by Brian Craig
His eyes searched the road ahead for splashes of blood, but he could see none. He knew that Calvi had not been killed at the crossroads, but simply taken there to be abandoned. The men appointed to that job must have been uninjured, and though they had come this way they had left no obvious sign. If they had left the road in order to meet their companions, he would not be able to tell which way they had gone.
After a while, though, he did catch sight of a smear of blood upon a rounded stone by the roadside, and guessed that either someone with a wound had sat on it for a while, waiting for friends, or that a body wrapped in a blood-soaked cloak had rested there a while.
He dismounted and stood beside the stone, looking this way and that, hoping to see which way the company had gone when they left the spot. He could see no other bloodstains, but the ground on the slope below the road, which led down into a wooded valley, 81
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had been recently disturbed, and he reckoned that the men who had captued Cordova had gone that way. He followed, picking his way carefully. When he reached the stream he let his mount pause to drink, but then pulled the animal's head about, and forced it onwards. The horse, remembering its training, obeyed him without protest—but now they were among the trees they could only proceed at a walk in any case.
Orfeo followed the course of the stream as it wound along the valley floor, going against the direction of its flow. About a mile further on he saw from a distance that there was a hut not far ahead, and he promptly dismounted.
After tethering the horse he approached the hut on foot, creeping along very carefully. When he came close, he saw that there were four more horses loosely secured beside the hut, on a long rein so that they could graze and go down to drink from the stream.
The fact that there were only four immediately gave him hope that the other party had split into two, with some of the number returning to the town while others remained here—including, he assumed, those who were hurt.
But had the ones who had left taken Rodrigo Cordova with them?
The hut was a crude one, with no windows, and its condition was so poor that part of the ill-thatched roof had fallen in. It could be no more than a temporary hiding-place, to which the other men must intend to return—possibly with a healer, or with the man who had dispatched them on their violent mission.
Orfeo moved around the hut to a tall tree which overlooked it at the rear. He climbed up into its branches, continuing until he was high enough to see through the hole in the injured roof.
Through the gap he could see a pallet of straw, with someone lying on it, but the interior of the hut was too deeply shadowed to allow him to see whether it was a bound prisoner or a corpse. Nor could he judge with any conviction how many other men might be waiting inside the hut.
There was a hollow where the branch on which he perched met the trunk of the tree. Moss grew upon the debris which clung there. He took up a handful of of the moss, and crushed it in his hand until it was a compact ball. Then he threw it over the hut, aiming for a bush near to the door.
It rattled the leaves loudly enough to attract attention, and he 82
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saw two men rush out, swords at the ready, looking quickly around, though they did not think to look behind and upwards. One of them had his left arm bound, though his sword-arm was uninjured.
Orfeo felt certain that these two must have been in the company of guardsmen which had passed him on the road from the castle that morning, but they were not in the Duke's livery now; they were dressed as anonymously as he was himself.
Someone called to them from within the hut, petulantly, and they replied, saying that there was no one to be seen.
Orfeo came down to the ground again, as soundlessly as he could. He drew his sword from its scabbard. Then he made his way to the back wall of the hut, treading very carefully.
He would have liked to get up on to the roof, but there was no way he could do it without betraying his presence, so he worked his way slowly around to a position just outside the door. Then he picked up a handful of earth, and threw it at the same bush.
Once again the armed men popped out, staring hard at the spot from which the noise had come. Orfeo had his sword already raised above his head, and brought the hilt down hard on the back of the nearest man's head.
The soldier cursed as he fell, and Orfeo knew that he had failed to knock the man out, but as he sprawled in the dust Orfeo was able to deliver a haid kick to the outside of his knee before bounding into the open space to face the other swordsman—the man whose left arm was already bandaged.
His opponent had a heavy sword which was designed for slashing rather than thrusting, and he swung at Orfeo with all the artlessness of a peasant wielding a pitchfork. Orfeo dodged the blow with ease, and was able to thrust from a safe distance while the other was off balance. The point of his rapier pinked the other's sword-arm, and though the wound was by no means a crippling one it must have hurt a good deal, all the more because it was one of a pair.
The man Orfeo had kicked was staggering to his feet now, but with his head ringing and his leg unsure whether it could bear his weight he was in no condition to balance himself for a proper blow. Orfeo danced around so that he was equidistant from both opponents. He was at least three inches taller than either of the men he faced, and his uncommonly long arms gave him a further advantage in terms of reach.
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The point of the rapier licked out—once, twice, thrice—with the speed of a striking serpent. One thrust caught the staggering man in the throat, and sent him down choking on his own blood; the second cut the other man in the breast and made him lurch backwards, while the weight of his weapon dragged his arm down to leave him no defence at all; the third took advantage of this conspicuous opening by driving into his belly just below the rib cage.
A third man had appeared in the doorway of the hut, but he was already hurt too, much worse than his companion with the bandaged arm—his right leg was so badly cut and patched that he could only stand by supporting himself against the doorway.
He had a sword in his hand, but no obvious determination to use it now that he had seen what Orfeo could do with his blade. The man lowered the blade to signal his disinterest before Orfeo could thrust at him.
