On the far side of the hedge, the shrilling, bubbling, creaking sound continued while she remained frozen, lying with her bleeding face buried in her arms, perfectly still, scarcely breathing. The shrill creaking was replaced by the clunk of moving wood, the scrape of one board on another. Then there was only a long whisper and a cry which might have been animal or bird or even something mechanical shrieking wordlessly to its responding echo.
Dismé rose and crept down the mossy lane, slowly, very slowly. She would not be heard, not be seen, not be perceived, no one could ever know she was here, oh no. No, no, get home, make up a story, make it watertight for no one, no one must ever know she was here.
Something was rising inside her, a pressure that closed her throat and made the hedges around her spin dizzily. She gulped at the bubble, standing quite still as she tried unsuccessfully to swallow it, eyes unfocused, uncertain of what this was, what this feeling could possibly be. And then it burst, engulfing her, overwhelming her, almost lifting her on its wave.
Relief. Solace.
She stood blindly, timelessly adrift in a comfort so profound as to approach ecstacy. The euphoria did not last long. Within moments she sagged to her knees in angry self-accusation. How despicable! How contemptible! To feel joy at such a time and for such a reason!
Or for no reason! She didn't know what had happened! She was assuming, and her assumptions might well be wrong, might well be none of her business. If she had been less inquisitive, she would not have been here at all. It had nothing to do with her. She should leave it alone! And feel, feel... nothing. Feel nothing at all. Later she would know what was an appropriate feeling. Sadness. Perhaps melancholy. Even grief, but not this outpouring of warm joy...
She ran, as from some barely discernable monster made more terrible by her recognition of it. The maze fled behind her, the museum, the woods, she went up the trellis like a squirrel, crossed the roof, stumbled through her open window and collapsed onto the bed, pulling pillows and blankets toward her, burying herself in them, wrapping herself tightly, quoting silly poems to herself, things she and Arnole had made up to amuse themselves, over and over, a litany of desperation. She didn't know anything had happened! She had heard noises, that was all! Words jingled in her head, the little tune that carried them repeating and repeating until she was lost in a dizzy buzzing that led into an exhausted sleep.
Despite the self-hatred that had possessed her, when she woke, well before dawn, her first feeling was one of peace and joy. Somewhere in the night she had come upon a gladness. What was it? What had happened? She hunted for it, coming upon it at last like a dead rat on a dinner plate. She couldn't be joyous, because she didn't know. She didn't know anything!
But she had made a promise. No matter what had happened or not happened or might have happened, she still had to keep her promise! Staggering from bed, she confronted a scabbed and battered image still wearing the trousers and torn shirt that had failed to protect her bloodied face or arms. The trousers were old ones of Michael's. She had rescued them from the rubbish, patched the holes, wore them only in secret, for tree climbing and such. The shirt was an old one of her own, ruined. Chunks of matted hair were hanging loose, gouged out during her struggle.
Flinching, she combed out the loose hair, the twigs, the bits of bark, painfully rebraiding the unruly mop into its usual smooth cap. A washcloth dipped into the pitcher removed the dried blood from neck, forehead, ears, arms, reducing the apparent damage by half though making it appear more recent. She changed the torn shirt for a long-sleeved, high-collared one; the un-Regimic trousers for a skirt, then went out into the predawn darkness, back the way she had come the night before.
The statues guided her from their topiary niches, nodding to the left, pointing to the right, lifting eyes to denote a dead end way, their fingers signaling directions, distances, and meanings, as Caigo Faience had meant them to do. She carried no lantern for the skies were paling and the bulging moon still cast its pale rays into the east-west lanes. When she reached the far south lane, she saw what she had envisioned: the barriers tumbled, the cross pieces pulled aside. She knelt at the hole and peered down. Nothing. Nothing at all.
