by Brian Craig
Orfeo thought this reluctance something of a calculated mystery, but did not want to press the man.
"You are right about the road," he said. "Stupid thieves are, alas, more to be feared than clever ones, who would easily have judged that our packs are not worth taking."
Arcangelo made no answer to this, but when they had walked on a little way he said: "You are Bretonnian, are you not?"
Orfeo did not mind that the other was suspicious of him, and hastened to put him at his ease. "I am," he said. "But I have spent time in the Empire too, and these last few months I have been in the highlands of Irrana. Of the ways of Estalia I know little or nothing."
"I know more of them than most," replied the priest, with a slight bitterness in his voice, "but I have not been in this realm for many years. I wish that I could hope to find it changed, but the rumours which reach other realms give no encouragement to such a hope. I too have been in the mountains of Irrana; even there the people had heard of Marsilio diAvila and his reputation for cruelty. He is the Duke now, having succeeded his father six or seven years ago. The father, whose name was Ruffino, was a hard enough man who took a savage way with his enemies—of which he had not a few—but the son, they say, is worse."
"It is the way of common men to complain about those who rule over them," said Orfeo, in a colourless manner. "Every man is a tyrant to his enemies."
- "Perhaps," said Arcangelo. "But Zaragoz has ever been a troubled realm The Dukedom is the object of a dispute, and has been for centuries. The diAvilas argue that the right to rule has Zaragoz
always been theirs, but some claim that the rightful rulers come from a family named Quixana, whose members have sometimes sat upon its throne. This means that those who come to dislike the man who rules have a ready-made cause with which to ally themselves, and it means that those who rule are always fearful of pretenders who may take arms against them. It is a situation which breeds fear, and that fear has sometimes erupted in violence."
"I have heard of such disputes," said Orfeo. "They play a sad part in some of the stories which I know."
"A sad part indeed," agreed the priest. "Such arguments are running sores which fester while they are passed from generation to generation. The lineages of the feuding families of Zaragoz have been intricately tangled by complex patterns of intermarriage, and in the time of the old duke many who were innocent of any intention to challenge his rule suffered by virtue of the names which they bore. If there are Quixanas in the realm today they go by other names, and are careful to choose substitutes which will not give them away. How anxious Marsilio may be about these hidden enemies I do not know, but if you stay in Zaragoz and play in the castle, you must be careful to guard your tongue."
"Still," said Orfeo, "feuds or no, these Estalian princes are civilized men, are they not? I can amuse them with a tale or two, I have no doubt. And if a man of Law has come to the town, it will surely become a safer place for honest men than it was before."
This was only a jest, but it induced the priest to turn and face him, briefly. The movement made his hood slip back a little, so that Orfeo saw the man's features clearly for the first time. He was only a little older than Orfeo—perhaps forty-five years old—and what hair he had was still black, though it was reduced to a thin fringe around a great bajd pate. His thin nose was rather crudely-shaped, and his brow-ridges, still thick with black hair, were very pronounced. His eyes were as black as coals, and he seemed altogether the sternest man that Orfeo had ever seen.
"There are no shrines to the gods of Law in Zaragoz," he said.
"But there may be good men there who will give me welcome, for there is a sore need of Law in the realm. As to whether my coming will make it a safer place, I must say that I cannot promise it."
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"Perhaps my coming will help to calm the town," said Orfeo, though he felt that his jesting was not being received in the proper spirit. "Music is a soothing art, and when men invest their energies in dancing, they have a little less to spare for quarrelsome pursuits.
Even the noisy hillmen of Irrana were more cheerful when I left them than when I found them."
"I hope you are right," said the priest, "but I fear that you must have received less thanks than you deserved for the gifts of good cheer which you brought to the mountain men. There is litle enough coin in Irrana to be spared for men like you—you must have sung for meagre suppers these last few weeks."
"Aye," said Orfeo, cheerfully. "But the hillmen in their little forts are as hungry for tales of mischief and derring-do as any men in the world, and I amused them. They were good enough hosts, by my reckoning. If the Duke of Zaragoz is as generous within his limits as they were within theirs, I will be pleased to meet him."
The other looked away, then, to look at a raven which swooped low across their path and disappeared between two thorny bushes which grew beside the road. As the dark man turned he said one thing more, voiced so low that Orfeo could not have heard it had his ears not been exceptionally keen.
"You little know what his limits are," the priest had murmured to himself, "and I think that he does not know them himself."
But when he looked at Orfeo again, what he said aloud was quite different. He said: "I wish you good fortune in Zaragoz, my friend—but I say again, beware. Its noblemen have more to hide than most when they don their carnival masks, and that night when they put them on might be far less joyous than they intend it to be."
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Chapter Two
They reached the western gate of Zaragoz soon after sunset, with the twilight fading quickly from the sky. The two guardsmen at the gate watched them go through, but offered no challenge—they seemed too lazy even to be curious.
