This life is a gift not entirely free, for I am still subject to the maestro’s orders and to his mild suggestions also. My compliance pays for my rent and for much of my keep. The duties are not onerous; Astolfo is no longer in trade. He is sought out, however, to consult with artists and architects, dressmakers and stage-players, perfumists, writers of commercial agreements, drapers, and others. He advises those who inquire upon the craft of shadows and cares not whether they pay in coin or in empty promises. This almost desultory activity entails errands and other small tasks that I cheerfully take up. I ride almost every other day to his large house in the center of the estate, Casa Indolenza, and receive a listing of these minor duties.
The city elders were less generous to Osbro and me than to Astolfo, but we do not complain. We possess as much wealth as we can gracefully bear. Our friend and ally, the erstwhile bandit Torronio, gained pardon for himself and for his Wrecker associates, and his family has taken him back into its fold. Those citizens who answered the call to arms that Astolfo sang out in his role as Ministrant during the Feast of the Jester have been recognized and officially commended. Those who did not respond have been questioned and some unsettling discoveries have been revealed.
“Now the citizens shall be less self-satisfied and more vigilant,” Astolfo said. “For a while, at least.”
So we rode toward the city in contentment. Now and again Telluria would sing childish verses to Gabriel, who occupied her lap. The driver of the carriage, a tall fellow with hair the color of polished brass, would occasionally join in:
“In the land where leopards leap,
A lonely shepherd tends the sheep,
When the night begins to fall,
The leopards eat ’em one and all.”
It is an old nonsense lullaby. I had heard it often as a child, and it has always proven to give the little ones exciting dreams. In response, I sang out a verse that drifted into my recollection:
“O when the winter snows do fall,
Covering hillocks, mantling all,
And desp’rate hunger attacks the leopard,
He may in turn eat up the shepherd.”
Torronio had begged off attendance at the manse for this occasion, pleading family affairs. He was engaged in trying to find place among the various enterprises of his tradesmen-kinfolk for Crossgrain, Squint, and the others who had fought with him against the pirates at the fire-pits. Old grudges die hard in families, and the older the family line the more fiercely are the grudges held. Torronio’s diplomatic skill had borne little fruit, but he is an optimist. Sooner or later they must come round, he said. He now had friends among the town elders, who could impose special taxes upon certain ungrateful individuals who might be pointed out to them by that valiant defender of the city, Torronio. He denied any suggestion that this form of diplomatic persuasion was extortionate.
* * *
Mutano would be present at the feast. “You cannot prevent me,” his jesting letter said. “Nor can tempest, plague, nor the armies of the East. For we have our hearts and cannot be overcome.” The best I could cypher out of the incomprehensible word were by the letters m, w, x, r, u, and perhaps n. It was a term borrowed from the feline tongue that I took to signify something like “fortitude” or “nerviness.”
Often nowadays Mutano leant toward feline usages. This was no great wonder, for with his share of our reward he had purchased the cattery of Nasilia and had transported all her animals to his new property, the great château that had once belonged to Tyl Rendig. Astolfo, on his behalf, had petitioned the Council and the elders and the respectable nobility who were connected in any way with the vile baron to grant for a nominal sum a perpetual lease on that forbidding edifice.
Now the turrets and battlements, the corridors and long halls were populated by cats of every shape, color, breed, and temperament. They were not slaughtered for their musk, although the Château Felis, as it was now called, did still supply the perfumists. But Mutano had collaborated with the Green Knights and Verdant Ladies to produce a rose attar that had the strength and something of the olfactory qualities of cat-musk. The Lady Aichele had been successful in crossing one of the few remaining shadow-eater plants with an exotic musk rose and this base for scent had become a favorite. She and Astolfo had other experiments in progress together, but I was not privy to their goals.