She wept silently, her face in her hands, then wiped her face on her shirttail and rose. Quietly and carefully, making as little noise as possible, she set the barriers up as they'd been before. This was why Ay-ward had told her to come early in the morning. He had wanted her to come here to this place, to act in this way, before anyone else saw the barriers had been disturbed. He'd known how she would interpret the fallen barrier. He just hadn't expected her to be here when he knocked it down.
Clenching her teeth, she knelt again, then lay flat, hanging dizzily over the edge of the hole, looking down past the same rooty mass. The moon above her shoulder shone into the hole, evoking the silver glimmer she had seen before, far down. There was also a sound, not what she'd heard before, something else, low and continuing. She listened intently, trying to make sense of the noise, wondering if water running or the rustling of bats could make that noise, those words...
"Help me, Dis! Oh, God, help me. Please, please, turn it off."
She shoved herself away from the edge and sat shaking, knees up, arms around them, stomach heaving, trying to disbelieve what she'd heard. Though she put her head between her knees and took deep breaths, the sick feeling would not leave her. She was not mistaken. It had been Ayward's voice.
It was a long time before she could get to her feet, and then only shakily. Dawn lightened the eastern sky, and as she climbed the trellis, a derisive caw from a crow's nest in the park suggested an acceptable excuse for her battered appearance. She went along to Aunt Gayla's room to complain of getting up at dawn to spy on a high nest only to be attacked by the parent birds. Her face was wet with tears and smeared with blood, the tale was false, but the pain was real, as the punishment no doubt would be. Compared to what had happened in the night, punishment was nothing.
Gayla applied ointments and sympathetic words and tush-tushed at her when she broke into renewed weeping. They went down to breakfast together, where Dismé was silent, busy with self-hatred. How could her first reaction have been one of release? What kind of cold, inhuman creature was she?
"Were you hurt somewhere else?" Gayla asked. "You're crying!"
"It's nothing, Aunty. Just ashamed of myself for being so clumsy."
"As well you should be," said Rashel, furiously, as she entered from the corridor. She glared at Dismé, then leaned forward to slap her sharply across her wounded face. "You're too old for nonsensical behavior like climbing trees! When are you going to grow up? As if I didn't have enough to worry about, cutting the staff to come up with the money to repair this damage! Keep out of sight until you're healed. I don't want anyone to see you looking like that!"
Dismé swallowed deeply, not sure it was sarcasm.
"I have class today, Rashel."
"I'll tell them you won't be there. You can't be, looking like a bowl of cat-meat!" She left, slamming the door behind her.
"Now why was she that angry?" wondered Gayla. "Out of all proportion, that one."
Dismé had no idea. She had never had any idea. Since Rashel obviously hated her, one would think she would relish Dismé being injured— even killed—but Rashel did not want her hurt. Whenever Dismé was in danger of being hurt, Rashel became frightened and more than usually abusive.
Gayla moved from the breakfast table into the kitchen to discuss supper with Molly Uphand. Joan came to clear, surprised to find Dismé still at the table.
"What're you waitin' for, Miss Dismé?" asked Joan. "My, that mama bird did do you damage! Lucky your eyes weren't hurt!"
"I'm waiting to see Owen," she replied. "He has a book about frogs he said I could borrow for class."
"He's late," said Joan, amid her clattering.
"Who? Owen?" asked Aunt Gayla. "He's terribly late. I wonder if something's wrong..." And she was off to the other wing, to check on Owen. To Ga
yla, all young men were nephews.
Dismé stayed stubbornly where she was. Shortly, a flurry of shrill screams came from the far end of the house, and both Molly and Joan rushed off toward the noise, joined by Michael, who had just come in the back door. Dismé didn't move.
Michael was back in a short time, giving her a hard look and reaching for the emergency alarm flags.
"Is someone hurt?" she managed, as he pulled out the flags that meant a medical emergency.
"Owen," he said. "We think he's fallen and hit his head." He hummed through his teeth for a moment. "Ayward is gone."
"Gone!" she said, astonished at her own surprise. Well, she hadn't known, not really. It could have been demons, trying to trick her. "How could he go anywhere without Owen?"