Orfeo allowed his new acquaintance to lead him through the streets, looking about him as they went. They had the customary stink of town-streets everywhere, but they were not badly made, being adequately levelled and having solid pavements. Even the smaller streets had central ditches which served as sewers, though the water which was supposed to carry away the rubbish and other excrement was very sluggish in its flow. The fact that the sewers were there at all was a mark of civilization, for many towns of this size relied on muck-carts to collect the nightsoil and the animal-droppings, and carry them away to the distant fields.
The streets were narrow, but not too crowded—only on feast-days and market-days, when the labourers descended in a swarm from the surrounding farmlands, would the town fill up to the real limit of its capacity.
Arcangelo led his companion into the inner courtyard of a tavern, saying: "This will serve our purpose for tonight. Tomorrow, if you wish it, there will be an opportunity for you to advertise your skills at one of the houses on the hill—perhaps at the castle itself."
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Orfeo was content to let the other be his guide, and they hired a room with two beds, with no third party to share. Having deposited their loads, they descended again to the main room of the inn, where the priest asked for a loaf of bread, a half-cheese and a jug of wine. He asked Orfeo to share the meal with him, and Orfeo agreed. No mention was made of this being payment for the assistance which Orfeo had offered on the road, though the cleric appeared to feel that his was the obligation.
They took a table in the corner, and put their knives to work in cutting the bread and the cheese. While they ate, Orfeo took stock of the surroundings. The room was cramped, the innkeeper having crowded in far more furniture than his present custom required. The only other customers as yet were five townsmen, three of whom were huddled about one table, engrossed in gambling with dice, while the other two sat together at another.
These two made little pretence of conversation, and no secret of their curiosity regarding the two strangers, at whom they stared in a rude manner. Orfeo did not mind that—his way of life was to be looked at and listened to.
The innkeeper was sparing with his candles and the room was ill-lit.
The black wooden beams which supported the ceiling seemed huge because of the shadows they cast in the spaces beteween them, and whenever a candle-flame flickered in a draught those shadows would move in a sluggish fashion which seemed oddly ominous. Though the room was quiet and the customers very ordinary, Orfeo could not help but feel that there was some tension just beneath the surface of things.
While they were still at their meal three newcomers arrived—men dresed in a uniform livery which Orfeo took to be that of the Duke's militia. They were plainly off-duty, but were wearing their swords nevertheless. They called for wine, and set to drinking it with the avidity of men whose sole intention was to become intoxicated, though one of them quickly deserted his comrades to join in the game of dice.
Two street-women came in then, and promptly joined the soldiers, accepting a meagre ration of their wine as a token fee in anticipation of negotiations to be later taken up. The women had spared the two strangers but a single glance, apparently losing interest when they saw that one was a priest, but Orfeo noticed 32
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that one of them cast several covert glances in his direction, measuring him carefully. He did not mind that—women usually liked him, and he loved to be liked by them—but he made no gesture of encouragement.
Arcangelo sipped his wine slowly. He had put his knife away when he finished his meal, and whenever he put his tankard down he knitted his bony fingers together and sat quite still—he was clearly no man for fidgeting! The priest was in no hurry to go up to his bed, and though he seemed to be lost in private thought Orfeo observed that he was watching very carefully all that was happening in the room. Orfeo sat quite still also, with his hands in his lap, wondering what it was that his companion might be waiting for.
The shadows overhead moved languidly, as though they too were waiting.
Everything seemed dull and orderly, but Orfeo could feel something simmering behind the facade. Even so, he was most surprised when the change did come, by the rapidity with which two tiny seeds of dissent grew into an outburst of violence.
The soldier who was dicing had begun a losing streak the minute he sat down to join the game, and was cursing the dice as men often do in such circumstances, complaining that they had been bewitched to rob him. In the meantime the street-women, dissatisfied with the portion of the wine which had been given to them, were hinting that necessity might drive them to seek entertainment elsewhere. The one who had earlier studied Orfeo in a secret manner now began to do so more openly, in order to make an argument of her interest, but the soldiers did not take kindly to this gambit, and made resentful remarks about the relative worth of regular customers and fly-by-nights.
When these two arguments began to flare up, Arcangelo—who had let his hood fell back upon his shoulders—became much stiffer in his seat. It seemed to Orfeo that the priest was keenly interested to see how the quarrels would go.
They went badly. The soldier at the game turned his curses from the dice to the townsmen, who retaliated by suggesting that if he could not win he ought to search his own soul for evidence of the sin which had lost him all favour with the gods. Meanwhile, I he girl impatient with the other guardsman stood up in order to 33
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make good her threat to seek entertainment elsewhere, and was promptly pulled back with more than necessary violence.
Then the soldier at the game struck one of his fellow players with his fist, and the girl upturned a wine-jug on the head of her oppressor.
The dice-players moved hurriedly away from the table, clutching at coins and dice as the table was knocked over. The soldier dampened by. the dregs of the wine—who was more insulted than soaked—changed his mind about pulling the girl towards him, and threw her away instead, with such force that she was catapulted across the room, tripping over one of the stools of which the room was overfull. She would have fallen heavily had not Orfeo risen swiftly to his feet and stepped forward to catch her.
