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Then a hand of flesh, Remora’s long blue-veined hand, was reaching for her; she caught it and let him help her climb from the looped slings to a mosaic floor. “There you are, Maytera. I, um, we have been waiting for you. The sergeant is most, er, desirous to proceed, eh?” Remora’s face was clean, his soiled overrobe was gone, and his costly robe had been replaced by one more costly still.
She looked for the windows she had pictured, expecting to find them glowing with sunshine; but there were no windows, only scores of rock-crystal holy lamps surmounted by long, bright flames, and a fire blazing upon the altar.
“I — ah — kindled the, um,” Remora ventured, following the direction of her eyes. “It seemed provident.”
“Certainly. You’ve cleaned up, too. May I ask where, Your Eminence?” Catching sight of Urus edging toward the back of the manteion, she shouted, “Sergeant! Stop that prisoner!”
“An, er, dressing chamber? Cubiculum. Off the sacristy, eh? For sibyls. Cabinets — ah — wardrobes in there. So I, um, given to understand.”
“I’ll want water and soap,” she told him. “Warm water, if that’s possible. You’ve washed, clearly.”
Spider interjected, “The sergeant wants to sacrifice right away. He—” From his position between Urus and the door, Sand himself rasped, “The Prolocutor told us Pas would come, sir. I reported that. It’s the Plan, and standing orders say it’s got higher priority than anything else.” Slate nodded agreement.
“Indeed it does. But Pas may not come as well. We must be prepared for that eventuality, too. I say that, though I hate putting myself on the same side as Urus, who feels certain Pas won’t. But if he comes, as we hope, we must be fit to receive him. Not only I, but all of you as well.” She followed Remora onto the sanctuary elevation and past the fire-crowned altar.
“The, um, locality, hey?” Remora was almost gri
“What about it, Your Eminence? If you’re asking whether I know where we are,” she glanced around her, “I haven’t the least idea. I didn’t know that a manteion like this existed.”
They entered the sacristy, thrice the size of Silk’s on Sun Street; a shelf held a long row of jeweled chalices, and a block of fragrant sandalwood a dozen sacrificial knives whose gold or ivory handles flashed with gems.
“I have officiated here, er, i
He was about to go; she caught the voluminous sleeve of his robe. “The room where I can wash? Where there may be a clean habit I can borrow?”
“Oh, yes, yes, yes! Right — ah — door.” He opened it for her. “Should be a bolt, eh? Inside. No doubt, no doubt. Water likewise. Tank, eh?” He pointed at the ceiling. “Under the — ah — in the west cupola.”
The room was twice as large as her longed-for bedroom in the cenoby. Gratefully, she shut its door and shot the bolt. Two large wardrobes and a wash basin; a pierced copper hamper, presumably for laundry; a full-length mirror on one wall and a glass on another. A table in a corner.
Opening one of the wardrobes, she found half a dozen clean habits of various sizes; she draped the biggest over the glass, then emptied her pockets onto the table, took off her own habit, and dropped it into the hamper. It was probably beyond saving, and the Chapter owed her a round hundred new ones at least.
Grimly stepping out of her soiled underdrawers and removing her chemise and bandeau, she resolved to collect those habits and distribute them to sibyls as poor as she.
It was Mainframe itself to take off her shoes and stockings, although she had to sit on the floor to do it, which made it seem likely there were no clean stockings. She rinsed the ones she had taken off, wrung them as dry as she could, and hung them over the open door of the wardrobe.
The tap to her left gushed water that was at first tepid, then pleasantly steaming. There was a boiler somewhere in the Palace, presumably; Maytera Mockorange, whose family had been wealthy, had spoken of such luxury, although Maytera Mint had never dreamed it might be available to sibyls.
She had to wash her hands three times (with scented soap!) before the suds that streamed from them were no longer black with filth. Even so, small crescents remained under her nails. The point of a needle from her needler attended to those.
Her small, tired face seemed to her equally dirty, if not worse; gingerly dabbing at the bruises and burns, she washed it again and again, washing her short brown hair too, then sponged her entire body, heedless of the pools that formed on the red-tiled floor.
Remora’s querulous voice penetrated the heavy wooden door. “The… Sergeant Sand. Sergeant Sand wishes—”
She felt her sly little smile, although she struggled to repress it. “Tell him that I myself wish for sandwiches, Your Eminence, and ask what he knows about court-martials.”
“You… chaff.”
“Not at all. Tell him that and ask him.” Her image in the mirror appalled her. If Bison were ever to see her like this!
Not that he or any other man ever would, presumably; but men did not like ski
A pretty girl whose long curls had bordered upon chestnut. Some of those men might have been lying, and no doubt some had been. But all of them? It seemed improbable.
The other wardrobe was divided into pigeonholes; most were empty, but one held two clean chemises and two pairs of clean underdrawers. The underdrawers were several sizes too large, but wearable with the string pulled tight. She could rinse her bandeau as she had her stockings -
In a flurry of rebellion, she flung it into the hamper. A bandeau to cover up what? To hold in what? She had worn one because her mother, and subsequently Maytera Rose, had said she must; she looked no different now in this yellowed chemise than she had in her own in the cenoby.
Snatching the habit from the glass, she clapped her hands. “Monitor? Monitor?” She had used glasses during the past few days, but was not completely comfortable with them.
“Yes, madame.” The floating gray face was at once detached and deferential.
“Look at me. I’m lacking an essential item of feminine apparel. What is it?”
“Several, madame. A gown, madame. Hose, and shoes.”
“Besides those.” She turned sideways and stood on tiptoe. “What is it?”
“I am at a loss, madame. I might offer a conjecture.”
“You needn’t bother.” She took the smallest habit from the first wardrobe. “Do you know who I am?” For an instant she was wrapped in darkness before it setfied into place. Still no coif, she thought. Still no coif.
“I recognize you now, madame. You are General Mint. I was ignorant of your identity, previously. Would you prefer that I address you as General?”
“As you like. Has anyone been trying to contact me?”
For perhaps a second, the monitor’s face dissolved into darting lines. “Several, madame. Currently, Captain Serval. Do you wish to speak with him?”
She sensed that the name should have been familiar, yet it meant nothing to her. She nodded. Better to find out who he was and what he wanted, and be done.
The monitor’s face revised itself, gaining color, a round chin, and a debonair mustache. “My General!” A brisk salute, which she returned almost automatically.
“My General, I have been ordered by Generalissimo Oosik to make you aware of the situation here.”
She nodded. Where was “here”?