“Just know,” retorted DeLaBina, “I have reasons to keep my eyes on you, because …”
Fabrizio waited for DeLaBina to conclude the sentence. But it was Mangus who said, “Signore, I beg you, be kind enough to tell me why you’ve graced me with a visit.”
“Be seated,” commanded DeLaBina.
“Fabrizio!” called Mangus. “A chair!”
Fabrizio darted forward to bring the chair. The magistrato all but fell into it, drew up his bulk to Mangus’s table, and then leaned over it as if to take possession. Noticing the lit skull, he backed away.
Fabrizio hurriedly returned to his master’s side.
DeLaBina reached into his blue robe and slowly drew out a sheet of paper. Fabrizio could see it had bold writing on it.
“Be so good as to examine this,” said the magistrato. As he offered the paper to Mangus, DeLaBina fixed his eyes on the old man’s face, as if reading it.
Mangus took the paper into his hands. “It’s in Italian, not Latin.”
“Vulgar tongue, Italian,” scoffed DeLaBina. “Go on, read it out loud.”
Mangus did so:
Citizens!
Pergamontio is ruled by weakness!
The kingdom needs a strong ruler!
Establish true authority!
Do not fear a change!
“God protect us!” cried Mangus. He dropped the paper as if it were on fire. “Treason!”
“All change is treason,” proclaimed DeLaBina, slapping the table to make his point. “Indeed, whispers of wicked plots to overthrow the king fly about the city like a confetti storm.”
“Are they true?” said Mangus.
The magistrato puffed a blast of garlic breath. “That you, Signor Mangus, who consider yourself a man of knowledge, should be deaf to these rumors — which everyone else has heard — says much about the value of your so-called reasoning.” He leaned forward. “May I suggest that to always have your nose in a book is no different from having your foot in the grave.” He poked a fat finger onto the paper. “Note the last phrase, ‘Do not fear a change!’ means someone wishes to depose King Claudio and take the crown!”
Fabrizio’s eyes grew wide.
“Great heaven!” cried Mangus. “When did this paper appear?”
“Yesterday,” said DeLaBina.
“Dreadful,” muttered Mangus.
“Indeed,” said DeLaBina. “The words inscribed on that paper are vile. But, much more important” — the magistrato spoke as if to divulge a secret — “please tell me, Signor Mangus, what do you make of the hand that wrote those words?” Looking smug, the magistrato sat back in his chair and swabbed his spittled chin with his handkerchief.
“The hand?” said Mangus.
“The way it was written!” roared DeLaBina.
Wincing, Mangus darted a baffled look at the man, but drew the skull lantern closer to examine the paper under better light.
Fabrizio edged closer, too.
“It’s the work of an inept scribe,” Mangus began momentarily. “The hook on the e here — and here — is smudged. The descender on the letter p has a weak serif. As for the ball on the letter y, it’s anything but round.”
“Which is to say,” said DeLaBina, his voice as careful as a hunter setting a trap, “the writing has, shall we agree, a distinctive hand?”
“Distinctive of a kind,” agreed Mangus, still gazing at the paper. “Rather rough. Not artistic. Indeed, inept. A hand that wrote in haste, perhaps.” He looked up. “Happily, not an inscription likely to be repeated.”
“Then what,” pounced DeLaBina, “do you make of this?” He drew out another sheet of paper and flung it at the magician.
Mangus studied the new paper while Fabrizio leaned over to see, too. To his eyes the second paper seemed much like the first.
“Magistrato,” said Mangus, “unless my eyes have grown weak, this second sheet appears to contain the same errors of penmanship as the first.”
“Indeed. Now consider these!” DeLaBina tossed a whole sheaf of papers onto the table.
A startled Mangus spread out the papers and examined them in silence. So did Fabrizio. The sole sound in the room was DeLaBina’s spittled and labored breathing.
The magician looked up. “Signore, they are remarkably the same. In fact, I should say they are precisely the same.”
DeLaBina nodded smugly. “Therefore, my question to you must be, how can such handwriting — on so many different sheets of paper — all be precisely the same?”
