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About midmoming I again heard the echoes of footsteps. Coming to the landing, I saw two cataphracts, an anagnost reading prayers, Master Gurloes, and a young woman. Master Gurloes asked if I had an empty cell, and I began to describe those that were vacant.

“Then take this prisoner. I have already signed for her.” I nodded and grasped the woman by the arm; the cataphracts released her and turned away like silver automata.

The elaboration of her sateen costume (somewhat dirty and torn now) showed that she was an optimate. An armigette would have worn finer stuffs in simpler lines, and no one from the poorer classes could have dressed so well. The anagnost tried to follow us down the corridor, but Master Gurloes prevented him. I heard the soldiers’ steel-shod feet on the steps.

“When am I… ?” It had a rising, somehow terrorized inflection.

“To be taken to the examination room?”

She clung to my arm now as though I were her father or her lover. “Will I be?”

“Yes, Madame.”

“How do you know?”

“All who are brought here are, Madame.”

“Always? Isn’t anybody ever released?”

“Occasionally.”

“Then I might be too, mightn’t I?” The hope in her voice now made me think of a flower growing in shadow.

“It’s possible, but it’s very unlikely.”

“Don’t you want to know what I’ve done?”

“No,” I said. As it happened, the cell next to Thecla’s was vacant; for a moment I wondered if I should put this woman there. She would be company (the two could speak through the slots in their doors), but her questions and the opening and closing of the cell might wake Thecla now. I decided to do it—the companionship, I felt, would more than compensate for a little lost sleep. “I was affianced to an officer, and I found he was maintaining a jade. When he wouldn’t give her up, I paid bravos to fire her thatch. She lost a featherbed, a few sticks of furniture, and some clothes. Is that a crime for which I should be tortured?”

“I don’t know, Madame.”

“My name is Marcellina. What is yours?”

I turned the key to her cell while I debated answering her. Thecla, whom I could hear stirring now, would doubtless tell her in any event. “Severian,” I said. “And you get your bread by breaking bones. It must give you good dreams by night.”

Thecla’s eyes, widely spaced and as deep as wells, were at the slot in her door.

“Who is that with you, Severian?”

“A new prisoner, Chatelaine.”

“A woinan? I know she is—I heard her voice. From the House Absolute?”

“No, Chatelaine.” Not knowing how long it might be before the two would be able to see each other again, I made Marcellina stand before Thecla’s door. “Another woman. Isn’t that unusual? How many do you have, Severian?”

“Eight on this level now, Chatelaine.”

“I would think you would often have more than that.”

“We rarely have more than four, Chatelaine.”

Marcellina asked, “How long will I have to stay here?”

“Not long. Few stay here long, Madame.”

With an unhealthy seriousness, Thecla said, “I am about to be released, you understand. He knows.”

Our guild’s new client looked at what could be seen of her with increased interest. “Are you really about to be set free, Chatelaine?”

“He knows. He’s mailed letters for me—haven’t you, Severian? And he’s been saying goodbye for these last few days. He’s really rather a sweet boy in his way.

I said, “You must go in now, Madame. You may continue to talk, if you like.” I was relieved after I had served the clients their suppers. Drotte met me on the stair and suggested I go to bed.

“It’s the mask,” I told him. “You’re not used to seeing me with it on.”

“I can see your eyes, and that’s all I need to see. Can’t you recognize all the brothers by their eyes, and tell whether they’re angry, or in the mood for a joke? You ought to go to bed.”

I told him I had something to do first, and went to Master Gurloes’s study. He was absent, as I had hoped he would be, and among the papers on his table I found what I had, in some fashion I cannot explain, known would be there: an order for Thecla’s excruciation.

I could not sleep after that. Instead I went (for the last time, though I did not know it) to the tomb in which I had played as a boy. The funeral bronze of the old exultant was dull for lack of rubbing, and a few more leaves had drifted through the half-open door; otherwise it was unchanged. I had once told Thecla of the place, and now I imagined her with me. She had escaped by my aid, and I promised her that no one would find her here, and that I would bring her food, and when the hunt had cooled I would help her secure passage on a merchant dhow, by which she could make her way unnoticed down the winding coils of Gyoll to the delta and the sea.

Were I such a hero as we had read of together in old romances, I would have released her that very evening, overpowering or drugging the brothers on watch. I was not, and I possessed no drugs and no weapon more formidable than a knife taken from the kitchen.

And if the truth is to be known, between my inmost being and the desperate attempt there stood the words I had heard that morning—the morning after my elevation. The Chatelaine Thecla had said I was “rather a sweet boy,” and some already mature part of me knew that even if I succeeded against all odds, I would still be rather a sweet boy. At the time I thought it mattered.

The next morning Master Gurloes ordered me to assist him in performing the excruciation. Roche came with us.

I unlocked her cell. She did not understand at first why we had come, and asked me if she had a visitor, or if she were to be discharged. By the time we reached our destination she knew. Many men faint, but she did not. Courteously, Master Gurloes asked if she would like an explanation of the various mechanisms.

“Do you mean the ones you are going to employ?” There was a tremor in her voice, but it was not marked.

“No, no, I wouldn’t do that. Just the curious machines you will be seeing as we pass through. Some are quite old, and most are hardly ever used.” Thecla looked about her before answering. The examination room—our workroom—is not divided into cells, but is a unified space, pillared with the tubes of the ancient engines and cluttered with the tools of our mystery. “The one to which I will be subjected—is that old too?”

“The most hallowed of all,” Master Gurloes replied. He waited for her to say something more, and when she did not, proceeded with his descriptions. “The kite I’m certain you must be familiar with—everyone knows of it. Behind it there… if you’ll take a step this way you’ll be able to see it better… is what we call the apparatus. It is supposed to letter whatever slogan is demanded in the client’s flesh, but it is seldom in working order. I see you’re looking at the old post. It’s no more than it seems, just a stake to immobilize the hands, and a thirteen-thonged scourge for correction. It used to stand in the Old Yard, but the witches complained, and the castellan made us move it down here. That was about a century ago.