The Silver Devil

by Teresa Denys

  "I am indebted to them." There was an unpleasant curl to the man's lower lip.

  "Had I known your excellency desired a private chamber, I would have given you the finest. There is one but a step upstairs. . . ."

  "I will not trouble you. I did not desire uncommon entertainment; I came only to have some talk of business with you."

  "With me, excellency?" I saw the peremptory jerk of Antonio's head towards the door, but I could not stir; now the tale of my folly would be unfolded, and I knew I must stay and defend myself. Antonio scowled at me, then turned a look of obsequiousness on the stranger. "How can I serve your excellency?"

  For a moment the man's eyes dwelt on my face. Then he said softly, "I heard lately—I do not know how truly—that this inn can boast a rarer wine than any in the duke's cellars."

  Antonio bridled, his broad face flushing crimson. "Alas, sir, you have been misled! It is true," he added hastily, "that the Eagle's wines are of the first growth, but our store is for strength, not subtlety. I would not presume to rival the duke's vaults-—I have not traded long in this part of the city, and I have no substance to spend on imported wine."

  "I said a rare one. Rare and foreign are not the same word. The tale, as I heard it, was that the wine was of recent vintage and made from the fairest grapes—grown in the vineyard of some friend of yours, or perhaps a kinsman." The dark gaze held Antonio's. "Might it be so? I am some judge of wine and would pay well for the tasting."

  Antonio looked as though he could hardly believe his ears; nor could I, for all my fears had been wasted. The stranger's visit had nothing to do with me—it was my own folly which had made me suppose he remembered catching my eye in the middle of the procession. I wanted to laugh at my own stupidity.

  Antonio said at last, "It may be so, excellency. But I have but the one flask, you understand, and my wife and I prize it greatly; it is a delicacy we would not sell on the open market."

  The man inclined his head. "We understand each other, I think."

  "Certainly, excellency. If we can but agree on the price . . ."

  The stranger's smile was mocking now, and he spread his hands in a liberal gesture. Antonio, his face fiery red with excitement, turned suddenly to me.

  "Felicia, go to your room and go to bed." There was no anger in his voice now, only a greedy, preoccupied note. "We will talk later of why you intruded on our noble guest."

  With my knees trembling with relief, I turned to the door. The stranger's eyes widened, and he murmured, "Felicia . . ." almost under his breath.

  As I closed the door behind me, I heard Antonio say, "I wonder how your excellency knows of my wine. I have been to some trouble to keep it hid."

  "I am always the first to hear of any such. I take a pride in these—discoveries.''

  I did not stop to hear more. The intoxication of reprieve sent me upstairs as light as a bird, half-laughing and half-crying.

  They had not come for me! I had fashioned the whole nightmare myself, buiiding upon my fear of the tall man with the soft voice who turned my bones to water. Why should six men come on so petty an errand? What had possessed me, that I had not thought that these costly people might come and bargain for drink like other men?

  As long as Antonio could be pacified, I was safe. I could concoct some tale to tell him, I thought as I reached my room again, but it did not really matter if he upbraided me or even beat me again: I was safe. Safe from the terror that threatened me while I was gazing into those nightmare black eyes, safe as though the strange events of this day had never been.

  I was sitting up in bed, still in my shift, when I heard the horsemen leaving and Antonio's lumbering tread sounded on the stairs. A moment later the door opened, and his broad red face peered around it.

  "Abed, are you? Good." He came in with elaborate stealth, shutting the door behind him and standing the cup he carried on the floor while he lowered his ponderous bulk on to the end of the bed. It creaked, and I eyed him in amazement. His tone was jocular, almost conciliatory—perhaps he had been drinking.

  "I am glad you are not asleep. I want to talk to you."

  "What is it?"

  "Nothing wrong, girl; no need to look like that! His excel­lency told me he stayed you when you would have gone. I am not angry with you."

  I drew a quick breath of relief, but I was puzzled; there was no trace of wine on his breath. I said, "I did not think he was there."

  "Then why did you go in?" The question had an edge of Antonio's usual sharpness.

