“I will not haggle. You agreed to pay the price I set.”
“Within the bounds of reason, you will recall.”
“For this cat and perhaps for none other, four eagles is a reasonable sum.”
“Let me look upon this marvel,” I said. “I shall count it a happiness merely to glimpse a cat rated at that price.”
“Come round to the courtyard.” She closed the clumsy door of the cattery and led me a few steps down the lane to an iron-barred gate. Through it I could see a fire-pit over which hung a large iron pot used, no doubt, for boiling down essences and creating other noisome exhalations. A mere whiff of the air here increased the pulsing of my brain and the blearing of my eyes.
There was a shady plane tree in the far corner and under it sat a long, low bench, and upon the bench reposed a cat. I could make out only a little from this distance, but its color was different from that of any feline I had ever before encountered. It was of the silver-blonde hue to be seen in the hair of fair women and nowhere else, a human color.
Maronda produced a key from the pocket of her gray smock and opened the gate. The cat was looking away from us and did not turn as we approached. When we were within ten paces, Maronda spoke the name Asilia and the animal slowly squared its head to gaze at us.
The eyes were startling, not only because of their color, a cool chicory-flower blue, though that was remarkable, but because of the intelligence that lay behind them. It was unmistakable, this knowingness; I felt the force of it instantly. It is one of my necessary skills to judge the relationship between character and appearance and I have met many a human person who showed much less intelligent aspect than did Asilia the cat.
She rose from her haunches, arched her back in a slow, graceful rainbow, and turned her front toward us. Her coat was silver-blonde all along her flanks and down her legs, but the tip of each toe was dusted with a frosty white and there was a narrow blaze down her chest, a marking that looked like a shiny, dainty dagger.
She seated herself again and faced us, like a queen granting audience from her throne.
“What think you?”
The cat looked directly into my eyes. I felt she was reading my thought. “A remarkable animal,” I said. “How did you come by her?”
“That is none of your concern.”
“For four eagles, it may be. Pedigree is important.”
“So it is. That is why we shall keep it privy. You could not purchase the secret of the breeding for forty coins.”
“Let me observe her movement.”
Maronda raised her index finger. Asilia regarded her gravely for a long moment, as if she were deliberating whether to obey the suggestion, then rose again. She walked to the end of the bench, back to the other end, then repeated her march and settled again.
If water could walk in that shape, if the genius loci of a purling stream in the forest could take feline form, that is how it would move, not with one step and then the second, but with a flowing so smooth it appeared that no separate steps had been footed. Asilia moved slowly along the oak, but she swept.
“She has never been bred?”
“She is virginal, as you require.”
“Hath she an ear for music?”
“Jollylegs the fiddler played a tune most merry and she seemed to listen. When he played the old, sad ballad ‘Lament of Queens Departed,’ she took close note and inclined her head most attentive.”
“She did not join in the harmony?”
The woman with manly bones peered at me quizzically before grinning broadly. “She may have awaited an invitation unforthcoming.”
I had formed an admiration for Maronda. If she had lived by a different means, I might have sought to keep her company for a time and learn her ways. But I could tie no amatory bonds with a female whose presence would make me sneeze, snivel, and stream from the eyes.
“I see that she follows your simple command to patrol the bench. Has she been otherwise trained? Would she obey the signal of another person?”
“She will parade so at the crook of a finger, but that is all. She is no jongleur’s pet, versed in trickery. Such training might mar the simplicity of her nature.”
“I should not like that. But, please, do direct her to march again.”
The sunlight had shifted a little and this time I was able to observe her shadow more closely. She was so sylphlike that she hardly cast one and its motions upon the bench-board were as gentle as those of a slight breeze dallying with a row of white lilies.
“Well, ’tis a bargain then,” I said, and handed her the gold. “I shall return on the morrow with my comrade Mutano and we shall bring her away. You may be interested to know that she will be climbing high in the ranks of society and may possibly inhabit a château hereafter.”
