A Shadow All of Light
The thought had come to me late yesterday, as I visited a tavern where Mutano and I used often to repair for long tankards of a wheaten beer we relished, that my colleague might be engaged in trying to recover his voice. He was formerly possessed of a fine tenor, as clear in timbre and nimble in music as a clarino; his voice was an asset in which he took a justified pride and with which he could ardently woo beauty after beauty, supposing each successive one to be a paragon of virtue and modesty and of an ideal comeliness of carcass. A number of bitter disappointments had not halted his quest for his dreamed-of female, but the loss of voice had caused a hiatus.
To the best of our knowledge, Mutano’s proper voice was lodged within a great orange cat named Sunbolt. This was a feline peremptory of manner, cool of address, and casually unimpressed with humankind. It would be inaccurate to say that Sunbolt ever belonged to a master, but for a long while he had kept company with a swaggering bravo who suffered a painful humiliation at Mutano’s hands and afterward had departed Tardocco to take up, as ’twas rumored, the life of a celibate eremite. Sunbolt was now lost to sight and it was undecided whether that cat kept in his possession Mutano’s tuneful voice.
Yet he would try to seek out the orange cat, methought. It would seem a futile essay, Tardocco being a well-catted town, its gentry fond of the feline race and its harbor alleyways plentifully furnished with dark nooks and crannies, wharf rats and mice and scavenging sparrows. A man might spend his life and discover one particular cat no sooner than he would light upon a true sapphire in a street-seller’s jewel stock. Even so, desperation is a sharp urgement to enterprise and Mutano had shown the signs of a desperate man—pacing about nervily, meowing raggedly to himself, and displaying a short temper over such trifles as a misplaced dagger sheath.
He was no featherbrain; he would not roam the pavements. There are two thriving catteries in Tardocco and I assumed he would inquire of them first of all and then ask among the well-known fanciers of the breeds.
At the end of an alley off Chandlers’ Lane stood the establishment of Brotero, who captured, trained, and fed cats he let out for hire. Ratkillers they were, bred to the trade and prepared to live up to their brave repute. The rats of the harbor environs are often as large as good-sized terrier dogs and just as eager for combat. A flock of them can in two nights despoil half a cargo of wheat and eat into a bale of silk and hollow out a foul nest. The ruin they will make of a bin of green pears is as unsightly as it is inedible.
Dogs made much less effective opponents than cats, for they were not sufficiently fleet to keep up when the rats darted along high rafters or wriggled into narrow holes. They could pinch their bodies so as to squirm through apertures hardly larger than keyholes; yet when they stood to fight, their bulks swelled like bakers’ loaves rising in an oven. An especially hot-blooded rat would not scruple to attack a man, first giving warning with a tooth-baring snarl.
This rat, though, would be no match for Brotero’s cats, for he had trained them to work in pairs in ordinary circumstances and in packs when the odds grew large against them. A pair sent to extirpate a champion rodent would consist of a large, deep-chested, yellow-eyed, brawny beast accompanied by a small, lithe, spring-spined specimen, in shape something like a stoat. Brotero named the large cats Maulers; the lesser, swifter sort were Worriers. A Worrier harried the big rat flank and tail while the Mauler braced his enemy froward.
If an edifice such as a granary or molasses warehouse were being overrun with the pestilent species, Brotero would stage full raids upon the premises, loosing a good two dozen cats of each size within the premises and letting them scour the walls and niches and crannies ratless. These squealing, growling, gut-spattered wars made fine spectacle, and Brotero gained additional copper by charging admission and brokering wagers.
Sunbolt, the object of Mutano’s quest, bulked not large enough to work as a Mauler, nor did he own the quick responses of a Worrier. Falling between the two types, he would not be enlisted in Brotero’s armies, but the wily ratter could have intelligence of him. It was rumored he knew the name and the pedigree and abilities of every cat in Tardocco. It was whispered he even knew the secret names of many, the names which, given in antiquity by forgotten gods, passed down through each lineage from the times of primal millennia.
Of Sunbolt, however, he could tell me little. He rubbed his spraggle, gray moustache with a forefinger and peered up into my face. He was a slight, restless, narrow-shouldered knave whose corpus throbbed and jerked with tics and twitches. He resembled much more the prey of his animals than the cats themselves.
“There must be uncommon value in this Sunbolt,” he said. “Two others have asked already. One was your amicus, that Mutano fellow.”
“Who was the other?”
“He claimed to be a steward for a noble, a Baron Somebody. I forget.”
“You spoke with Mutano?”
“He spoke and I with difficulty made out his meaning, though I think that someone not well acquainted with cats might find the trick impossible.”
“He chooses to converse in the feline tongue. I know not why.”
“Nay-nay. ’Twas evident he had no choice in the matter. I conjecture that Sunbolt hath purloined his language. That is a thing that occurs with very young children, but it is nigh unheard of among those come of age. Your Mutano appeared to be of about forty years.”
“He is on the trace of the cat Sunbolt and I trace the steps of the cat-speaking man. Otherwise, I know naught.”