Seeing this, the soldier who had thrown her reached for his sword. It was an instinctive action, and he probably did not intend to draw it, but one of the gamblers chose that moment to chase a rolling coin between the legs of a nearby stool, and pitched it over so that the seat caught the soldier a painful blow on the knee.
The man howled, and plainly felt that the sum of his indignities had now become too much to bear. He hauled the sword from its sheath and let out a loud cry of mingled anguish and anger, which was presumably intended to call his companions to arms.
Orfeo quickly placed the woman behind him, but did not reach for his own weapon; he had no wish to start a fight with servants of the Duke of Zaragoz. Instead he raised his hands in a placatory gesture. The enraged soldier took one step forward, but seeing that Orfeo was not disposed to fight he did not attempt to thrust at him with the sword, merely holding it in a threatening manner.
Arcangelo picked up his staff from the place where he had rested it and held it in front of him—not at all aggressively, but as if he sought to erect a symbolic barrier against the possibility of violence. The soldier's angry gaze flickered from Orfeo to Arcangelo, and then back again, and he said: "Give the woman to me, or I'll take the pair of you into custody."
This statement was loudly delivered in order to be heard above the din, but as it was pronounced the noise stopped, and the last few words fell into a deathly silence. The soldier turned, to see what had happened to still the hubbub.
The door of the tavern was wide open, and in the doorway were 34
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two gentlemen. Both were young, about nineteen or twenty years of age. Their dress was not sumptuous but there was no mistaking their quality. Each wore a rapier at his side. They looked around the room with affected disdain, their eyebrows deftly raised to signify surprise.
"A call to arms," said one, icily, "should not be raised in the course of a common brawl. Had it reached the ears of the officer of the watch, I believe there might be some here who would learn that lesson painfully."
The gamblers who were scrambling about on the floor came slowly to their feet. The soldier sheathed his sword, and mopped with his sleeve at the wine which was trickling down his forehead.
"Well and good," said the youth. He lifted his hand, and put out his forefinger. With the gentle pressure of that single finger he pushed the soldier out of the way, stepping past him to confront Orfeo and the priest.
"I judge by your fair hair, sir," he said to Orfeo, "that you are far from your homeland. No doubt you have been lonely on the road, but you should not start a brawl in Zaragoz over the favours of some common whore. Her like is not in short supply, at this season."
"I could not agree more, my lord," said Orfeo, easily. "I did not seek to steal the pretty girl—she was hurled in my direction.
I was merely anxious that she should not hurt herself by her fall.
My name, sir, is Orfeo—I am a story-teller, and have some little skill with the lute, especially as a player for the dance. I dance far better than I fence, and would never seek to make a quarrel with such a sturdy fighting-man as this one here."
The sturdy fighting-man in question had the grace to seem llattered by the compliment, and could not have suspected how very insincere it was.
"I am glad to hear it," said the gentleman. "I am Don Rodrigo Cordova, and my friend is Don Theo Calvi. If what you say is true, then we are pleased to make your acquaintance, for we have no dancing-masters among our own poor players, and the Night of Masks approaches. I see that you do not have your lute about you, or I would ask that you play a song for us, to calm the heated tempers here—but there is no room for dancing in any case. If you will come to my house tomorrow, I will give you a better 35
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lodging than this, and a chance to show what you can do."
Orfeo bowed. "You are very kind. I trust that I will be able to find the way."
"You will have no difficulty," Cordova promised. "I am well-known in the town, and a
nyone will direct you." He looked then at the quarterstaff, which was still placed as a barrier before the dark-cloaked priest. "It is not often," he observed, "that we see a walking-stick as heavy as that one."
"It is a Staff of Law," said Arcangelo, coolly. "I dare say that you have not seen its like before."
Cordova raised his eyebrow again. "I have heard of the Gods of Law," he said. "But in Zaragoz, our noble Duke is the law, and we look to our gods to guide our hearts. We have shrines dedicated to Verena, though—perhaps her Clerics will give you a welcome, if you wish to seek your lost goddess within the confines of our humble realm. That is the mission which the priests of Law follow as they wander through the world, is it not?"
"There is a goddess named Arianka, whose prison is sought by some of my kind," said Arcangelo. "But we have other gods too, who inspire us in other ways."
When he said this, Cordova's eyes narrowed slightly, and not in the same calculated way that his brow had been careftilly raised.
Orfeo was surprised by that, for he had not thought to find this kind of Estalian gentleman sufficiently familiar with the gods of Law to take an inference from this remark. It appeared that Cordova, like Orfeo himself, had jumped to the conclusion that the priest was a servant of Solkan, patron of witchfinders. But the young man said nothing further on this matter, turning away instead to look at the townsmen and the soldiers, who had collected themselves by now and were watching closely.
"It is sad," said Cordova, "that those who are appointed to keep the Duke's peace should be so anxious to break it. If I hear of any more trouble in this quarter of the town, I will be forced to discuss it with the officer of the watch."
Then he turned on his heel and went to the door, with Calvi following. He glanced back only briefly, to meet Orfeo's gaze and favour him with the most unobtrusive of nods, to confirm that the storyteller should come to him on the morrow, and would be expected.