[New Sun 04] The Citadel of the Autarch
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XXIII. The Pelagic Argosy Sights Land
WHEN I REGAINED consciousness, it was the pain in my leg that I felt first. It was pinned beneath the body of the piebald, and I struggled to free it almost before I knew who I was or how I found myself where I did. My hands and face, the very ground on which I lay, were crusted with blood.
And it was quiet—so quiet. I listened for the thudding of hoofs, the drum roll that makes Urth herself its drum. It was not there. The shouts of the cherkajis were no more, nor the shrill, mad cries that had come from the checkerboard of Ascian infantry. I tried to turn to push against the saddle, but I could not do so.
Somewhere far off, no doubt on one of the ridges that rimmed the valley, a dire wolf raised its maw to Lune. That inhuman howling, which Thecla had heard once or twice before when the court went to hunt near Silva, made me realize that the dimness of my sight was not due to the smoke of the grass fires that had burned earlier that day, or, as I had half feared, to some head injury. The land was twilit, though whether by dusk or dawn I could not say.
I rested and perhaps I slept, then roused again at the sound of footsteps. It was darker than I remembered. The footsteps were slow, soft, and heavy. Not the sound of cavalry on the move, nor yet the measured tread of inarching infantrya walk heavier than Baldanders’s and more slow. I opened my mouth to cry for help, then closed it again, thinking I might call upon myself something more terrible than that I had-once waked in the mine of the man-apes. I lunged away from the dead piebald until it seemed I would wrench my leg from its socket. Another dire wolf, as frightful as the first and much closer, howled to the green isle overhead.
As a boy, I was often told I lacked imagination. If it were ever true, Thecla must have brought it to our nexus, for I could see the dire wolves in my mind, black and silent shapes, each as large as an onyger, pouring down into the valley; and I could hear them cracking the ribs of the dead. I called, and called again, before I knew what it was I did. It seemed to me that the heavy footsteps paused. Certainly they moved toward me, whether they had been coming toward me before or not. I heard a rustling in the grass, and a little phenocod, striped like a melon, bounded out, terrified by something I still could not see.
It shied at the sight of me and in a moment was gone.
I have said that Erblon’s graisle was silenced. Another blew now, a deeper, longer, wilder note than I had ever heard. The outline of a bent orphicleide showed against the dusky sky. When its music was ended it fell, and in a moment more I saw the head of the player blotting out the brightening moon at three times the height of a mounted trooper’s helmet—a domed head shaggy with hair. The orphicleide sounded once more, deep as a waterfall, and this time I saw it rise, and the white, curling tusks that guarded it on each side, and I knew I lay in the path of the very symbol of dominion, the beast called Mammoth. Guasacht had said I held some mastery over animals, even without the Claw. I strove to use it now, whispering I know not what, concentrating my thought until it seemed my temples would burst. The mammoth’s trunk came questing toward me, its tip nearly a cubit across. Lightly as a child’s hand it touched my face, flooding me with moist, hot breath sweet with hay. The corpse of the piebald was lifted away; I tried to stand but somehow fell. The mammoth caught me up, winding its trunk about my waist, and lifted me higher than its own head.
The first thing I saw was the muzzle of a trilhoen with a dark, bulging lens the size of a dinner plate. It was fitted with a seat for the operator, but no one sat there. The gunner had come down and stood upon the mammoth’s neck as a sailor might upon the deck of a ship, with one hand on the barrel for balance.
For a moment a light shone in my face, blinding me.
“It’s you. Miracles converge on us.” The voice was not truly either a man’s or a woman’s; it might almost have been a boy’s. I was laid at the speaker’s feet, and he said, “You’re hurt. Can you stand on that leg?”
I managed to say I did not think I could.
“This is a poor place to lie, but a good one to fall from. There’s a gondola farther back, but I’m afraid Mamillian can’t reach it with his trunk. You’ll have to sit up here, with your back against the swivel.”
I felt his hands, small, soft, and moist, beneath my arms. Perhaps it was their touch that told me who he was: The androgyne I had met in the snow-covered House Azure, and later in that artfully foreshortened room that posed as a painting hanging in a corridor of the House Absolute.
The Autarch.
In Thecla’s memories I saw him robed in jewels. Although he had said he recognized me, I could not believe in my dazed state that it was so, and I gave him the code phrase he had once given me, saying,
“The pelagic argosy sights land.”
“It does. It does indeed. Yet if you fall overboard now, I’m afraid Mamillian’s not quite quick enough to catch you ... despite his undoubted wisdom. Give him as much help as you can. I’m not as strong as I look.”
I got some part of the trilhoen’s mount in one hand and was able to pull myself around on the musty-smelling mat that was the mammoth’s hide. “To speak the truth,” I said, “you’ve never looked strong to me.”
“You have the professional eye and ought to know, but I’m not even as strong as that. You, on the other hand have always seemed to me a construction of horn and boiled leather. And you must be, or you’d be dead by now. What happened to your leg?”
“Burned, I think.”
“Well have to get you something for it.” He raised his voice slightly. “Home! Back home, Mamillian!”
“May I ask what you’re doing here?”
“Having a look at the field of battle. You fought here today, I take it.”
I nodded, though I felt my head would tumble from my shoulders.
“I didn’t... or rather, I did, but not personally. I ordered certain bodies of light auxiliaries into action, with a legion of peltasts in support. I suppose you must have been one of the auxiliaries. Were any of your friends killed?”
“I only had one. She was all right the last time I saw her.”
His teeth flashed in the moonlight. “You maintain your interest in women. Was it the Dorcas you told me of?”
“No. It doesn’t matter.” I did not quite know how to phrase what I was about to say. (It is the worst of bad manners to state openly that one has penetrated an incognito.) At last I managed, “I can see you hold high rank in our Commonwealth. If it won’t get me pushed from the back of this animal, can you tell me what someone who commands legions was doing conducting that place in the Algedonic Quarter?”
While I spoke, the night had grown rapidly darker, the stars winking out one after another like the tapers in a hall when the ball is over and footmen walk among them with snuffers like mitres of gold dangling from spidery rods. At a great distance I heard the androgyne say, “You know who we are. We are the thing itself, the self-ruler, the Autarch. We know more. We know who you are.”
Master Malrubius was, as I realize now, a very sick man before he died. At the time I did not know it, because the thought of sickness was foreign to me. At least half our apprentices, and perhaps more than half, died before they were raised to journeyman; but it never occurred to me that our tower might be an unhealthy place, or that the lower reaches of Gyoll, where we so often swam, were little purer than a cesspool. Apprentices had always died, and when we living apprentices dug their graves we turned up small pelvises and skulls, which we, the succeeding generation, reburied again and again until they were so much injured by the spade that their chalky particles were lost in the tar like soil. I, however, never suffered more than a sore throat and a running nose, forms of sickness that serve only to deceive healthy people into the belief that they know in what disease consists. Master Malrubius suffered real illness, which is to see death in shadows.