“As he departed, methought his way led toward the house of Nasilia three streets over. Fortune might show a fairer countenance at her cattery. Here our employment is useful and necessary. Nasilia’s business may tend more conformable to his—and to yours. For I know that the two of you are in hire to the shadow thief Astolfo. But mine is an honest trade and forthright.”
“Then long may you thrive,” said I, “and I am grateful for your words.”
But as I came away, heading toward Nasilia’s place, I reflected that Brotero lacked the physic and comportment of a hearty man of business. His manner was more that of someone you might trust to filch your purse while he performed his agitated little dance of tics and quivers.
* * *
Nasilia’s establishment was a squat building with yellow walls of baked clay and a roof of dark red tile, but for all its brightness of color, it appeared sad, with an air of mute misery. I had visited here before, in company with Astolfo when I was early with him. In this place cats were slaughtered to get at the musk pouches. We were closely associated with perfumers, shadows lending influence to scent in countless ways. Nasilia, whose specialties were of the heavier sort wherein muskery was most utilized, was one client for our darker shadows, hues tempering from light mauve to deep purple to the blackness of a midnight grave.
I was long in coming to distinguish such shades of odor. At the beginning, I could smell only the gross corpus, as ’twere, of a perfume and had to spend many hours in a shuttered room, wafting scents to my nose with a poplar-leaf fan, before I learned how a perfume too suggestive of clove can be lightened and freshened by tincturing it with shadow taken from the boughs of an apple tree in bloom; or how a perfume delicate as the scent of an early spring rose may be given keener interest by storing it a fortnight in violet umbrae, from which it will gain force of contrast.
I learned a little too of the character of women, having my suppositions stripped from me by example. The older woman does not always prefer the stronger scent; if she go forth in a dark blue gown, she may tease the senses of males by wearing a perfume as light in texture as the smell of white clover. If a maiden trip about gaily in a white frock bedecked with intricate frills, she may put on the scent of a red, red rose which has stood a while in magenta shadow, bringing an unexpected contrast to her visual appearance.
Such combinations of scent and shade have been the study of fashion since ever the first female enwrapped herself with cloth. In Astolfo’s libraries thick catalogues of
scents and shades, herbs and humors, stand ready on the shelves and are often consulted. A man or woman who fancies the possibility of taking up a profession in shadows will discover that it consists in a great deal more than sly snippery and sharp sundering.
The knocker of Nasilia’s door was of heavy iron shaped like a cat’s curled tail. I rapped with it seven times before the door was opened by a tall, broad-shouldered woman wearing a leathern apron over a stiff white linen smock. An almost visible cloud of cloying scent boiled out of the dark room behind her and I stepped back unthinkingly, the way I would avoid the puddle-splash of a passing carriage.
“You are Falco,” the woman said. Her voice resounded as if it proceeded from an empty rain barrel. When I admitted to this truth, she told me that my unintelligible friend Mutano had already paid a call here and, receiving no news to his liking, had traveled on.
“Did he chance to say—”
“He did not and I did not stay to ask. I desire no close acquaintance with your unsavory sort, O stealer of shadows.”
“And what may you be called?”
“I am Maronda, chiefest assistant to Nasilia, a woman famous in the perfume trade.”
“You are Maronda, murderess of helpless pusses,” I said. “Let not the black iron pot malign the polished brass kettle.”
“A fine polish it is you sport. Know you, Falco, that my brother lost his shadow to such a thief as you. He wasted nigh to nothingness before I could afford to replace it.”
“What is your brother’s name?”
“He was named Quinias and hath been called Quinny since childhood.”
“Does he suspicion some person or other?”
“He believes that it was taken from him at a tavern, The Double Hell. Other than that, he can say nothing.”
“If you had applied to Maestro Astolfo, we could have aided in his restoration. We provide many similar services which tend to the good of the citizenry.”
“Well, he is hale once more, all praise to Asclepius. And now I have no more to do with thee.” She clapped to the heavy door, sealing in the musky, unseen fog that had enveloped us.
I went from that place desirous of a river to plunge into, to wash away the smells that I thought must hang upon me like a woolen cloak. Since no river conveniently presented itself, I thought to repair nearby to The Red Stallion, where a tapster named Giorgio would furnish a basin of clean water and a tankard of clear white wine.
* * *
So he did, for one copper, and I carried the basin into the courtyard where a stout bench was set under a spreading white oak and laved my face and beard and then rinsed and finger-combed my hair as best I could before returning the basin and seating myself at a table. I inhaled the fresh, green-grape smell of the wine and imbibed it in tiny sips, savoring its cleanliness. I had got through a good half of the tankard before discovering that the large fellow at the table in the dim far corner of the room was the man I sought.
I might not have recognized him had I not been seeking. And though he looked directly at me, he seemed not to know me; he seemed, in truth, to take no notice of his surroundings. Mutano sat staring in a black melancholic trance, his gaze fixed upon a moteless point in empty space, his mind sunken in cloudy thought. When I rose to approach him, his eyes did not follow me, and when I spoke he gave a little start before responding.
“Ah, Falco.” He spoke cat speech.
“You seem in a dumpish state, old comrade.”
