said to himself later) but there it was; he tried to smooth it with one hand. “It might be useful if you would tell me whatever you know about this business, my son—useful to your master, as well as to me.” How sternly his instructors at the schola had enjoined him, and all the acolytes, never to laugh when someone mentioned ghosts (he had anticipated the usual wide-eyed accounts of phantom footsteps and shrouded figures after Blood’s mention of exorcism) or devils. Perhaps it was only because he was so very tired, but he discovered that there was not the least danger of his laughing now.
“I never seen anything myself,” the driver admitted. “I hardly ever been inside. You hear this and that. Know what I mean, Patera?”
“Of course.”
“Things get messed up. Like, a girl will go to get her best dress, only the sleeves are torn off and it’s all ripped down the front. Sometimes people just, like, go crazy. You know? Then it goes away.”
“Intermittent possession,” Silk said.
“I guess so, Patera. Anyhow, you’ll get to see it in a minute. We’re almost there.”
“Fine. Thank you, my son.” Silk studied the back of the driver’s head. Since the driver thought he had been a guest at Blood’s, it would probably do no harm if he saw the object Crane had conveyed to him; but there was a chance, if only a slight one, that someone would question the driver when he returned to Blood’s villa. Satisfied that he was too busy working the floater through the thickening stream of men and wagons to glance behind him, Silk took it out.
As he had suspected, it was an azoth. He whistled on a small footlight he had noticed earlier, holding the azoth low enough to keep the driver from seeing it, should he look over his shoulder.
The demon was an unfacetted red gem, so it was probably safe to assume it was the azoth he had taken from Hyacinth’s drawer and she had snatched out of the coiled rope around his waist. It occurred to Silk as he examined the azoth that its demon should have been a blue gem, a hyacinth. Clearly the azoth had not been embellished in a style intended to flatter Hyacinth, as the needler in his pocket had been. It was even possible that it was not actually hers.
Rocking almost imperceptibly, the floater slowed, then settled onto the roadway. “Here’s Orchid’s place, Patera.”
“On the right there? Thank you, my son.” Silk slid the azoth into the top of the stocking on his good foot and pulled his trousers leg down over it; it was a considerable relief to be able to lean back comfortably.
“Quite a place, they tell me, Patera. Like I said, I’ve only been inside a couple times.”
Silk murmured, “I very much appreciate your going out of your way for me.”
Orchid’s house seemed typical of the older, larger city houses, a hulking cube of shiprock with a painted facade, its canary arches and fluted pillars the phantasmagoria of some dead artist’s brush. There would be a courtyard, very likely with a dry fishpond at its center, ringed by shady galleries.
“It’s only one story in back, Patera. You can get in that way, too, off of Music Street. That might be closer for you.”
“No,” Silk said absently. It would not do to arrive at the rear entrance like a tradesman.
He was studying the house and the street, visualizing them as they would appear by day. That shop with the white shutters would be the pastry cook’s, presumably. In an hour or two there would be chairs and tables for customers who wished to consume their purchases on the spot, the mingled smells of mate and strong coffee, and cakes and muffins in the windows. A shutter swung back as Silk watched.
“In there,” the driver jerked his thumb at the yellow house, “they’ll be getting set to turn in now. They’ll sleep till noon, most likely.” He stretched, yawning. “So will I, if I can.”
Silk nodded weary agreement. “What is it they do in there?”
“At Orchid’s?” The driver turned to look back at him. “Everybody knows about Orchid’s, Patera.”
“I don’t, my son. That was why I asked.”
“It’s a—you know, Patera. There’s thirty girls, I guess, or about that. They put on shows, you know, and like that, and they have a lot of parties. Have them for other people, I mean. The people pay them to do it.”
Silk sighed. “I suppose it’s a pleasant life.”
“It could be worse, Patera. Only—”
Someone screamed inside the yellow house. The scream was followed at once by the crash of breaking glass.
The engine sprang to life, shaking the whole floater as a dog shakes a rat. Before Silk could protest, the floater shot into the air and sped up Lamp Street, scattering men and women on foot and grazing a donkey cart with a clang so loud that Silk thought for a moment it had been wrecked.