The description of Château Felis I was forced to gather at second hand, for my violent aversion did not allow me close acquaintance. Even when Mutano was away from his domicile, the feline miasma that hung upon him was sufficient to cause my nose to flow and my eyes to tear. I was disappointed, because I had become fond of his consort, Maronda, the straightforward woman who formerly oversaw the cattery for Nasilia. She had softened in address, no longer being so ready to answer a forward remark with a slap to the head or a blow to the chest. She doted upon Mutano. Her green eyes followed his every motion, her gaze was as attentive as that of a cat watching a hummingbird. Maronda allowed Mutano a latitude she would allow to none other. I was careful of my manner in her company.
I had prepared a question, designed to annoy, that I put to Mutano on every occasion of these commemorative feasts. I had asked it four years running, but I never had courage to ask with Maronda standing by. If I found him standing alone, I would ask it this year again. That promise I made to myself and would not break it.
Sunbolt too would not be present at our reunion, nor would his consort Asilia. They served, Mutano had told me, as liaisons between himself and his staff of attendants and all the cats who dwelt at the château, a large number of whom were their progeny. Sunbolt’s office was to instruct the males in the martial arts of spitting, howling, arching the spine, and the traditional techniques of outright combat. Every instruction for combat exercises began with his giving an elaborate account of his victory in the legendary duel with the great Mauler, Uccisore. His charges heeded with rapt attention. He was not so nimble as formerly and his belly swayed as he marched to and fro before his recruits, reciting his epic for half the length of an hourglass. Asilia stretched out forward at the side of the assembly, regarding her big orange mate with a cool, proud gaze.
So, our company was not complete for this year’s celebration, but we were sufficient to form a merry group and there would be food, drink, song, and a tiresome amount of gushery over the infant.
Yet there was a heavy sadness to surmount. Astolfo had sent word to me by messenger that the blind sage Veuglio had died. His end, as the master described it, was peaceful and had taken place in the farmhouse, where the frail old man had lodged during his final days, cared for by his charge, Dorminia, the girl who played the role of his daughter Sibylla in the maestro’s avengement upon Tyl Rendig. Astolfo was weightily saddened by Veuglio’s death. The saintly old man had served as his mentor in his youth, and the attachment was almost filial. In his turn, Veuglio was devotedly grateful to Astolfo. The young shadow adept had looked to the welfare of the old man and his daughter ever since one of the periodic Island Fevers of so many seasons ago carried away his wife, Sophia.
* * *
We arrived at the villa in the late afternoon. The day had cooled only slightly and a few smears of cloud glowed pearl-pink in the west, as the late sunlight suffused them like red wine dripped into water. The breeze was easy.
A short, bustling steward let us in through the front gate. He gestured to a brace of brawny servants and they trotted to look after the needs of Astolfo. The steward relieved our driver and pointed out to him where his quarters stood, then led the carriage to the front door of the manse. Two other servants came out, took up our baggage, and hurried away.
The steward showed Astolfo to his room, the modest bedchamber he had occupied when in residence, and settled him, while Telluria and I stood in the hall. He came out again and said, “This way, if you please,” and we followed.
“Where is Osbro?” I asked. “I expected him to greet us.”
“He had to attend to a househol
d detail,” the man said. “I will show you to your room.”
We followed him a while along the corridors, Telluria bearing Gabriel in her arms. Then I halted and said, “Are you certain this is the way? I am familiar with this house.”
He went on a few paces, then stopped to open a door on the left-hand side. “For your inspection.”
The little room had not changed. Empty except for washstand, rude chair, clothes-hooks, and bed, it was as barren as it was when I’d inhabited it. In those youthful days I would lie on the bed to daydream of a golden future or bend to examine my features in the water of the basin to see if the dissolutions of the previous night had taken too evident a toll. The straw mattress was as lumpy as before and the gray blanket as threadbare. The thick headboard taunted me once again with the admonition I had been ordered to cut into it: Bumpkin lad, Protect thy shade.
Telluria came to stand beside me in the doorway. “’Tis a little cramped, but I’m sure your brother has done his best. Falco, you can stretch out on the floor while Gabriel and I take the bed tonight.”
