On this afternoon the rooms of the penthouse are thronged with brightly dressed visitors. Beneath gay umbrellas, the tables beside the reflecting pool are crowded. Flowers nod in the light wind. People chat. Members of the Bishop’s Holy Guard set aside their weapons to pass trays of sandwiches and cookies. Scilla pours tea and her younger girls, including five-year-old Angelica, join the children of guests to dart like hummingbirds among potted roses, toddler voices rising in shrill gaiety over the ritual feigning and fencing of their elders.
The general is at the center of all this, impeccably dressed in his white dress uniform, belted, bemedaled, roped and ribboned in gold, affably accepting the compliments of his guests on this, the sixtieth anniversary of his birth and the twentieth of his accession to the leadership of the Spared. He is hand in hand with Gregor Gowl III, penultimate child got by Gowl upon Scilla, only son, much longed-for heir, a boy who can be neither disciplined nor swayed. “A chip off the old block,” cries Gowl, as he admires this six-year-old terror of the Fortress. When Angelica was born, yet another girl, Gowl declared himself weary of begetting, and Scilla spent most of a span saying fervid thanks in the tiny, hidden Lady’s chapel where men did not go.
The roof garden is no less a symbol of the general’s power than the uniform he wears. On the day six years ago when his wife finally presented him with a son, he decreed into existence the garden Scilla had long begged for. Within days, it was a fact: arbor, potted trees, reflecting pool, fountain and all. Some of the guests arrive at the garden easily, for they are of the Regime’s elite who live only a floor or two below. They are entitled to use the elevator, and they have servants to climb and carry for them. On today’s occasion, however, they are joined by their counterparts from Apocanew and Newland and Amen-city who have been clambering toward this height all their lives, a longer ascent by far than merely a walk up the hill to the Fortress capped by a climb of fifteen or twenty stories to the top. Here are the pretenders to power, the holders of irrelevant office, the receivers of trivial titles, the elected but impotent representatives to the Congress of the Spared. As compensation for their inconsequence, they are accorded the honor of an invitation to the general’s birthday gala. Some of them, aware that fortunate liaisons have been known to arise from mere childhood acquaintance, have brought their children along today, to meet the general’s children and bask in their glow.
The general moves among his guests with a sham congeniality that fools no one. Even five-year-old Angelica, currently in hot pursuit of the Colonel Bishop’s youngest daughter, plans her darting and fluttering to keep herself well away from her father. The general’s wife occupies herself at the tea table where her handing of cups is aided by the wives of senior officers, one of whom, the Colonel Bishop’s wife, leans forward to say, with some envy, “Angelica’s turning out to be so very pretty!”
“Yes,” agrees the general’s wife, with a wary glance at her youngest daughter. “It’s surprising, for she was an ugly baby. Every day she looks more like my first child, Ovelda, the daughter who died.”
“I remember her, of course,” says the bishop’s wife. “She was a sweet, dear girl. Every time I go to the Hold bottle wall, I stop and greet her.”
“Kind of you,” murmurs the general’s wife, tears filling her eyes.
“I notice there’s a fence around the roof garden now,” the bishop’s wife comments approvingly. “So much safer.”
“Oh, it wasn’t a roof garden then,” said the general’s wife, staring at the fence atop the parapet that surrounds the roof on three sides, the fourth guarded by the looming mass of the great chimney. “Our quarters were down two floors from here. We never came up here. We never knew how Ovelda got up here. There was nothing here, no reason for her to come.”
“But there is a fence now,” persisted the bishop’s wife.
“Yes. No other child will fall all that terrible way again. Crush themselves like that. Die like that.”
“Now, now, my dear, she isn’t dead. She’s in the bottle wall, awaiting the final days. She was just Angelica’s age, wasn’t she?”
The general’s wife looks down at the hands writhing in her lap, for a moment unable to understand they are her own. She clenches them until they will lie still, and when she looks up again, it is with guileless and tear-washed eyes. “It was twenty years ago, and she was my first child as Angelica is my last. She was just Angelica’s age, yes.”
The bishop’s wife, who is a kindly woman, reproaches herself for being so thoughtless as to have raised the matter and to have continued it thereafter. Through sheer ineptitude, she is about to make matters worse when a tall, uniformed figure steps forward to call Scilla’s attention to a grassfire that has blazed up in the commons outside the city wall, a scene full of smoke and much comic rushing about of horses and wagons, with people waving rakes, falling over their feet and getting in one another’s way. The intervenor is Colonel Doctor Jens Ladislav, and with a jester’s charm he gathers a clamor of nearby ladies into an appreciative chorus that laughs at the preposterous spectacle until the painful subject of Ovelda’s death has obviously been forgotten.
“Thank you,” murmurs the bishop’s wife, as the doctor moves away. “I shouldn’t have reminded her of Ovelda. You know about that?”
“I’ve been told that the general’s wife has never recovered from her daughter’s death,” the doctor says softly. “Strange, with so many other daughters, that Ovelda should still preoccupy her attentions.”