“Asilia cannot ascend higher than the station she now occupies,” Maronda said. “She is a princess.”
I would not disagree.
* * *
Mutano was suspicious when I decorated one of the cook’s thrush-cages with flowers and hung shiny toys about the bars. “I misdoubt me your bait will attract,” he said.
“Only make certain,” I said, “that the instrument with which you are to capture the voice is in working order. I will see to the bait. And do not neglect to bring the shadow.”
We lifted the cumbersome curl-tail knocker again at the appointed hour and Maronda appeared. She gave Mutano a frank appraisal, from cap-feather to boot-toe. “This is the friend of whom you spoke?”
“This is Mutano. Troubled in his speaking, he is unable to greet you properly.”
He doffed his cap and made a bow, only half jestingly.
“No doubt you make up for his silence.”
I too bowed and exhibited the fanciful cage. “This is to transport Asilia,” I explained. “She will not be long contained.” I set it on the doorstep.
“Let us see if she consents,” Maronda said, She turned and gave the finger signal, and Asilia came trotting forward toward the sunlight. At the doorway she stopped, took account of Mutano and me, and began sniffing at the cage with its flowerets and ribbons and spangles. She looked questioningly at Maronda, and when the woman nodded, she nosed her way into the cage. She sniffed at one bauble and another, then turned three times and sat.
“Take good care handling her,” Maronda said. “Asilia belongs to you now, but if any harm comes to her through your agency or neglect, you will hear from me at close quarters.”
Mutano handed me the cage, made another teasing bow to Maronda, and in rising stepped forward and kissed her full on the mouth.
Astonishment made her face an immobile mask. That expression remained in place for a count of five and was replaced by a frown of strong vexation. Again she resorted to the force of her arm, and the slap that resounded upon Mutano’s cheek must have tumbled a lesser man. But he had braced himself for this reward of his insolence and stood steady, though with reddening face.
“Let me say amends for my friend,” I said. “Since he cannot speak, he sometimes resorts to awkward measures to express his sentiments. He means no harm and our master Astolfo will chastise him severely.”
Mutano sank to his knees and bowed his head. He was the very image of heartfelt abjection.
Maronda smiled despite herself and replied, “Your master must teach both of you the manners of gentlemen.”
“We are eager to learn.” I tugged Mutano’s ear and brought him upright. Then I handed him Asilia in her cage and we boarded the cart that stood before the door and I took the reins.
* * *
We arrived at the château in late afternoon. The western wall of the courtyard laid a shadow with an edge straight as a measuring stick over a third of the grounds. I carried the conveyance that held our precious Asilia. Mutano carried a black box something like a viol case. It contained Sunbolt’s shadow.
We were to keep our part of the bargain and return the victor cat’s shadow to him, but we wished to delay this moment for a litt
le, so we made ourselves busy with buttons, latches, and other inconsequentials as we seated ourselves on the long bench by the wall.
After a few moments I opened the fanciful cage and Asilia trickled to the opening. Her first steps were tentative as she turned her head in one direction and then another, testing the smells and observing the spaces of the area. Then she shimmered out of the cage and flowed with her musical motion into the open. She investigated my hand, butting my fingers gently, and then took stock of Mutano’s boot sole. I set the cage beside me on the bench and Asilia made her graceful parade march up and down before us when I lifted my finger.
Now Mutano withdrew from his wide belt a short wooden flute and piped four sweet, sad notes. Asilia drooped her head as if to listen. On the parapet above us rose the head and pointed ears of a cat. Sunbolt had been a-waiting us and now we were here.
The head disappeared. He was making his way down to the courtyard.
Mutano again sounded the flute, a long note to establish pitch. He followed the sound of the flute with the voice that was within him, rendering in the cattish tongue and musical idiom what I had learned was the ancient song “When I Was King o’ the Cats and You Were the Farrier’s Pet.”