“It will not come to that,” I said. “This is Osbro’s little jest. Or Astolfo’s. They are reminding me that I am not to forget my origins.” I addressed the steward. “Is that not correct?”
“The master did not tell me his mind—only to bring you here first and then show you into a larger chamber. If you will come this way, please. Your belongings have been installed.”
He led. We followed. Telluria sighed with relief.
* * *
She had labored for an hour to make herself ready for her appearance at dinner. I thought Telluria looked comelier than ever, but when I said so, she gave me an impatient frown and began to take her persona apart to refashion it from the inside out. Then she spent a good measure of the sandglass trifling with her presentation of Gabriel. He was very proper in his little white dress and beaded red bootlets.
When I asked her opinion of my new apple-colored tunic and green trunks, she gave me a hasty glance and an indifferent shrug. “How am I to judge o’ thee? Thou’rt a man and may appear as you please. For a woman…”
This was not a novel theme between us.
“Tonight you will be compared only with Maronda,” I said. “She stands as stiff as a sentry and carries the brawn of a stonemason.”
“And I am no petite and honeyed pastry,” said she. “And you shall not speak so of Maronda. She is a handsome woman. You would not say such things in her presence.”
“Indeed I would not. She would strike me down and kick my ribs in.”
“And serve thee justly.” She gave little fussy pattings to her blonde locks. “Let us go down, if you have done with mocking our friend.”
* * *
We met in the larger dining hall where Astolfo had first introduced to Mutano and me the girl he had called Sibylla. It now was lit by wall sconces and by a battery of candles on all sides and by another rank of them upon the table. Trophies rescued from our sea-battle with Fleuraye’s forces were mounted along the walls: lengths of broken spars, bits of sail, a rusty lance, several short swords, and the clumsy rudder that guided my ramshackle Reluctant Maiden. There were a dozen or so water-mottled Jester masks disposed in asymmetrical order. Their expressions seemed more benign than sarcastic, an effect of candlelight.
Astolfo must be surprised at the transformation of his hall.
We sat here in this space much too large for us. We were seven, but the table was laid for eight. Astolfo was to sit at the head, and on his right-hand side a full service was set out. It was different from those before the rest of us. Our dishes were of stoneware painted white and our napery upon which the knives and spoons rested were as white as sea foam. But the linen for the empty place was black and the wine cup was of silver.
This was the place of Veuglio, had he been here to occupy it.
Astolfo had not yet appeared, but the footman seated us, presumably at the maestro’s direction, though the manse now belonged to Osbro. He was placed on Astolfo’s left-hand side, and then in order downward Telluria with gurgling Gabriel in her lap and me at her side where I would be subject to her reprimands.
Across from me was Maronda. There was space enough between us that her cat-scent did not ignite my usual fiery sneezes in her presence. On her left sat Mutano and on his left, next to the head, was laid that setting for Veuglio.
As we waited for Astolfo, I seized the moment to snatch a large green olive out of a yellow bowl and cast it at Mutano. It thumped off his forehead onto the table. So then he shied a lump of bread at me and missed. It fell to the floor and a servant picked it up.
We were rewarded, me by a sharp pinch on my thigh from Telluria and him by a swift finger-poke in the ribs by Maronda.
* * *
Then the corridor door opened and Astolfo appeared. He was dressed in one of his military costumes, the one he had worn when he staged my arrest for attempted theft within the grounds of the Countess Triana. That was when we secured the safety of the gem for some time to come. Here again was the sea-colored caftan, the cloth-of-gold sash, and the red cloak. He had found it not proper to wear the large, white-plumed hat.
Had he donned this costume to remind me of my embarrassment in that episode? I could not doubt it.