“I have grown tired of this world as it corkscrews. Naught keeps its savor in these drear days.”
“So I have heard report. I have followed in your track and your despondency hath been remarked.”
“You followed me?”
“You have been sent for.”
“By Maestro Astolfo?”
“There is a venture afoot,” I said, and delivered a brief account of the visit of Veuglio and the girl Sibylla. “As you would expect, he is an old crony of Astolfo’s, a most remarkable personage. You will find him impressive. The girl is new to me. They are to share bread with us this evening and we must be present to receive instruction.”
“I have no stomach for food, nor for instruction neither. I have mine own ends to pursue.”
“You seek the cat that beareth your voice in its body. I have asked about this beast where you did and received the same empty result.”
“I shall not leave off. I detest this cattish tongue I am forced to use. The sound of it curdles my belly juices. It sounds even worse when you essay to use it, as you are doing now.”
“I had thought I was finding the custom of it—the music, so to speak.”
“If you spoke as born to it, it would still be an ugly brangle, barbarous in every vowel.”
“Well, we must away to the villa. The sun hath passed its mid-afternoon mark.”
“You shall, if you please, convey my regrets.”
“I dare not,” I said. “The maestro is already displeased with us for leaving our task at the château unfulfilled.”
“How so? We took meticulous pains. All was in order.”
“This Veuglio marched through our snares, traps, mazes, and dead ends with less trouble than walking through cobweb.”
“Then,” said he, rising to his feet, “I should like to meet this signor and to learn of him.”
* * *
At table, Mutano appeared in a better state than he had in The Red Stallion. There his slovenliness of dress matched his bedraggled spirit, but now he was scrubbed and brushed and combed and togged in a dark green tunic new to my eyes. I had been studious of my ablutions also, washing away the musky perfumes that had engulfed me at the cattery door. I had no doubt, however, that Veuglio would detect the smell of that establishment.
Of the food I made little account, it being fleshless, fowl-less, and fishless. I dutifully made my way through groats, pulse, three different porridges, and an undistinguished cheese. Mutano and I refreshed ourselves plentifully with flagons while Veuglio and Sibylla drank water. Both of our guests fed themselves like herons a-fishing; they sat unmoving for intervals and then would dart their hands into the bowls and platters and take up victual with their fingers. This practice was convenable to blindness, methought, and the girl followed it also.
For a long time there was small converse. If Astolfo had not undertaken a long tale of a princess who had lent her beautiful shadow to a homely lady-in-waiting, silence would have immersed the large dining room and its carmine drapery and ornate silver candlesticks.
At last Astolfo too fell silent and Mutano redoubled his attack upon the wine jug; and then Sibylla spoke: “It is of no use, Signor Mutano, to try to lave from memory the face of a beloved with drink.”
Mutano did not reply but only stared upon this white, thin girl as if she had shied a candlestick at him. She gazed at him steadily with her haunted eyes.
I was alert upon the instant. The child was correct. Why had I not thought how my friend’s despair proceeded from the fact that his fancy had lit upon a new beauty while he had not the means of speech to declare his passion, much less to ornament it with poems and songs after his custom?
Who his adored one was, I could not know, and it made small difference. In his usual course of love, Mutano would charm some beauty fair of form, delicate of manner, and refined of taste. He would worship her as acolytes of the Spring Goddess worship their deity. Then he would discover that she was no more than a woman like many another and his adoration would turn into indifference and the sweetness of his dreaming hours to bitter ashes. He had followed this path unchanging some seven or eight times that I had knowledge of, and it was likely there had been others of whom he had kept silent.
Now Sibylla had divined his secret and, though it explained much to me about his late comportment, I knew it could not alter Mutano’s cast of mind. He would try to regain his voice and if successful would pay devoted court to this unknown female, waylaying her with ballads and springing sonnets upon her as from an ambuscad
o. She was likely to be burdened with violets and near drowned in roses until some coarse expression flew from her lips or some act of petty treachery betrayed her inmost character. Then my wide-shouldered colleague would sit in heartsore solitude and his ballads would turn acrid and his sugared sonnets degenerate into satires.
This latter stage I secretly welcomed, for his angry lines held four times the wit and savor of his amatory mewling.
“As for Mutano’s capacity for wine,” I replied to the girl, “there you need not fear. I have seen him down goblets by the dozen without showing effect.”
The old man spoke. “What is not shown without wreaketh more direly within. Yet let that pass and tell how you and he sought to set safeguards upon the baron’s château with your placement of shades.”
I looked to Astolfo, not willing to share the secrets of our trade without his permission. He remained impassive, so I followed my own discretion. “It is difficult to describe. It will be easier and more instructive to demonstrate.”
I rose from my place, took up a candelabrum, set it at the end of the table, and advanced to the edge before it. “If a man walk along a corridor with light behind him, he will swerve to a new direction when he sees upon the wall before him the shadow of a mastiff large enough to tear out his throat.” With my hands before the candle flame I projected such a shape on the wall. With the fingers of my left hand curled to represent a shaggy mass, I placed my right fist in that palm, wrist bent to form a plausible leonine face. I sounded a growl low in my throat.