Sunbolt was lying, with his paws tucked under, upon a fat cushion of bright scarlet silk outlined with yellow piping. The cat seemed to be dozing at first; then he opened his eyes lazily, one at a time, and gave a wide yawn that lasted for a long space. Then he rose and arched his back. Then he crouched forward and, inserting his claws into the cushion, gave himself a languorous, thorough stretch.
All this calculated insolence brought from the gapers and bettors a round of tipsy laughter.
Sunbolt disembarked his pillow in dainty, lethargic fashion, setting one slow paw at a time upon the floor, whose rough planks, laid loosely, showed between the cracks the bay water that flowed and ebbed beneath. The cat took no notice when Mutano came into the arena, took up the pillow, gave it an affectionate kiss—which occasioned more laughter—and removed it.
Of all catfights witnessed by humankind, this one might have been the most extraordinary. The opponents did not rush upon one another squalling in fury, with slit eyes and flattened ears. Nay, they stepped round in circles, their watchful eyes full open, erect ears twitching alertly. They closely resembled two pugilists taking careful stock of the size and style of each other. Their tails curled and uncurled.
Uccisore made his initial assault a quick feint toward the left flank of Sunbolt, but this maneuver the red one had anticipated and he appeared to react in no way, merely continuing his methodical circling and staring.
Uccisore repeated this same tactic but then turned in midair and came straight on to confront his counterpart face-to-face. He stopped abruptly in front of Sunbolt and, planting his feet, arched his back to its tallest extent, giving the aspect of an inky storm cloud ready to release its winds and lightning.
Sunbolt responded in kind, elevating his spine so that his shape was as large or larger. He took the shape of a fireball poised to roll destructively through a landscape.
Now they both backed away and shifted their foci of interest to their surroundings—the smelly warehouse and the red-faced spectators. These folk had been japing, laughing, muttering, and caterwauling, but when Sunbolt delicately lifted a paw and began to lick it, they fell so silent that the wash of tide beneath the floorboards was audible.
As if this ablution were an insult he could not abide, Uccisore flung himself like a falling star. Sunbolt dodged nimbly but had miscalculated his foe’s speed. A black paw swiped his left hindquarter, snatching off a thatch of reddish hair that hung for a moment in the air. He squirmed about in a flash and bit Uccisore’s tail, to strong effect, as I judged by the outraged howl that ensued. Then they were at it in earnest. The big black cat was the more savage in attack, so wild in his rage of combat that he fought more as a demon than as a feline. His strength was greater than Sunbolt’s and when he clutched the red one by his shoulders to sink teeth behind his head, he rolled him off his feet. Sunbolt was energetic too, as quick to pounce and scratch and bite as was his opponent, but his maneuvers were more calculated and he was willing to take blows and swipes and nips in order to conserve his strength and to judge the style of the other. This meant that he was often on the defensive, rolling onto his back and working all four paws furiously in a disemboweling action. Uccisore could not attack against those flurrying paws, but neither could Sunbolt gain advantage.
The wagers of the assemblage, which had plumped in favor of Uccisore at the outset, now swelled even more heavily in his favor, and the spectators grew noisier.
The fury had continued already much longer than the usual battle and a few of the more observant spectators saw that many of Sunbolt’s attacks were but feints and that Uccisore reacted to them in exaggerated fashion, expending strength but wreaking little damage. As the combat continued, his ferocity began to abate and he took a more thoughtful approach to his attacks.
But this meant that he was fighting Sunbolt’s preferred kind of fight, and he had burned away so much vis in his initial onslaught that he responded tardily to the flanking sallies and almost nonchalant leap-overs. Then it became obvious that Sunbolt was gaining advantage, sometimes toying with his opponent, then rushing in to mark a telling slash upon a shoulder or along the ribs.
The noise of the onlookers subsided gradually and fell into a puzzled muttering. These folk might be regular spectators at the rat-routs and cat-battles that Brotero exhibited, but they had never seen a struggle like this one, wherein one combatant went at it like a brawny, fight-hardened, experienced beast while the other seemed to fore-think his actions, as would a human wrestler or swordsman. The duel—for that was what it had become—had already lasted long past the expected duration and appeared as if it would continue at length.
This lengthiness gave Sunbolt the advantage, and a promise of victory hung in the air.
Now is the time, methought, that if Brotero is going to play an underhand trick, it will be done. I made my way carefully to where Mutano stood at the edge of the arena, and though my attention was mainly upon my forward progress, I saw out of the corner of my eye one of the planks of the floor lift.
Immediately I understood the mistake I had made. The avenue of interference would not be from the exterior of the warehouse upon which I had kept watch, but from below. There was space enough beneath the floor for a dinghy to come under and for a Worrier cat to be introduced by Brotero’s men. I would be the only one who noticed, since I was looking out for foul play and the others were intent on the duel.
This new combatant was about half the size of Uccisore, of a silver-gray color and as lithe and sinewy as any stoat. Whether Sunbolt was aware of its presence, I could not tell. He kept bedeviling Uccisore with feints, buffets, and occasional earnest slashes that drew lines of blood.