“It was the way she died,” says the bishop’s wife. “So strangely.”
“Oh, very strangely,” agrees the doctor, his eyes wandering from the ladies at the parapet to the general, who is standing beneath the arbor at the center of a congratulatory group. The doctor was twenty-two when Ovelda fell, and he has heard the story. A plunge from the roof and a small body lying unseen long enough that some predator—dog? cat? wild creature?—had time to eat certain organs before it was discovered, leaving the rest untouched. There had been mention of demons, of course. Whenever anything of the sort happened, there was always mention of demons.
From his vantage point among his colleagues, the general also notices the resemblance between Angelica—now dancing in jubilation at having tagged her quarry—and the long-dead Ovelda. The likeness evokes a disturbing itch-ache of both body and mind, and the general moves restlessly in discomfort and distraction.
“I’m sorry?” he says to the young man who is being introduced. “What was your name again?”
“Trublood, sir. Captain James Trublood-Turnaway.”
“Ah. Part of the great Turnaway clan, eh, Captain?”
“Yes, sir. Definitely part of the clan, and proud to be under your leadership, sir.”
For the moment, though only for the moment, the general forgets the feelings that have troubled him in recent days and preens himself on being a man among men.
The general had recently grown slightly dissatisfied with his life. He told himself he had been a man among men even before receiving help from Hetman Gohdan Gone, that he was entitled to flattery and honors on his own, but still, on the morning following his birthday celebration he woke discontented. He thought it odd to stumble upon disquiet now, after everything he’d achieved, but he had to admit he had mostly pretended at enjoyment during the festivities. And though he could recall rewarding moments in his past, he was not truly enjoying his life as it went on, day by day. During the past few days, in fact, he had been recalling the desires and feelings of his youth, drawing contemptuous comparisons between what was and what he had once imagined.
Long ago, he had seen himself all in white on a white horse, and he had become that figure, yes, but it was a long time between parades. Even when there were parades, horseback was not an unmixed pleasure for a man who spent most of his time at the dining table, in bed, or behind a desk.
On this particular morning, every memory and thought was complicit in convincing him something essential had been missed along
the way, something of enormous importance, something that would make a lasting mark on the people of Bastion or even on the people of the world! Certainly he could not be satisfied by simply growing older, holding on by his fingernails until he could be decently bottled! He didn’t want a mere place in the bottlewall, subject to the insincere blather of those making Cheerful and Supportive visits. He wanted to be remembered for more than a few years’ duty to the Regime. Oh, by all the Rebel Angels, he wanted a shrine to himself, a monument to a reputation that would survive his bottling by a thousand years! Or until the world ended, whichever came first!
The idea kept him sleepless three nights in succession, and in the end he did what he had done many times before. He sent a messenger to Hetman Gone, requesting an appointment, and he comforted himself with such ritual phrases as “He’s always helped me; I’m sure he’ll help me now.”
These incantations were purely formulaic. General Gowl had never really thought about Hetman Gone except as an adjunct to his own life, as a man may do when he says, my spouse, my children, my doctor, my man of business, or, as in this case, my sorcerer. General Gowl took at simplest face value all matters unrelated to himself. Since he had never come face to face with a relentless opponent or fought a real war, such easy presumption had served him well enough. Though there was a good deal of evidence that Gone was not merely a man (if only Gowl had paid attention) Gowl thought of him as a person, one with many talents, but still, only a man.
He had not seen the Hetman during the Hetman’s nocturnal pursuits. He had not accompanied the Hetman when he moved with unnatural speed down the roads of Bastion in the late hours of moonless nights. He had not attended the revels that the Hetman directed in mist-filled chasms or on stretches of lonely shore beside rain-pocked seas. He had not seen the Hetman’s servants without clothing, or the Hetman himself in like déshabillé. In fact, though he had listened to the Hetman quite closely on many occasions, he had never really looked at him with the speculative eye of an alert and skeptical nature. He had never asked himself whence the Hetman had come, and when, and why.
He did not ask those questions now. He merely went to the meeting as he always went to the meeting, with his own needs uppermost in his mind. The room in which he was received was hotter than before, the smells were more offensive than usual. The drink he was offered was, at best, noisome, as it had been during his last several visits. As the general explained his feelings, the Hetman seemed almost preoccupied—perhaps as a chess player might be who is already ten moves ahead and knows it no longer matters what his opponent does.
“You need to call upon power,” said the Hetman in a peremptory tone, when the general had finished. “The great achievement you seek will require great power.”
“What power?” the general asked, somewhat confused. “The Rebel Angels?”
The Hetman shrugged, a rippling gesture peculiar to himself. “If that is your preferred source of power, then that is the power you should call upon. In anticipation of your need, I have researched a spell you can use. I am afraid I must charge you for it, for it is what we call a lapsing spell. Such enchantments are rare; they are usable only a few times before becoming impotent. This one is still new and strong, but it will only work two or three times.”
The general looked over the parchment, moving uncomfortably as he did so. There were things written there…nothing he hadn’t done before, of course, but still…“Charge me?” he murmured at last. “What charge?”