Fabrizio looked to Mangus for his answer.
The old man scratched his beard and pulled his right ear. “I confess I’ve no idea. Every scribe has his own personality. His quirks. But for so many hands to make the same exact mistakes is … uncanny. I can’t make sense of it.”
“Signor Mangus,” cried DeLaBina, pumping the air with a fist, “Pergamontio has been flooded with these treasonous sheets!”
“Flooded?”
“Hundreds! Bad enough that they exist. Dreadful for what they say. Far, far worse is the fact that they are all precisely the same!”
“It is astonishing,” murmured Mangus.
“More than astonishing!” shouted DeLaBina, banging his fist on the table so that the skull — and Fabrizio — jumped. “Such identical replication is impossible for human hands! Not even God — in all his greatness — makes two things alike.”
Mangus sat back and shook his head. “Signore, how can it be explained?”
“I can explain it!” shouted DeLaBina.
“Then, Magistrato,” said an increasingly tense Mangus, “enlighten my ignorance by telling me how such can be.”
DeLaBina took a deep breath, rather like — Fabrizio thought — a frog about to jump. “Consider that the king, with my unceasing help, has been successful in keeping Pergamontio free of all modern ideas, technologies, and heresies. Consider what is said on these papers — treason! Consider that these papers speak against His Majesty who is king of Pergamontio by nothing less than the choice of God. Consider that these papers exist in extraordinary numbers throughout the city. Finally, consider that such inept work repeats itself with magical exactitude. Diabolical exactitude! In short, these vile sheets were made … magically. And they were done at the behest of none other than — the devil!”
“The devil?” cried Mangus with astonishment.
“The devil?” echoed Fabrizio.
“Or at the least,” said DeLaBina slyly, “some … devilish person.”
“But —”
“Mangus,” cried the magistrato, “did you not make magic the other evening at the Sign of the Crown? Did you not inform the crowd that you could, I quote, ‘create something from nothing’? And, ‘from that something, make many’? And did you not do all that — magically?”
Fabrizio was amazed the magistrato knew what had occurred.
“How many faces of our king did you make appear — magically — in your empty hand? Five!” DeLaBina bellowed, answering his own question. “Then, what did you do with our beloved king? You had the intent — one might even say the treasonous design — of making him … magically … vanish! As if … as if he were — overthrown!”
Mangus opened his mouth. No sound came out.
“Magician,” shouted DeLaBina, “admit it! You made multiple copies from nothing — magically! And these papers appeared magically throughout the city the very next day after your performance in precisely the same fashion! Magically!”
“But …” said a bewildered Mangus.
Abruptly, DeLaBina pointed at Fabrizio. “You, boy! Were you with your master that night?”
Taken aback to be addressed, Fabrizio said, “Y … yes, Signore, I was.”
“Did or did not Mangus make magic?”
Fabrizio looked to his master.
“Speak the truth, Fabrizio!”
Fabrizio turned back to DeLaBina and stammered, “Y … yes, Signore. My master … made magic.”
“And,” prompted DeLaBi
na, “did he not create many images of our king? Something … from nothing?”
Fabrizio swallowed twice and whispered, “Yes, Signore, but —”
“Yes!” cried DeLaBina with triumph, thrusting a fat finger toward Mangus as if to pierce him with a sword. “Signor Magician, I have compelled your servant to confess the truth. Which is to say that you, Signor Magician, made many exact copies from nothing — magically!”
“Signore —”
“I sum up: Nobody else in Pergamontio can make magic but you. These papers were made magically. Ergo, no one else but you could have made these papers.”
“But it’s not true,” protested Mangus.
“It is true,” declared DeLaBina. “But,” his voice softened, “I can see no reason why such a lowly person — such as you — would want to depose King Claudio. It has to be that you made these papers, foolishly, at the request of some devilish … person.
“As punishment for such an act,” DeLaBina roared on, “I, the primary law officer of this glorious kingdom, have decreed that you shall reveal the malefactor behind this vile conspiracy to depose the king. In short, you, Master Magician, shall have the honor of saving … the king!”