I am unfamiliar with this school of balladry and was not able to say whether Mutano was in tune or meter. I surmised that he was not in top form, because Asilia’s reaction was unenthusiastic. Yet her innate politeness was such that she heard him out without scampering away, as I was strongly tempted to do.
When he finished Asilia took up the strain of the ballad Mutano had begun by sounding a wooden flute. The notes that the silver-blonde cat sang were flutelike, but the instrument was of purest silver, and there was a hint of tiny bells in the arpeggio passages, and the staccato notes sounded as if plucked on copper harp strings.
Sunbolt peered round the edge of a portal. He held this position, showing only his face and ears. Just before Asilia concluded her verse he stepped out but did not approach. Though he was deeply interested in our female, he was also apprehensive. She tugged at all his attentive faculties, but he was wary and determined to regain his shadow.
Mutano took up the black case and went to converse with the truculent orange cat. He squatted before him and there was talk I could not hear. Asilia leapt upon the bench to keep me company.
In a short time Mutano and Sunbolt went together through the portal into the long arcade. When they reappeared, they ambled side by side out into the sunlit area of the courtyard and I saw that Sunbolt’s shadow, a muscular, commanding shape, followed him. The cat turned all about, inspecting the umbra from every angle. He seemed satisfied, even proud. He had been pining for it.
Mutano had kept his part of the bargain; Sunbolt’s shadow was returned. But now Mutano went to the cart and came back with the voice-box mechanism and placed it on the ground a little way off. Evidently there had been some further negotiation while they were in the arcade. Sunbolt took several turns around the contrivance, with its large ear-trumpetlike horn and its convoluted tubing. He signaled agreement. Then they walked back into the arcade out of sight, Mutano carrying the voice-box.
Now I heard one of the loudest, most cacophonous mélanges of sound ever I had heard. First there was Mutano’s voice issuing from Sunbolt: words of high anger, phrases of courtly lovemaking, speeches of cool deliberation—all the modes of speech Mutano had been capable of in former time. I could not make out the specific words, only their tenor and temper. This noise continued long enough that Asilia evinced boredom. She rose and stretched mightily, then resettled with an air of patient resignation.
We had a longer wait, for at this point began the yowls and screeches and threatening growls and peaceful purrs that had lodged in the gullet of Mutano. He was ridding himself of the feline vocabulary and sounded ardent in the doing of it.
So, if all had gone as planned, the exchange had been made. What had Mutano offered to get his voice back? Only the opportunity to acquaint Sunbolt formally with Asilia, a paragon female like no other he, or we, were ever like to encounter again.
Both voices had entered the contraption; each party inhaled his original from it.
This was the end of the episode, I thought. Mutano gathered the shadow-case and voice-box and handed the latter to me to stow in the cart. It only remained to find if Asilia wished to return with us to Astolfo’s villa, where her welcome would be warm and her furnishings opulent, or to go back to Maronda at the cattery, or to stay here for the time being and lengthen her acquaintance with Sunbolt.
She appeared to be undecided. She gazed a good while at Sunbolt, taking in his figure and demeanor, weighing the possibilities. But then she turned, with some reluctance, and began to stalk deliberately toward the cage, which still sat there before the bench.
After four steps she halted and turned about again.
Sunbolt had begun to sing. He was rendering “When I Was King o’ the Cats” the way it is supposed to be done—in a stout, strongly feline timbre, supple but well defined, and capable of innumerable grace notes and trills and gutturals. He was especially adept at the cattish art of wide intervals, leaping by eleven or twelve or thirteen from one tone to another. The feline musical system is dual, employing both tonal scales and free, unshackled tones, and these modes intermesh, sometimes ad libitum, to produce a music that is heard from no other mammalian creature and which is best appreciated by those who have troubled themselves to learn its rules, an educated group of musical connoisseurs that does not include Falco.
Asilia sat spellbound. She did not join in nor did she sing afterward, as she had done before, as if to correct Mutano’s technique. She waited. We waited for her decision.