“In addition to the item specified in the spell, only a little of your blood. For magical potions of my own that require the blood of a powerful man.”
The general looked at the spell, and at the Hetman, and he thought of the spell he had used twenty years before, and of how this spell was both different from and similar to that one, and he thought what sorcerers could do to a person if they had a sample of his blood, so it was said, and he consulted his ambition and thought again. After all, he and the Hetman had a long association. He knew so little of trust that he felt sure he could trust the Hetman.
“Very well,” he murmured. “Oh, very well.”
It was the twisted and dwarfish servant who took the blood, nicking the vein with a dirty blade to let it flow into a glass vial. This was done in an outer room, and the Hetman did not even say good-bye. The same servant said he would be on hand when the spell was wrought, to provide assistance and take away the item that was promised as payment. His name, he said, was Gnang.
The general took some time to obtain the ingredients for the rite, making sure that the blame for the acquisitions fell on others. He picked up the final and most important ingredient the very night that the sacrifice was made. The work was done in a deep passageway that threaded through the monstrous chimney, at the end of a dogleg passage opening through a secret door to the roof garden, a door that antedated the garden by many years. On either side of the deep passage the sheer walls of the chimneys rose; above it the scant smoke of the midnight roiled and writhed like living creatures; within it stood the necessary materials and devices, including a great iron brazier with a fire that was already burning when the general arrived with his burden. Gnang stood at one side, simply waiting.
The general set his burden down and busied himself with knives and vials and bottles, contemplating immortality as he threw certain things onto the greasy fire, as he chewed and swallowed this and that, as he turned toward the north to spill other substances upon the puddled surface around him, each thing done, chewed, swallowed, spilled, burned in accordance with the formula that Gnang prompted into his ready ear.
The thin cry of the victim scraped like a fingernail against an inner door of hell. Gowl did not respond to it. He merely uttered the final words amid the reek of burning flesh and spilled blood. Gnang picked up the item he had come for and disappeared into one of the narrow channels within the chimney. Smoke began to billow from several huge flues. At first Gowl was so preoccupied by the intricacies of the spell that he wondered at this. It was too early for the bakers to have arrived to fire up their huge ovens. It was too late for the laundry, far below in the cellars of the place, to be stoking its boilers, but there was smoke, nonetheless, first from half a dozen, then a dozen, then a dozen more of the black and twisted flues.
Gradually, the smoke turned from gray to black under the light of the late moon, and as he realized this was not mere chimney smoke, he turned to put his back against the wall. Something huge and dark emerged from a chimney pot that was not by any means large enough to have held it.
“General Gowl,” whispered a voice from amid the smoke where floated a pair of red, burning eyes.
The general bethought himself of an old story concerning a woman of flame who had appeared here in Bastion when it was first discovered. Perhaps this was she. The eyes had a certain familiarity. Taking a shuddering breath, he steadied himself against a parapet and whispered a response. “I am General Gowl.”
“A man who should live forever in the memory of his people,” whispered the voice. “A mighty man.”
The general straightened, saying more loudly, “I have always tried to be strong for my people.”
A sound came from the dark mass which might have been laughter. “Of course you have. However, tonight I do not speak to strength. I speak to ambition. You want to be immortal, General Gowl.”
He started to demur, but then caught himself. One did not demur with angels, and who else could this be but one of the Rebel Angels? “Yes, I want to be immortal,” he admitted.
“It might be arranged,” said the voice, the smoke roiling around it like a garment blown by the wind. “On certain terms.”
“Which would be…?” the general asked, keeping his voice level with some difficulty.
“Merely to serve us.”
“But I do…do serve you.”
“Who do you think we are, General? Who does your religion tell you we are? We will give you a clue.” Again that sound that might be laughter. “We have bee
n with the Spared Ones since the Happening itself.”
The general grinned fiercely, his teeth showing. “You are the Rebel Angels! Those who came to our aid! Those who rebelled against the old God who would not save our people!”
The smoke boiled from the chimney; the eyes held steady within it; the voice purred: “You may so address us. Do you know why the glory you yearn for has so far eluded you?”
The general stopped, stunned. “Has it? It has? I thought I had had a share of it, but I wanted…I wanted more…”
The figure swirled, the voice whispered. “A man cannot want too much glory. You would have had more if you had completed the great task. Your earliest heroes were devoted to that task. In the time before the Happening, and in the time before that time, men spoke of the task. Power and vengeance are better than peace. Where is your vengeance, Gowl?”
He cried out, stung, “Against whom? All who have opposed me are dead! Who do I avenge against?”
“All those, out there, who do not accept the beliefs of the Spared. All those heretics who do not worship as you do. You have avenged yourself only against your own people, Gowl, which is like cutting off your own fingers. You must take vengeance against those outside, who refuse to follow your ways.” A long pause before the keening whisper insinuated itself deeply into his mind, “You must begin a holy war against those who do not follow you and thus, who do not follow us.”