It had recognized her as the Archivist by the ring, Leen recalled. That implied that the presentation of different sigils could also result in recognition. If -
“I think it’s finished,” Tarfon prodded her.
So it appeared. Leen pressed tentatively at the newly revealed door. It slid smoothly away from her on a concealed pivot. She hesitated, gazing through the gap into the poorly lit cell, then straightened her shoulders. What was she here for, if not to proceed? She edged through the opening and took a step beyond, approaching the figure bound to the rack of confinement. Behind her, there was a fresh rush of air, a muffled cry of “Wait! I can’t -” that was abruptly shut off with a small thump, and as Leen turned again she was already realizing what sight she was about to see. A hewn rock wall, unbroken by the doorway she had just passed through.
Leen scrutinized the surface. The action of the mysterious goo had taken several minutes, so it seemed unlikely for the rock to have knit itself again spontaneously... no, there was the outline of the door. Perhaps touching the correct spot with the ring would allow her to pass through again... although it did seem rather odd for the door to have taken the decision unilaterally upon itself to close behind her, instead of waiting for her to retreat through it again. Perhaps there was some additional command she should have given it to compel it to remain open. Or could it perhaps have sensed some untoward situation in the making, and followed the dictate of preserving any knowledge of its mere existence from -
The real door to the cell clanked and then began to slide open with a low creak.
There was nowhere to hide, nowhere to retreat, no time even to release Max and unleash his fighting skills - for the first time Leen took a good look at the figure on the rack.
It was not Max. It was not even a person. It was several pillows and gunny sacks wrapped in a cloak and trousers and secured to the bed with the straps and cables provided. A mask of restraint in the correct location obscured the absence of a face and head from anyone peeping through the observation hole in the door. In either door.
Leen was joined in her contemplation of this state of affairs by the man who had just entered the cell. Beneath a rich cloak of dark velvet could be glimpsed his robes of state, their hems of ermine and filigree of gold braid. “Well,” said the man. “Someone shall hear of this.”
Except calling him a “man”, though approximately true, was not strictly speaking accurate, for was the personage not in fact his Highness, the Emperor-designate himself?
It was just as well, Leen reflected, that she had never been one to swoon. She tried to steady her breathing, and watched as the Emperor-designate appeared to consider the question of whether to strike out in frustration at the effigy, or merely turn on his heel and stalk out, calling for the inevitable guards. It would have been the most boring alternative for fate and the most outrageous one for probability, and was not, in any case, in the cards, for of course the Emperor turned and saw her instead.
The Emperor-designate ran a dubious eye up and down her form. Smeared with dust and scraped by rocks, draped from head to waist with the remnants of ancient spiderwebs, holding a hooded lantern, Leen realized she struck a striking image out of classical mythology. “I know you,” the Emperor-designate said, “don’t I?”
“All know you, sire,” she told him. She hadn’t tried to make her voice particularly sepulchral, it was the dust and the coughing and the associated secretions that combined to produce the effect. For good or ill, it certainly didn’t sound like her.
The Emperor-designate frowned. “The prisoner Maximillian is no longer in his cell, yet here you are in his place instead. What do you have to say about this?”
She fixed him with a gaze she sincerely hoped was fraught with mythological import. “Maximillian has a larger fate than this.”
“His fate is subject to my will.”
“And is not your will subject to the will of others?”
“No,” he said impatiently, “of course not, that’s the whole point of the compact. The Emperor is granted freedom of action on a level with the gods.”
“Tell that to the Scapula,” Leen intoned.
He peered more closely at her. “You’re the Archivist, aren’t you? Of course you are. What is the meaning of this charade, and what are you doing in this cell?”
“Whiling away some time before the Knitting?”
“That,” said the Emperor-designate imperiously, with the barest hint of a sniff, “is scarcely appropriate wear for the Knitting. You should have already changed. Perhaps you will allow my guards to assure it? You will join me in the box of state, and as time permits we shall discuss this matter further.”
“Is he dead?” said Jill-tang. “If he isn’t dead why isn’t he waking up?”
“He’s not dead, but he’s being quite persistent about choosing to be unconscious,” Gashanatantra told her. They had arrayed Jardin on a slab in Jill’s workroom, located conveniently behind the reception area that had been the venue for their earlier sparring bout. “You wouldn’t have anything so crude lying about as an injectable amphetamine, would you?”
“You’ve already seen what’s in the medical cabinet.”
“Hm, yes. Do you recall a particular item of furniture, a decorative marble pedestal that we kept that globular light sculpture on? Is that piece still around?”
“It’s in my dressing room; this way. Why? Is there something hidden in it?”
“As a matter of fact, yes, there is.” Gashanatantra followed her down a hall with a polished parquet floor, modest gilt and crystal chandeliers, and matching mirrors atop provincial end-tables with fluted legs and claw-and-ball feet. The hall was long enough to bring a pony to a good canter and back to a stop without having to navigate a bend. “You’ve redecorated, I see. Your count of worshipers is up?”
“I suppose I can’t complain. About that, at any rate. In here.” The pedestal in question held a dramatic position in the middle of a circular settee surrounded by dressing tables and the doors to tall closets. A cunning skylight directed a wash of soft yellow over the base and its artwork; considering the depth of this apartment within the temple, the simple skylight must have required a significant supporting infrastructure of prisms and light guides and tracking mirrors linking it with the roof. And an artificial light source somewhere along the way, too, since it was by now unquestionably night. “Don’t break the sculpture, all right?”
“Why should I break it?” said Gashanatantra. “I was always fond of the thing. I commissioned it, if you don’t remember.” He carefully placed his palms flat on the curved sides of the pedestal, pressed, then moved his hands and caressed again. As he released his grip, the cylinder began to rotate with a soft whirr; rotate, and wind itself upward. The marble was revealed as a mere shell atop an interior mechanism fitted with a hefty spiraling screw thread. After a moment, the ascending tube slid to a smooth stop without giving the sculpture the merest jangle. Gashanatantra performed another cryptic manipulation and an interior cavity appeared. Withdrawing a latched box from the recess by its handle, he remarked, “You see? I am backing with actions my statement about the need for mutual collaboration and some modicum of trust. Now you will undertake a search of the premises for anything else I might have left sitting around, yes? Yet if it were not for me you would be none the wiser.”