  "I thought I heard Celia call. I heard the horses arriving, and I was sure she wanted me."

  It was a poor lie but swiftly told, and he appeared to believe me. "Then there is no more to say. You were not to know he had gone into the taproom."

  "No," I whispered softly.

  "What were you talking of when I came?"

  "Why, nothing." The blood stung my cheeks at the memory. "He asked who I was and what I did, no more."

  "Did he ask what kin you are to me?"

  "I would not tell him that. You said . . ."

  "Peace, peace!" His fat hand patted my shoulder. "He asked me who you were after you had gone. Why did you not say directly that you are my sister?"

  "Because I am not directly your sister," I retorted with bitter simplicity.

  "Pooh!" Antonio snorted and bridled, for all the world as though he had never boxed my ears for daring to call him Brother. "You can speak of it when nobility questions you."

  "I did not think he was noble. He was dressed like a soldier."

  He snorted again. "You cannot judge a man's true station, girl! Did you not see the whiteness of his hands? No one less than a lord could keep 'em so smooth. And that ring he wears never came from a gimcrack peddler. We have been talking with nobility, I swear!"

  The prince of darkness, I thought absurdly.

  "And he talked like a lord, all fine and haughty." His eyes glittered resentfully. "No common soldier would give orders in such a style."

  "But if he were so great, he would have been at the duke's feast tonight," I pointed out.

  Antonio waved the thought aside. "Belike he did not choose to go or else left early. These court revels go on all night; they will not be half-done yet. But look—" He picked up the cup from the floor. "I have brought you some cordial to drink. Celia would have my blood if she knew of it, but it is my guess that you will not sleep without something in your belly. Drink it up, and I will take the cup so she will not know."

  The drink smelled bitter, and I did not really want it, but the tiny conspiracy against Celia warmed me. Emboldened, I took the cup in both hands and smiled at him.

  "Did you make a good profit on your wine, Brother?"

  He gaped for a moment and then went off into a roar of laughter as though I had said something witty. "Yes," he gasped at last, "an excellent profit—a purse of silver, and all for one paltry flask of wine!" He patted my shoulder. "What a jest if he does not like it—the more fool he, for buying it untasted!"

  That explained his good humor, I thought with relief. He was never so happy as when he had beaten some rival in the way of bargain. If only the mood would last until morning . . .

  "Come on, girl." His voice took on a tinge of its accus­tomed roughness. "Drink your cordial and do not keep me here all night."

  He levered himself to his feet and stood over me, looming beside the bed while I drank. The menacing shape reminded me of Battista, and I hurried to have him gone so that I hardly

  tasted the drink. The sharp tang of cloves was in my mouth as I lowered the cup and handed it back to him.

  "You drank that like a practiced toper! Lie down now"—his tone held an odd trace of relief—"and go to sleep. I will tell Celia what has chanced in the morning."

  I nodded drowsily. I had thought I was too excited to sleep, but the taste of the cordial was thick in my mouth, and my eyelids felt so heavy that all my crowding thoughts were sud­denly unimportant. My eyes were closing before Antonio
reached the door, and I could not make out whether the shadows that passed him and came towards the bed were real or part of the dream that came so swiftly.

  I woke in a room I had never seen before.

  I was lying on my back on a bed harder and narrower than my own, in darkness which threatened to close in on me. Somewhere a torch burned, throwing flickers of gold on a ceiling that was ribbed like a stone cage, and two shadows were bending over me. I tried to lift my head, but pain went coursing so sharply through it that I groaned softly and closed my eyes again.

  "She's not dead." A man's voice spoke above me, sounding almost triumphant, and I wondered why he should care.

  "You may thank God for it, my dear Tomasso." The second voice was musical and cultured. "If she had died, we would none of us see old age. He has asked for her fifty times since you brought her here."

  The first man gave a quiet whistle. "Amid so much! The duchess in hysterics, the whole state in uproar, and he wants news of some fool of a girl!"

  "This one seems to be of importance. More than I guessed . . ." The words faded thoughtfully.