The gray Worrier paused for a moment, as if to take in the situation, and then began to initiate the movements familiar to it. It would sidle swiftly to any blind side, then rush in to nip smartly, then leap back before Sunbolt could retaliate with a hind paw.
This was the game customary in their wars with rats and both Uccisore and the gray one had it well by heart.
I watched closely, for I knew that Mutano would stand by his vow to expose to the torchlight the guts of Brotero upon any such impudence. And he did begin to unsheathe his blade and step toward the nervy, smirking little fellow. But, as I had expected, two of Brotero’s henchmen approached Mutano at the same time. I waited for the near one to pass me by and just as he did, I placed the point of my poniard behind his ear and told him in a soft but earnest voice that if he came upon my friend but one half step more I would pierce his brain with a piece of intelligence he would not relish.
He stepped away and I disarmed him.
When Mutano unsheathed, the other assailant retreated. He had counted upon the advantage of number and, not having that, was uneager to cross blades with my expert comrade.
And so the feline fight continued in its course. No one wished to try to come between the cats because of the danger of being shredded like a red cabbage. Mutano would have opportunity to exert his justice upon Brotero when the conflict concluded.
It was not going well for Sunbolt. His two opponents had the superiority a wolf pack enjoys, one of them confronting forwardly, the other coming from the sides. Sunbolt was as limber and swift as a serpent in striking and withdrawing, but the incessant attacks were tiring him quickly and his counterswipes became less frequent and less forceful. The exhibition began to wind down.
At this point, Sunbolt gave a great leap backward, almost a somersault, that afforded him open space from his attackers. There he braced his four feet, puffed out his chest, opened his mouth as wide as it would gape, and shouted, in Mutano’s most commanding manner:
“AVAUNT, COWARD MISCREANTS!”
Again the smoky room fell silent. The spectators all drew in their breath at once and stared at Sunbolt as if he were something brought down from the skies by a war-god in a flaming chariot.
His battle cry took even greater effect upon the Mauler and the Worrier. The pair of them scrambled back away,
looking at Sunbolt in fright and dazed confusion. Uccisore’s eyes crossed. The Worrier arched his back and spat.
Uttering another thunderous, though wordless shout, Sunbolt sprang across the whole of the vacated space and seized Uccisore by the throat. Then, bracing his back feet and standing himself erect, he pulled the black Mauler from the floor and, with a quick jerk of his head, flung the heavier beast into the second rank of spectators.
Seeing the unexpected and dismal fate of his counterpart, the Worrier bounded away from the combat area and ran to the farther part of the floor, to the place where the board had been lifted to admit him to the arena. He clawed frenziedly at the wood, but that exit was no longer available. As Sunbolt advanced upon him grimly, he gave a piteous little “Miaou” and slunk away with head and ears and tail drooping, into the guffawing crowd.
In this manner did Mutano win his wager with Brotero, and thus he received a small canvas bag containing fourteen candle stubs. This reward he procured by producing a scrap of paper torn in half upon which an agreement had been inscribed. Brotero, with unfeigned disgust, produced its other half and returned it to Mutano. In the matter of the candles, he muttered, “I think thee shall get little good of them. The baron is not right of mind.”
I answered the man: “But thou dost know the beggar who laid this tallow burden upon the noble’s spirit. And you shall tell us how we may trace him out.”
He shifted anxiously in his boots. “Who can tell that? He is no doubt known among the beggary, but I am not of the brotherhood.”
“Tell us something of his appearance and manner of speech,” I urged.
“He was roundish of corpus, with delicate, clever hands. He wore the brown, patchy robe common to his station, but his voice was mild and reasonable and hinted that he was lettered, a man of knowledge.”
“Did he tell you his name?”
“Nomio or Nurmio or Rumino or some such. I cannot recall.”
“Was he accompanied by a girl of fourteen or so years, a silvery slip of a thing with a fixed stare?”
“No. When he went away, he gathered to him a tall, thin blind man with a hawthorn staff whom he guided along the lane. They did not speak to each other.”
“How did you come to commerce with him?”
“He came to me,” Brotero said. “It was an unhappy hour, for I think Uccisore may be broken in spirit now and useless. He offered then to tell me where lay the baron’s treasure and how my band of trained rats might fetch it for me.”
“Having got it, you were to sell it to him at a price you would set?”
“Yes. I had thought to demand a handsome fee, but my rats brought back only some paltry candle stubs. I set a fee of two eagles which I expected him to reject.”
“But he paid without complaint?”
“He did, and how do you know of this? What is its concern to you?”
“I know little,” I said. “Your well-disciplined rats understand the world better than I do.”
* * *
Mutano and I departed the warehouse in discomposed spirits. Sunbolt had disappeared after his victory and Mutano was pleased at the outcome but glum about the prospect of reclaiming his voice.
“That cat will never return it now,” he said. “He has found it too valuable an instrument.”
“That may be so,” I said. “Yet you possess his voice, and perhaps it too can give advantages.”
He shook his head. I knew that he was thinking of the woman he could not now beguile with ballades and canzoni and other intricate verbal nosegays.