“But, Magistrato, the notion that I could —”
“Master Mangus,” said DeLaBina, heaving himself to his feet so that to Fabrizio’s eyes he seemed to fill the room, “I suppose even you can see the logic and reason of my words.”
Fabrizio watched with dismay as Mangus slumped down, defeated.
DeLaBina gathered his robe around him with a showy swirl. Then he held up his hand and counted upon his fat fingers. “Signor Mangus, you are hereby commanded to do three things.
“One: Rid the city of these treasonous papers.
“Two: Reveal the devilish person who asked you to make these papers magically in order to depose King Claudio.
“Three: Inform me who that person is, so I may inform the king, who will, no doubt, burn this person at the stake.”
“Me?” stammered Mangus. “Do … all … that?”
“Do those three things and you will preserve your life. Fail to do them and I, Signor Brutus Lucian DeLaBina, Primo Magistrato of Pergamontio, will be forced to conclude that you, Master Mangus, are the sole traitor!”
“But, Magistrato,” said Mangus, struggling to his feet, “my performance consisted of … of illusions. Nothing at all to do with these papers.”
“Signore,” pleaded Fabrizio, “my master is innocent.”
“Innocent?” roared DeLaBina. “You already confessed he made magic!”
Fabrizio was horrified.
“Master Magician,” said DeLaBina, “I repeat, if you do not reveal the traitor behind this wicked plot, the kingdom of Pergamontio shall require the illusion of justice. In other words, I shall find someone to burn for this treason! And that person shall be you. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”
“Signore,” whispered Mangus as he slumped back into his chair, “I fear you have.”
CHAPTER 5
AFTER SEEING DELABINA OUT, FABRIZIO RACED BACK TO his master’s study and flung himself onto his knees. “Master, forgive me!”
Mangus, who had spread the treasonous papers out before him, looked down at the boy. “Forgive you? For what?”
“I told that man the truth about your magic.”
“What you did,” said an angry Mangus, “was to confuse what you think is true with what is true.”
Fabrizio put a hand to his heart. “Thank you for correcting me, Master. From now on I shall only think untrue things.”
“No! Always speak the truth.”
“Even if it harms you?”
“Fabrizio, philosophy teaches that truth neither helps nor hinders. What matters is the way you deal with it.”
“Yes, Master. From now on I’ll only tell the truth when it helps you.”
“Fabrizio,” cried an exasperated Mangus, “only fools think themselves wise! A wise man knows his ignorance.”
“Then I must be the smartest person in the whole world because I’m the stupidest!”
“Fabrizio, get off your knees and stop your nonsense! This business” — Mangus waved his hand over the papers — “is deadly serious.”
Fabrizio stood. “Master, I beg you, don’t do what that man asked. You know what people say: Seek the devil and he’ll find you first.”
“I’ve no intention of seeking the devil.”
“But the magistrato said these papers were the devil’s work.”
“You may be sure the devil is not interested in such a wretched place as Pergamontio. No, these papers are the work of some human who wishes to depose the king. I assure you, there is no devil involved.”
“Master, everybody knows there are devils everywhere who —”
“Stop! If you had listened carefully, you would have understood. DeLaBina claimed I made the papers magically. Yes. But he went on to say that some devilish person — not the devil — requested them. That person is the one DeLaBina is after.
“But,” said Mangus, gazing at the papers, “I have no choice. It’s I who must find the one who made them. A command from the primo magistrato is a command from the king. Or worse, Count Scarazoni. If I can’t find the one who made these ghastly papers, the magistrato will blame me.”
“But why?”
“Because — and heed me well, Fabrizio — though truth is reason, the truth is rarely seen as reasonable.” Mangus pressed his hands against his temples.
Fabrizio watched him for a moment. “Master, why don’t you use your magic to solve the problem?”
“Fabrizio,” yelled Mangus, “once and for all, I have no magic!”
“Yes, Master,” said Fabrizio, backing away and bobbing a bow three times. “Of course, Master. Whatever you say, Master.”