He was accompanied by Dorminia. We all recognized her at once, though she was much changed from the young girl with the white hair and perplexed expression. She had gained in height at least two inches and held herself with almost military bearing, her spine straight and her broad shoulders squared. Her clothing was in violent contrast to Astolfo’s. A robe of grayish dun fabric something like sackcloth hung to her ankles. A length of linen rope was looped around her waist. Her sandals were such as any tradesman might wear. White her hair had been before; now it was of a moonlight tint. Her expression was serene as she took in our company with a series of observant gazes. She did venture a hint of a smile when she looked upon Gabriel squirming in Telluria’s embrace. When the babe saw her his agitation settled and he looked at her as he might have upon a camelopard.
Brushing away the footman, Astolfo pulled out her chair and handed her the black napkin from her setting. Then he slipped out of his cloak, handed it off, and eased into the fancifully carven oak chair at table head.
Without permission or preamble, I rose to propose a salute to my brother. “How the lowly are risen!” I said. “It must seem to you but a sennight past that you were muddying the waters of Dove Creek with La Pluma teaching you to dog-paddle—and to perform other doggish tricks. Now you are installed in a great manse prominent in Tlemia Province, overseeing the tillage of your fields and gluttoning on the fat o’ th’ land, if I may judge by this table you have set out.”
It was a plenteous array, too lavish to inventory at a glance, although I noticed that Mutano was eyeing purposefully a large poached tench laid out on watercress on a crystal salver, a morsel I would strive to gather first to myself.
I continued my salute: “And here is to the well-being of Mutano and Maronda. Long may they prosper and may they enjoy as many lives as those of all their cats added together. That would reckon up to two or three eternities, at least.”
I drained my glass and sat and my conclusion was the signal for the rest of the party to offer salutes. Each of them made short speeches equally as inane as my own.
Astolfo rose, raised his glass, and said only, “To remember absent friends.” Then he sat.
The ensuing conversations then fluttered about one subject and another, never resting long enough to invite serious discourse, and when the chat about families and crops and passing indispositions and the erotic propensities of the priesthoods sank to murmurs and expired, the reminiscences began.
I expect that we shall be talking to the end of our days about the attack of the warship upon Tardocco and about our defeat of the pirate queen Fleuraye. This fiery female was still alive, having beguiled a council of magistrates to spare her life. She was, however, put to a task that s
he could little relish. Her great three-master, the Vengeful Maiden, had been dismantled, taken apart timber by timber and sheet by sheet, and the parts brought to land. The ship was being remade into a bridge over one of the muddy tributaries of the Daia. The pirate crew served as the workforce, and Fleuraye oversaw their labors with a keen severity. Other, more severe, punishments awaited her after the completion of the bridge—a task that she was taking a very long time to accomplish.
Our talk this evening followed the course of that taken by veterans of campaigns since warfare came to its bloody birth. Mutano told his heroic tale with, methought, an immodest amount of embellishment. To my own account I added augmentation sufficient to match his. If Cocorico and Sbufo had been present, the saga might have continued for days and nights together. Maronda and Telluria listened indulgently to episodes that must by now have become all too familiar to them, but Gabriel grew pettish and began to fret. Telluria unsheathed and silenced his complaints with an abundant mammary.
It is traditional in the retelling of one’s martial exploits to admit to a moment of fear. In accounting the overcoming of fear, one adds glory to glory. I spoke of the genuine terror that struck my soul when I looked upon the Mardrake’s eye at that moment when the Being broke skyward out of the bay.
“Halt you there,” said Mutano. “I gazed upon the thing. It had two eyes—and not like those of fishes or serpents. Like human eyes.”
“I saw one eye. It saw me. It stared like en evil moon set in a towering pillar of pitch.”
When we appealed to Astolfo, he said, “Falco saw but one, perhaps because he expected to. It is the habit of poets to paint their monsters with one eye. Their depictions stand so strong in the mind, it hinders accurate observation.” He then recited about two ells of Latin verse that none of us paid attention to.
“I do not heed the inky tribe,” I said. “I have tried to fathom from what I saw with my eyes the nature of the creature. I can gain no hint of what it might be.”