I attempted to lure him into another line of thinking, saying, “If Sunbolt had been killed in the fight, your voice would have died with him.”
“’Tis as good as dead if I do not get it back.”
“We shall work toward a better conclusion,” I said. “Do you recall your observation of Sibylla’s shadow as Veuglio made his way through our maze at the château?”
He nodded.
“Do you still hold that the shadow communicated in some fashion to the two of them?”
“Yes.”
“Such a shadow, capable of thought and communication and of some degree of volition, would be most valuable in our trade.”
Mutano agreed and added that he had been considering the subject, although he had lacked leisure to pursue the thought.
“What would Maestro Astolfo give to possess such an umbra?”
A great deal, he told me, for this speaking or signing shadow could be put to more uses than we could readily imagine. “A man might establish an army if he could command a company of intelligent shadows.”
“How could he bend them to his will?”
“By threat of extinction. I can conceive no other way. They would not care for gold or any sort of object. They are independent of desires.”
“Well, these thoughts are idle, like so many of our speculations upon the vitality and intelligence of umbrae. We have more pressing concerns. We need to resolve all this matter of the Baron Tyl Rendig and we must pursue the question of the relationship between the maestro and Veuglio and his ward.”
“And we must reclaim my voice. It is accustomed to nobler purposes than frightening combative cats.”
“Let us divide our labors. I will undertake to recover your voice whilst you search out information on the blind man.”
“How am I to do so?”
“He was involved, perhaps allied, with the beggar guild of Tardocco,” I said. “If you make search among that louse-rag company you are likely to discover the track of him.”
“How do I inquire of them, seeing that they do not speak cattish?”
“Every task mounts difficulties—we must surmount ’em. How am I to persuade Sunbolt to give up his human language, since I have naught to offer in return?”
He smiled wryly. “That is a difficulty you must surmount. I believe you already have a stratagem in mind.”
“Truly? I do beseech you to reveal it to me.”
“You are not one to make rash bargains,” he said.
* * *
In the tavern called The Double Hell I stationed myself at a table where I could observe the thirsty come through the door with the bright mid-afternoon light strong behind them. The fellow I awaited would be called Quinias or Quinny or some such. He was the brother of Maronda, she who at the cattery rival to Brotero’s had been so sharp-set against me. This Quinny—or Ninny, as I judged him—I would recognize by his shadow. His sister had said of him that he was hale and whole once more and this meant that he had regained the shade that, as he told his sister, had been stolen from him. I thought it more likely that he had acquired a shadow not his own. If so, he had not got it from the establishment of Maestro Astolfo, or I should have known of it.
No one likes to lose his shadow. It is not a mortal blow, but it is a wearying trouble. If it is stolen or damaged, a man will seek out a dealer in umbrae resupply and the difficulty is got around in a hobbledehoy fashion. The fellow is the same as before, so he fancies, with a new shadow that so closely resembles his true one, no one would take note.
That is not the case. His new shadow never quite fits him so trimly, so conformably, so sweetly, as did his original. There is a certain discrepancy of contour, a minor raggedness not easy to mark but plainly evident to one versed in the materials. The wearer never completely grows to his new shadow and goes about with it rather as if wearing an older brother’s hand-me-down cloak.
Another change occurs also, not in the fitting or wearing, but in the character of the person. To lose a shadow is to lose something of oneself. The loss is slight and generally unnoticeable, yet an alert observer might see some diminution in the confidence of bearing, in the certitude of handclasp, in the authority of tread upon a stone stairway.
All these things I had been told or had read in books. I had never at that time experienced such loss myself and believed that I never would.
I am proud of my ability to find out these distinctions between original
shades and acquired ones. I was confident that I would recognize this Quinny-Ninny when he entered, and I felt reasonably certain that enter he would. I had formed a picture of his character and I was content to sip ale and nibble at eggs in pickle until his arrival. The Double Hell is a tavern where gamesters repair and it is a superstition among this breed that to change place of play is often to damage luck. Even a modicum of success under a certain roof will lure the player to return again and again.
So I marked my man as soon as he slid slouch-wise into the room, shouldering against the heavy pine door with its carved flagon. He took a seat on the bench by the far wall. He signaled and a mug was delivered by a thin boy in a soiled shirt who showed no affection for him. He coppered the youngster and waved him away, looked about, then settled to his beer, awaiting his usual circle of fellow gamesters.
I rose and walked directly to him, unsheathing my shorter dagger. I buried it an inch deep into the table before him. “My name is Falco.”
He gave the knife a quick appraisal before looking into my face. “That is interesting to know,” he said. His tone was as suave as glove leather, but I heard the undertone of uncertainty.
“Know too that I brook no insult.”
“No man should.” He looked at my blade again.
“I am in the employ of Maestro Astolfo.”
“Ah, the master shadow—”
“Take care you do not say thief,” I said, “for that would compose an insult.”
“Shadow merchant, I was about to say.”
“You were about to say thief, and I would have had one of your eyes for it. I may yet pluck the left one, if you persist in untruth. Thief is a name I will not bear.”
“Friend Falco,” he said, “I never could call you thief. I never saw you until now.”
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