Mangus closed his eyes. “Still, that such a hand — even a poor hand — can replicate itself with extreme exactitude, that, truly, is a … mystery.”
Fabrizio waited a few moments before asking, “What can you do, Master?”
Mangus glared at the boy. “God gave us the gift of reason. To use it, Fabrizio, is our gift to him. Unfortunately, the enemy of reason is exhaustion, and though it’s still early in the day, I’m already weary.” He closed his eyes.
“Master,” whispered Fabrizio, “if you can’t find the … traitor, will they really … burn you?”
“That’s what he threatened.”
Fabrizio stared at his master. The thought of him suffering such a fate made him sick. He fetched and draped a shawl over the old man’s shoulders.
“Master, I know you think me a fool and wish I’d never come into your home. But please, I beg you, let me help.”
“You’re nothing but an ignorant street beggar.”
Fabrizio hung his head.
Mangus glanced up at the boy, shifted uncomfortably in his chair, and said, “Well … tell me, then. What would you do?”
Fabrizio thought desperately. “I could … I could go about the city and gather up the papers until there are no more. Wasn’t that the first thing that DeLaBina asked of you?”
“I suppose such an effort would at least keep you from jabbering into my ear. Fine. Go and try to collect the papers.”
“Yes, Master, and … and should I ask people where they came from? Who they thought made them?”
“Any clue will help,” conceded Mangus.
“I’ll pray I find one,” said Fabrizio. He started for the door.
“Fabrizio!” called Mangus. “Do not forget: DeLaBina’s spies and informers are everywhere. Do nothing to bring suspicion on me. Speak to no one about the accusations. Do you hear me? No one!”
Fabrizio ran back, snatched up Mangus’s hand, and kissed it. “Master, as I am loving to you and your name, I’ll do just what you ask.”
Mangus sighed. “I’ll take comfort in the thought that all beginnings are fueled by hope.”
“Master, on the street people say, ‘Though hope is bright
as fire, it can’t boil water.’”
“For God’s sake, Fabrizio!” cried Mangus. “Leave me!”
“Yes, Master,” said Fabrizio. “Just know that I’m trying to help you.” He bowed five times and then ran out of the room.
CHAPTER 6
AS FABRIZIO RUSHED DOWN THE HALLWAY, HE CRASHED into Benito and Giuseppe. The two servants were just entering the house.
“Stupid boy!” shouted Giuseppe. “Look where you’re going!”
“Signori,” said Fabrizio, noting their empty hands. “I thought you were at market and —”
“It’s none of your business where we were,” said Giuseppe, leaning over the boy. “Where are you going?”
“It’s Master, he —” Suddenly remembering that Mangus had told him not to speak to anyone about the matter, Fabrizio slapped a hand over his mouth.
Benito pulled it away. “Has something happened?”
“Well, yes, or rather, no. Maybe. With permission, I hope not.”
“What is it?” demanded Giuseppe.
Fabrizio darted a nervous glance back toward Mangus’s study. “Forgive me, Signori,” he whispered. “Master told me not to tell anyone.”
“We are not anyone,” said Benito, slapping Fabrizio’s ear from behind. “We’re your betters.”
The boy bowed his head and murmured, “Yes, Signore, whatever you say.”
Giuseppe boxed Fabrizio’s other ear. “With Mistress not here to coddle you, you’ll do as we tell you.”
Fabrizio, remembering Mistress Sophia’s request that he not quarrel with the servants, pressed back against the wall and averted his eyes. “I’m just trying to help Master.”
“You can start by telling us everything about this matter,” said Giuseppe. “Now come with us!”
“But, Master told me —”
“Blockhead!” said Benito. “It’s not Master or Mistress who manages things here, but us.”
Wishing he were twice as big and three times stronger, Fabrizio followed Benito out through the back of the house. They passed through a small courtyard where some of Mangus’s larger magic apparatuses were stored: multicolored chests. A huge jar. A large pine coffin with fancy iron handles. Fabrizio knew they were used for appearances and disappearances, none of which Fabrizio had seen his master perform. He paused at the coffin, wishing he could jump inside and hide. Giuseppe pushed him on.