  "Well, she's a pretty wench but not to my taste. Too starved-looking."

  "You are here to guard her, my dear Tomasso, not to tumble her." The other spoke lightly and coldly. "I advise you not to touch her, lest he hear of it. It is true, though." The brittle voice changed. "She is a fair piece—good enough to shorten a long night."

  "What would you know of that, Piero?" Tomasso's voice was jeering.

  "Enough, my dear, believe me! And yet I wonder what makes him ask so often."

  "Is he so impatient, then?"

  " 'Heart, we have had nothing but her ever since he saw her!" Piero's laugh was long and high, a meaningless trill. "Until he found out who she was and how his hand could reach her, the whole place was like a bear garden. We had to search the city streets to please him, and now I am deputed to be her overseer until he finds leisure to speak with her."

  I ought to care, I thought stupidly. They were talking about me, and what they said was important. But I could not care, could not even make myself understand; my mind was a jumble of dream and reality. Their words were meaningless; I heard them, but their sense washed to and fro over me like waves above a drowned corpse.

  "How long is that like to be?"

  "God in Heaven knows. 'Piero,' he said, 'my excellent Piero shall keep her close for me while this exigent lasts. I trust no other to render her to me safely.' 'While this exigent lasts' affords no clues."

  Tomasso swore. "And I have to coddle a sick wench in these vaults until he has leisure! By all the saints!"

  "He will not ask for her yet," Piero warned. "He cannot, not until he has spoken with the duchess."

  "He speak with that old beldam! But he shuns her like the pestilence!"

  "He cannot do so now, my dear. She has written him a fair letter, 'your gracing' him some score of times, begging that she may have private speech with him. He cannot refuse her."

  "He will not like it." Tomasso's grin sounded in his voice. "We know what Gratiana means by 'private speech.' "

  I tried to turn my head to look at him, but the movement made the sickness pound in my head again. It rose in my

  throat, choking me, and for a moment I thought I would vomit; then the nausea passed and I lay still again, sweating.

  "I must have given her too strong a dose," Tomasso said gruffly.

  "Indeed, I think you were too liberal." I felt a cool touch on my hot forehead. "You did not use your brain, as usual. You gave a weak wench sufficient for a lusty soldier—and she can have eaten little worth the name before she had the drug."

  "I could not know that!"

  "No, but the duke will not think so."

  "You know his mind, of course. . . ."

  "Of course, my dear Tomasso! Who else should know it, if I do not?"

  The sound of the duke's name transfixed me like a spear thrust. Unbelievingly I forced my eyes open, trying to force my cloudy brain to work; the words made no sense, but they chilled me with fear.

  "Look," Tomasso said sharply. "She is awake."

  Someone bent over me, and I felt myself lifted and pillowed against a thin shoulder. Piero's voice murmured, "Such eyes! Now I see why . . ." Then he called sharply above my head, "Fetch some water, Tomasso, and give it her; then go and fetch the duke's leech, quickly!"

  The water he held to my lips was the coolest, sweetest thing in the world. I would have gulped at it, but the cup was withdrawn.

  "Gently, lady, gently." Piero sounded amused. Still I could not see him clearly; he was only a voice and a pall of thick, cloying perfume.

  "Where am I?" I could hardly believe that the harsh, thready whisper was my own.

  "You will know soon enough." I felt him tense. "Have you fetched that damned leech, Tomasso?"

  "He's coming."

  "He had better hurry. I would not give two pins for his life—or for yours, my dear—if this one should die on our hands."

  "It was not my fault, Piero. You will speak to the duke for me and tell him I meant the wench no harm. . . ."

  Bewilderment and terror and a dim feeling of pity for Tomasso's obvious fear, all- were slipping away from me. To sleep was suddenly the most important thing in the world, and I slept.

  I had other dreams after that one—for a dream was how I remembered it—but they were always the same. I saw a face that was strange and yet familiar, a fair face with demon's eyes; I could not recall where I had seen it, and I half believed I had invented it out of my sickness. When I woke again, it was to darkness and dank air that stabbed my lungs, and a shadow beside my bed.