"We don't know. I've got to request a medic," he said, rushing out the back door to comply with the Regime's dictates about the injured. Injured people had to be seen to right away, so if necessary, they could be bottled in time.
Gritting her teeth, Dismé went along to Ayward's rooms, where she found Aunt Gayla sitting on the floor, weeping as she cradled Owen's head, Molly and Joan wailing dirges behind her. Driven by conscience, Dismé knelt to get a good look at Owen. He had a bump on his head, though not a big one; there was no blood and he was breathing very naturally. If he had fallen where he lay, he had possibly hit his head on the shelf above him.
When the medic arrived with the horse-drawn ambulance, the configuration was more or less the same, except that Rashel was contributing a raging dissonance to the chorus of lamentations. In addition to the medic from the Department of Medicine there was an agent from the Office of Chair Support, Department of Death Prevention, Division of Health, BHE. This man took Rashel and Aunt Gayla off into another room, and they returned after a time wiping their eyes, though whether from fear or anger, Dismé couldn't tell. Now the agent wanted to see Dismé.
Though Arnole had always denied it, everyone more or less believed that interrogators from the BHE could tell if someone lied to them. She would be careful not to lie. Not really.
"You're the Director's sister?" he asked.
"Step-sister, sir." Her forehead itched abominably. She rubbed at it with her fingers.
"I understand you were out early this morning?"
"Yes, sir." It was true he understood that.
"Birdnesting, your sister said. What's that about?"
"I'm interested in the wildlife here, at the edge of the forest. Since the Happening, the distribution of wildlife in the world has changed enormously, but we have few if any recent studies. I'm writing a little journal about the various species of local birds." True. All true.
"Ah." He frowned at the form before him, tapping his pen. "Do you have a permit from the Office of Textual Approval?"
"A permit from the Office is not required unless one submits for publication, sir."
"Ah, right." He stared at her face. "Did you see anything unusual?"
"After I got all scratched up, I was mostly interested in getting home, so I really wasn't paying attention." All of which, heaven knows, was true enough.
"You know your sister's husband is gone."
"That's what Michael said. I don't understand how he could be gone without Owen. Maybe when Owen wakes up, he'll know."
"The medics say Owen has been drugged."
"Drugged?" she stared with her mouth open. The Chairs used drugs, of course, to keep occupants comfortable, but she couldn't imagine how Owen could have been drugged. He was a strong young man, and Ay-ward could only use one hand.
The man saw her puzzlement. "This man, Ayward. Is it true his father also went away?"
"Yes, sir. He did. I miss him a great deal."
"After so long?" His voice softened. "You must have loved him."
Dismé, rubbing at her forehead once again, allowed herself a few angry tears that would no doubt pass for grief. "My father died when I was very young. Arnole became a kind of replacement father to me."
"Well, then. Don't worry about this matter. I'm sure the mystery will be solved." He patted her on the shoulder as he turned to go out, and she heard his voice in the hall, telling Rashel how puzzled and worried she was. "It is strange, Madam, to have it happen twice."
"Not at all strange," she said slowly, in a bitter tone. "They were father and son, and consequently much alike."
"Intransigent?" he asked.
"Stubborn, certainly," she replied. "My husband's father was a salvage child, saved from among outsiders. He remembered a youth among outlanders, where things were done differently."
"So your husband would have grown up with that example," the agent said. "Yes. You're right. It's not so strange as I had at first assumed."
"He went so suddenly," she blurted angrily. "Before I had a chance to ... well. It was all very ... unfortunate."
Dismé was behind the door, and through the crack she could see Rashel's face set in furious frustration. Had she been looking forward to that second Chair? Savoring Dismé's possible reaction to that second Chair? Had Dismé's furious pity concerning the first Chair lost its savor?
The agent nodded once more. "You'll need to be careful. Your sister has seen it happen twice. She is extremely upset."