Sunbolt broke into another song very different in mood. This was a sweet, languorous melody with an intimate sadness, the ballade known—as I later found out—as “Lament of Queens Departed.” Midway in its progress, Asilia joined her voice with his, softly at first, but then with a warming intensity that matched Sunbolt’s. The song continued, rising in pitch, growing closer in its harmonies, until it seemed to vanish. If that love song had been a bird, I would have said that it soared out of sight.
“The great queens sleep their longest sleep.
O, where are the snows that once lay deep?”
Mutano and I exchanged glances, took up our gear, and came away.
* * *
We found our maestro in the kitchen.
It should stand to reason that one renowned for sword skill would have little difficulty in overcoming an unarmed and insensate opponent. Yet here was Astolfo in a blood-smeared, greasy apron hacking with fumbling clumsiness at the defenseless carcass of a capon. He and Iratus had fallen into one of their broils and the testy cook had taken abrupt leave. He would return when his temper cooled, as was his custom. His length of absence was unknowable; it might be hours or even days.
The maestro stepped back from the big wooden block, looked at the mangled fowl, and wiped his forehead with his wrist. “In the matter of sentience, I cannot say.…” He paused, as if deciding whether or not to open his mind, and went to a near table and drank from a mug. “Yet I have seen a shadow that moved to attack of its own accord, and for a reason I could comprehend. It was the umbra of a young girl who had been raped, tortured, murdered, and then mutilated. It was a sight most harrowing. I sometimes must bend my will to the effort to recall. I entered the room with a lantern to find her body. Her shadow lay beside it on the floor. It quivered still. I could see that the shadow did not match the corpse, even in its haggled state. It was slightly larger. I recovered it and in later examination found that part of the umbra of another person had been attached to it or held in its grasp. At the time I was uncertain how it could have happened.”
“Indeed, how could this very irregular phenomenon eventuate?” Mutano asked.
“Very irregular phenomenon eventuate,” my roseate arse, I thought. Having gotten his voice back from Sunbolt, Mutano took pains to display its capabilities. For
the past hours, he spoke as if a lexicographer had quartered in his mouth.
“The outrage upon the girl was so monstrous, her shadow must have tried to wreak some damage upon the shade of her destroyer,” Astolfo said.
“That girl was the true Sibylla, Veuglio’s daughter,” I said. “In your guise as beggar you were with Veuglio when he burst into the room to be struck blind. You saw what the baron had done and saw instantly a means to repay. You sundered her shadow from her body and folded it into your beggar’s robe. Veuglio could not see what you were doing. When you took her shadow, you gained part of the baron’s, an advantage you had not expected.”
Mutano looked at me in surprise. He had not followed closely the thread of the story, having his own concerns so sharply before him.
But Astolfo was not surprised. “It was unlooked for,” he said. “I had never known of any shadow behaving so aggressively. There are accounts in old chronicles and histories, but those are not always reliable.”
“And when the baron applied to you to install a shadow maze, you found your opportunity to avenge the girl and your friend Veuglio. That was fortuitous, Tyl Rendig conceiving a desire for your protection. It gave you a way to work against him further by increasing his anxiety about the well-being of the candles.”
“If he had suffered a burning of the brain and the sensations of being eaten by rats and wished to protect himself from the destruction of his shadow, then a maze would seem a sensible step to take,” Astolfo said.
“Only if he had learned that pieces of his shadow had been admixed into tallow candles to be at the mercy of thieves and servants and rodents.”
“Anyone who can read and write might send a message suggesting these things,” Astolfo said. “You are capable and so is Mutano.… So, for that matter, is Iratus.” He laid down the butchering knife alongside the three others and the pitiable fowl on the chopping block. He sighed and took another swallow from the mug. “I must learn something of the art of cookery,” he muttered. “It is none so simple as I had thought.”
“Now your avengement is assured. Will you set alight the candles or leave them for the rats to feast upon?”