  A voice said, "Do not try to move. You have been very sick."

  I stared up at the sallow face above mine, more bewildered than frightened. "Who are you?"

  "I am Father Vincenzo." The man spoke comfortingly, as though I should be reassured by the name, and I saw that he wore the robes of a Jesuit priest.

  "I have been tending you while the fever held you."

  I moistened my lips. "It is not the plague?"

  "Not the sort you mean, though it is plague enough. No, daughter, you drank something which gave you a fever."

  I could only understand the last of what he said, but I nodded. It was not strange; many people were sick of a sudden in weather like this, when food and water were so quickly tainted. Antonio must have sent me to the common hospital to be nursed by the monks—he bore me hardly when I was in health and would never tend me while I was sick.

  "How long have I been here?"

  "These two days past. Drink this." A cup was held to my lips. "And do not spend your strength in questions; time enough for that when your mind is clear again."

  I drank and lay back. It did not matter that I did not know how I had come to this; pain still racked me, and I felt too spent to care. I had nothing to do but obey the solemn young priest, and I did so willingly. In my weakness I knew no past or future, only the present ease or present trouble of sleeping or waking—day and night were indistinguishable, for whenever I opened my eyes, the same torch flames pierced the same darkness and the priest was there.

  I was lying half in sleep when I heard voices close by, mingling with the broken snatches of dreaming which filled my thoughts. They came from outside the door, and as I listened, all sleep fled from me and I lay with straining ears, staring unseeing into the shadows above me.

  "I cannot permit it. It is too soon. She is not half-recovered." There was a sharp note of anxiety in Father Vincenzo's nor­mally level voice. The one that answered him was high-pitched and resonant, the voice I had heard in my dream.

  "You belie your own skill, good Father. My spies tell me she is well enough now to be got from her bed, and the duke has been asking for her threescore times in an hour. I cannot defer the business any longer."

  "I beg you, persuade him to some other course. It is the devil's work His Grace will be at."

  "And what more fitting?" The oth
er man laughed. "I verily believe he is the devil himself. Good Father, resign yourself, and resign your charge to me—he will not be persuaded."

  "Then delay him. Tell him it will be better for his purpose to hold off for a space."

  "So I have told him already at your request and coined excuses until my tongue is bankrupt. It will not serve; my lord's Grace is grown impatient."

  There was a silence and then the man laughed, the meaning­less trill I remembered. "What, Father, are you seeking to save her?"

  Father Vincenzo's voice was bitter. "That girl is innocent, my lord della Quercia. She believes herself to be in the com­mon hospital and thinks she is kept here but while she is sick; she knows nothing of how or why she came here."

  "Tomasso Galleotti's work." The man sounded amused. "He gave her too generous a dose of his sleeping draught—-and he paid for it with his neck. As soon as the duke heard that his prize was like to die, he had Tomasso hauled out and hanged."

  "Does he care so much?" Father Vincenzo asked sharply.

  "Enough to have done with state affairs already! He has dismissed the council and ordered revels for this very night. As for the duchess, it is a brave man who mentions her—they were alone together for half an hour, and now she is banished and gone."

  "For what offense?"

  "Who can tell?" I could hear the man's shrug in his tone. "She is gone, and there an end. Now all His Grace's mind is bent upon this business, and I am sent to fetch your prisoner."

  My heart was pounding violently. It seemed impossible that I could have been a prisoner all this while and had not known it—but it made sense of so much that had been meaningless before. The silence, the solitude, the single priest to nurse me: now I noticed the bars that bound the heavy door and recog­nized the dark room for what it was. I remembered the grim tales I had heard of the dungeons beneath the Palazzo della Raffaelle, where Duke Carlo lodged the prisoners who never saw the light of day.

  My thoughts were circling, panic-stricken, when the priest spoke again. "I will bring her to you."

  "I am much beholden to you." There was infinite irony in the smooth words. "Pray make haste, or truly I think the duke will come himself if you do not."