"Who in the name of all the gods are you?" he demanded, resentfully. "What business have you here?"
"I might ask the same of you," replied Orfeo, lightly. "I think you have taken off your colours, in order to hide your own identity, and make a secret of your own business."
The man whose arm and belly he had cut was writhing on the ground, moaning.
"You must see to your friend," said Orfeo to the man in the doorway, as he pulled the stricken man's weapon away with his foot, and took it into his own hand. "But throw your sword into that bush before you move a step, and go carefully."
The man with the hurt leg did as he was told, throwing his weapon away and lurching forward to kneel beside his companion.
The man who had been cut in the throat did not move—he was dead.
Orfeo moved to the doorway and looked quickly into the hut, while keeping one eye on the injured soldiers. Inside there was a body lying on the floor, apparently dead. The man on the pallet whose form he had glimpsed through the roof was tightly bound, but not gagged, and he exclaimed with surprise when he saw who it was that stood there.
"Master Orfeo!" he said. Then, when he had had a moment to recover his wits, he said: "I must be living in one of your stories, 84
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my friend, for I could never have expected when I rode forth this morning that I would first be seized by highwaymen, then rescued within the hour!"
"Do you know who these men are, my lord?" asked Orfeo.
"I believe I do," said Rodrigo, as Orfeo moved into the hut, stepping over the corpse, "though they have taken off their uniforms."
Orfeo cut away the prisoner's bonds with the capture
d weapon, then gave it to him for his future use. They went outside together, to see what had become of their enemies. The two wounded men were still together, in evident distress.
"Should we kill them?" asked Orfeo. "There may be a slender chance of keeping the secret of my coming here—though I was seen by half a hundred men on the road, and at least a dozen by the crossroads where they left poor Calvi."
"Dead?" asked Don Rodrigo.
"Not quite. He lived long enough to send me after you. But I do not think he could have lived long thereafter. I told your field-workers to summon help, but I had no hope."
For a moment or two, Cordova seemed half-inclined to butcher the injured men in reprisal for what had been done to him and to his friend. But he took no more than half a step towards them before relenting of this decision.
He paused for a moment, then said to Orfeo: "Better let them tell their story to someone who might help them. I hope they tell it to so many that the story is broadcast throughout the town, for I would like to have it generally known what work they came to do. My men will carry poor Calvi to his own house, where his mother will see to him, whether he be alive or dead."
Orfeo nodded. He had no appetite for the cold-blooded slaughter of men who had laid down their arms, and was glad to hear Cordova's decision. "Should we question them?" he asked.
"It would waste time," said Rodrigo, sourly, "and I dare say they are practised liars. We both know whose colours they wore, but whether they were traitors to those colours is a question which might be better answered by the course of events than by their crafty lips." Then he turned from Orfeo to addresss the stricken men, saying: "If you can, you should quit this place, for I think that your master will not be quite as kind as I have been. He will 85
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want to seal your lips, now that his scheme is gone awry."
Orfeo saw from the expression in their eyes that they believed it—and perhaps the fear of what might yet be done to them wiped out what gratitude they might otherwise have felt, because they did not thank Rodrigo Cordova for the mercy which he showed.
"Come," said Orfeo. "We must take the best of their horses, and lead the one which brought me here. I hope that you will know where to go, for I do not know what whirlpool of intrigue it is in which I have immersed myself, and must trust myself now to your care."
Rodrigo Cordova took the lead when they had mounted up, and Orfeo followed him. First of all they went back to the road where Orfeo had found the tell-tale bloodstain, but then the youth hesitated, and when he set off again he left the road to lead his companion across country. Orfeo had expected him to head north-east towards his own estate, but in fact he went south, towards Zaragoz. While they rode at a careful pace, with Orfeo's former mount behind them on a long rein, Orfeo told Cordova about the words he had overheard which had sent him forth on his errand, and what he had seen en route.
"Did you recognize the voice?" asked Cordova, anxiously.
"I could not," Orfeo replied. "Of all the voices in the castle I had heard but two—Sceberra's and Semjaza's. I am sure that it was not Sceberra who gave the order, and would be certain that it was not Semjaza either, save that I am ever wary of wizards and their tricks."
"Can you swear also that it was not your friend Arcangelo?"
"He too is a spellcaster" Orfeo pointed out, "but it was not like any speech of his that I have heard—and besides, I think Arcangelo is a prisoner beneath the castle, held in a secret cell far worse than the one where I was lodged."
"If only you had seen the man!" exclaimed the young man, in exasperation.
"Only be thankful that he did not see me!" replied Orfeo. "But there is another way to approach the question, is there not? What enemy have you who might gain from this? Remember that they were prepared to kill you if they had to, but preferred to take you alive—was that for ransom, or some other purpose?"
