The Infinity Concerto by Greg Bear

Author:Greg Bear [Bear, Greg]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9780441370597
Google: jFLXAAAACAAJ
Amazon: 0441370594
Barnesnoble: 0441370594
Goodreads: 1417043
Publisher: Ace
Published: 1984-10-01T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-Two

The Yard was at Euterpe’s center, a broad, flat brick building surrounded by streets uncharacteristically wide for the human town. Helena marched ahead of him, an intent look on her face. “Nobody likes to go here,” she said. “I don’t go often. Savarin comes here more often than the rest.”

The entrance to the yard was narrow, barely two feet wide, and blocked with a heavy woven wicker door a foot thick. Helena pulled a knob and glass chimes tinkled faintly within. A peephole slid open in the brick wall beside the door and a yellow, bleary eye peered at them.

“Sherebith, it’s me,” Helena said. The wicker door opened with a hollow scraping sound.

“Yes, Miss Helena. What can I do for you?” A yellow-faced, plump woman in a long gray gown stood in the half-open en trance way, arms folded, staring at Michael with neither trust nor liking.

“This is a friend,” Helena said. “I’d like him to see the Yard and meet Ishmael. Michael, this is Sherebith.”

Michael held out his hand. “Glad to meet you,” he said. The woman looked at the hand, grimaced in disbelief and opened the door wider. “Come in,” she said in a resigned tone. “He’s been quiet today. The others are following his example. Thank whomever for small favors.”

Sherebith led them down a dark corridor, the walls, floor and ceiling of which were made of close-spaced bricks the color of dried dung. Some light entered through narrow slits at intervals of six or seven strides; the only other illumination was from wax candles ensconced between the slits. Despite the musty smell, the floors and walls seemed clean and well-tended. Sherebith went first, followed by Helena and then Michael, who had the nagging urge to look over his shoulder.

The interior was silent. At the end of the corridor was another heavy wicker door, this one studded on the outside with more glass chimes. “Alarms,” Helena said, tinkling one before Sherebith opened the door and set them all ringing.

Beyond was an open court about ten feet square, again made of brick and devoid of ornament. In each of the four walls was another door. Sherebith stepped to the door directly opposite and unlatched it. As the door creaked open, a damp thick odor wafted out, combining the worst traits of musty cellars and the sewer sludge Michael’s father used on the family garden.

The candles burned dimmer in the thick air beyond. There were no slits for lighting, but covered ventilator holes in the ceiling admitted faint barred spots of day.

The room’s opposite walls were lost in darkness. Square brick columns supported the low ceiling, each side holding a guttering candle. Michael saw pits dug into the floor, each about ten feet on a side and faced with brick and tile. Michael counted seven. “Compound three,” Sherebith said. “I call it Leader of the Howl Compound, because of Ishmael. He’s the big one. The instigator.” She pointed to benches near each pit. “When the compounds were built, people thought perhaps the parents would like to come visit their children now and then.

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