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fuligin cloak in speculating as to why the archon, who had never come to me before, and whom, for that matter, I had seldom even seen outside his court, should find it necessary to visit the Vincula—so far as I could see, without an entourage.
    The speculation was welcome because it kept certain other thoughts at a distance. There was a large silvered glass in our bedroom, a much more effective mirror than the small plates of polished metal to which I was accustomed; and on it, as I saw for the first time when I stood before it to examine my appearance, Dorcas had scrawled in soap four lines from a song she had once sung for me:

    Horns of Urth, you fling notes to the sky,
Green and good, green and good.
Sing at my step; a sweeter glade have I.
Lift, oh, lift me to the fallen wood!

    There were several large chairs in the study, and I had anticipated finding the archon in one of them (though it had also crossed my mind that he might be availing himself of the opportunity to go through my papers—something he had every right to do if he chose). He was standing at the embrasure instead, looking out over his city much as I myself had looked out at it from the ramparts of Acies Castle earlier that afternoon. His hands were clasped behind him, and as I watched I saw them move as if each
possessed a life of its own, engendered by his thoughts. It was some time before he turned and caught sight of me.
    â€œYou are here, Master Torturer. I did not hear you come in.”
    â€œI am only a journeyman, Archon.”
    He smiled and seated himself on the sill, his back to the drop. His face was coarse, with a hook nose and large eyes rimmed with dark flesh, but it was not a masculine face; it might almost have been the face of an ugly woman. “Charged by me with the responsibility for this place, you remain a mere journeyman?”
    â€œI can be elevated only by the masters of our guild, Archon.”
    â€œBut you are the best of their journeymen, judging from the letter you carried, from their choosing you to send here, and from the work you’ve done since you arrived. Anyway, no one here would know the difference if you chose to put on airs. How many masters are there?”
    â€œI would know, Archon. Only two, unless someone has been elevated since I’ve been gone.”
    â€œI’ll write them and ask them to elevate you in absentia.”
    â€œI thank you, Archon.”
    â€œIt’s nothing,” he said, and turned to stare out the embrasure as though the situation embarrassed him. “You should have word of it, I suppose, in a month.”
    â€œThey will not elevate me, Archon. But it will make Master Palaemon happy to hear you think so well of me.”
    He swung around again to look at me. “We need not be so formal, surely. My name is Abdiesus, and there is no reason you should not use it when we’re alone. You’re Scvcrian, I believe?”
    I nodded.
    He turned away again. “This is a very low opening. I was examining it before you came in, and the wall hardly reaches above my knees. It would be easy, I’m afraid, for someone to fall out of it.”
    â€œOnly for someone as tall as yourself, Abdiesus.”
    â€œIn the past, were not executions performed, occasionally, by casting the victim from a high window or from the edge of a precipice?”
    â€œYes, both those methods have been employed.”
    â€œNot by you, I suppose.” Once more he faced me.
    â€œNot within living memory, so far as I know, Abdiesus. I have performed decollations—both with the block and with the chair—but that is all.”
    â€œBut you would have no objection to the use of other means? If you were instructed to employ them?”
    â€œI am here to carry out the archon’s sentences.”
    â€œThere are times, Severian, when public executions serve the public good. There are others when they would only do harm by inciting public