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"In Zaragoz," said Rodrigo, bitterly, "a man may have many enemies, and never know them all. There is hatred and mistrust in the blood of every man, engraved there by centuries of dispute and betrayal. The Cordovas have been loyal to the diAvilas for many generations, and that would be enough to earn the enmity of the Quixanas. As you heard last night, there is a special rancour to add to that, for rumour says that a secret passage extends from the Cordova house into the caves which are the bowels of the castle, and that it was such a secret route which the assassins used when they toppled that last Quixana Duke in the time of my great-grandfather."
"Is it only rumour, my lord?" asked Orfeo, with gentle scepticism.
"Do not call me that, Orfeo," said the young aristocrat. "You are my friend, and I would not have you address me as servant to master. I give you my hand, and beg you to call me Rodrigo."
So saying, the young man held out his hand so that Orfeo was able to reach across and take it, briefly. It was not the first time that a nobleman had offered him friendship, but he knew that such condescension was rare in tiny realms like Zaragoz, where every man had an exaggerated consciousness of his station.
"I do not mean to doubt you, Rodrigo," said Orfeo, "but if we are to unravel this mystery then we must acknowledge what is true. Is there a passage within the crag which connects your house to the castle? Whs it used in the coup of which Arcangelo spoke?"
"I honestly do not know," replied Rodrigo. "As I have said, the Cordovas have long been loyal to the diAvilas, and if my ancestor could have served the cause he would have done so—but if there was such a passage, the new Duke would certainly have closed it once he had used it. I know nothing, either, of any curse placed upon my house."
"And what of the rest of Arcangelo's story? Was the Quixana Duke a man of justice, slain by a tyrant?"
Rodrigo Cordova laughed. "Justice is a relative thing," he replied. "In every dispute at law the winner claims that the end of justice has been served, while the loser cries cheat! All those who resent the strong hand of a ruler call him tyrant, and wherever they can find a pretender to his position, that pretender becomes in their eyes a paragon of all the political virtues. You are a much-
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travelled man, Orfeo, and you must have seen that these are the ways of the world."
"Perhaps," replied Orfeo, without enthusiasm. "But I have known men who were certainly tyrants, and others who held to better principles. For now, we must confine our attention to the present case. Is it your belief that there is some traitor within the walls of the castle, who was spurred to action by the prophecies which Arcangelo uttered in your house last night, and that Calvi's murder and your seizure were the first blows in a campaign against the Duke?"
"It would be better if that were so," answered Rodrigo, with a sigh. "For if it is not, then I must look for enemies among the Duke's loyal servants. If those men were sent by Sceberra or Semjaza—or by Marsilio himself—then my escape can hardly be reckoned to end the matter. Yet I cannot see what any of them would gain by hurting me. I had thought myself a friend to them all."
"I cannot see much sense in it, either," admitted Orfeo. "Nor can I begin to understand what happened last night. If Arcangelo came here to spark a rebellion in the name of Quixana, it must have been foolish in the extreme for him to declare his aim so publicly. Did he come to your house for a different reason? And if so, was it his speech which has attracted the attention of unknown enemies to you?"
"I do not know," replied the youth. "I cannot begin to understand. Perhaps we should have put those scoundrels to the question after all."
"Perhaps," said Orfeo, uneasily. "But I doubt that they know any more than we do about the reasoning behind their orders.
I am, as you say, a much-travelled man, and I have heard many tales of treason and rebellion. If there is one point on which history and romance seem to be agreed, it is that when melodramatic messages are written in blood they are likely to be lies and libels.
The men who killed your friend
and made you captive were the Duke's men, and the simplest conclusion is that they were about his business. Perhaps he simply needed to contrive an atrocity, to prove that any who are sympathetic to the cause of Quixana are murderers and terrorists, and to quell any opposition to the methods he will use to root them out. You must ask yourself, 88
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Rodrigo, whether men like Marsilio diAvila and Estevan Sceberra would hesitate to sacrifice a pawn like Theo Calvi—or even a scrupulous friend like yourself—if they thought that a greater game must be played. Perhaps it is your very innocence and goodness which made them choose you as a target."
When Orfeo looked to see what effect his words had had, he saw that Rodrigo Cordova was frowning very deeply. If the younger man was not convinced, he was certainly reduced to perplexity.
But this was a story which he did not want to believe.
"You must remember that I am an outsider here," said Orfeo.
"I see with a more distanced eye. But I am also ignorant of the true situation. When Arcangelo mentioned the name Quixana while we walked together on the road he implied that the Quixanas had been all-but-destroyed when their last Duke was overturned.
Who, then, would be the champion of any revolt?"
Rodrigo sighed again. "This is a small nation," he said, "but it has a long history. Marriages across the centuries make complicated patterns of relationship, which are sometimes in dispute. The scribes in the castle use their records to prove all claims of inheritance, but the records do not always speak as clearly as they might. Among the nobility, some younger sons and daughters always leave the realm to make lives elsewhere, and their descendants are often unrecorded here. There are probably lines of descent different from those which are presently recognized, which might be traced by a scribe who looked at the records with an eye which favoured Quixana against diAvila; there are certainly lines of descent which might be invented by those with sufficient imagination to do it. But the one person who is universally acknowledged as a blood descendant of the last Quixana Duke, and bears his name, is the lady Serafima Quixana."