"I know," Rashel said, with momentary satisfaction. "But my sister will get over it."
27
questions concerning faience
Several senior officers were together in the officers' mess when a messenger arrived with a folder for the bishop, who buttered a bit of toast, slathered it with game pate, and chewed reflectively while perusing the first page of the document.
"Post rider brought this communiqué from the Office of Conformity Assurance in Apocanew," he said at last. "The Office was called out to examine flood damage up at the Faience center. Repairs will put them over budget."
Major Marchant, on yet another visit to Hold, looked up with a startled expression. "I thought Faience came under my jurisdiction."
The bishop raised his eyebrows. "For what goes on there, yes, Mace, but when BHE took over the place the physical fabric was defined as Ephemeral Art, full of trees and mazes, and maintenance of such stuff falls under Conformity Assurance."
"Ah," murmured the major. "Does your communiqué mention the woman running the museum ... what's her name?"
"Rashel Deshôll."
"Deshôll, ah, right. Just last year I signed a Hold-honor commendation for her exemplary reorganization of the Faience."
The doctor had seen the major's face and heard his too casual tone being a little too uncertain of the name of the "woman running the museum." Anyone at the Inexplicable Arts sub-office in Apocanew should know that name as well as he knew his own. Now the major's cheeks were a bit flushed, his manly nostrils were slightly dilated.
The bishop remarked, "No doubt she's done a commendable job, but I've also had a report from Colonel Professor Zocrat's office suggesting that she may be a nexus for demonic activity."
"What business has the Division of Education with Faience?" asked the major, now openly annoyed.
"There's a school for workers' children at Faience," said the bishop, mildly. "It's a legitimate concern."
The doctor leaned back in his chair, gray eyes flicking from one to another of his fellow officers from beneath arched brows, wide mouth impudently and forever curved beneath his long nose as he said, "What's being suggested, Bishop? Contagion?"
Marchant looked slightly stunned.
The bishop shook his head. "Our agent reports two cases of strange vanishment in Deshôll's immediate family, father-in-law and husband; both were chaired, both disappeared."
"Disappeared? How can anyone in a Chair disappear?"
The question came from Captain Trublood, who, in the doctor's opinion, showed a great deal of presumption by constantly hanging around.
"Inexplicable, indeed, Captain!" the bishop said. "The family was scrutinized very carefully on both occasions, however, and we found absolutely nothing to involve t
he Deshôll woman in the disappearances or in the fact that one of the students at the Faience school sorcerously set fire to his desk. In that case, Deshôll wasn't even present, though her sister—ah, Dismé Latimer—was. We brought the boy in, but as usual, the power didn't persist throughout interrogation."
"Because the kid couldn't remember how he did it?" asked the doctor.
"He wouldn't have been asked how he did it," said the general, irritably. "He would have received the standard interrogation we use whenever demonism is suspected. Only the doctrinally orthodox can get a permit. Needless to say, the boy had no permit!"
"Our sub-office investigated after the disappearance of both Arnole and Ayward Gazane," said the major. "In the last incident, we found no tracks, he wasn't hidden anywhere, no one in the place knows anything and the man had seen no one but family and servants for over a year. I suspect he drove his chair down the hill and over a cliff into the lake."
"Why would he have done that?" asked the doctor, just to be irritating.
The major scowled. "Gazane founded the Inclusionist school, which had proven useless. He was given a chance to refocus himself, and couldn't. He'd been quite depressed. I'm sure no one at Faience was involved. The step-sister is a bit weird, but she's not bright enough to have had anything to do with it."
The doctor noted the major's tight lips and watchful expression. All this intimate knowledge of Ayward when he couldn't remember Rashel's name? The major had lovely eyes. Altogether an attractive package, the major. Was Rashel also an attractive package?
"What's her name again?" he asked, casually.
"Who? Deshôll?"
"No, the ah ... step-sister."
"Ah, Dismé," said the major. "Dismé Latimer. Why?"