by Brian Craig
When the time came for them to dance in couples, the music which he played was licensed to be freer and, and he did not shun the opportunity. He sent the piper away, though he kept the drummer with him, having already built a rapport with the man.
Though he began in an orthodox fashion his playing grew slowly more extravagant, and when he had passed the third pause he was plying his strings with a wildness which convention would certainly have disallowed had he not brought them to it by such a seductive route. It was not that he had tried to merge the careful steps of the noble dances with the rhythms of the peasant-dances which would be plucked and piped in the streets of the town, but rather that he drew them into capers which were beyond the ordinary expressions of status and quality.
Always, in his youth, he had longed to play real music—the music of the elves—but he had been told that even if human fingers 184
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could ever be taught the way, human hearts could never fill the melodies with true feeling. He knew that it was so, and yet, when he was at his best, he felt that there was something in his music which was extraordinary, and if it was not truly elvish, at least it was a little beyond the merely human. He felt that now, as he tried with all his might to make magic with his playing—magic which would warm the hearts of these cool and stately people; magic which would would give them a taste of rapture.
There were some, he saw, who were thoroughly grateful for his efforts—who threw themselves with virtual abandon into the movements of the dance, forgetting protocol and surrendering to the tyrannny of delight. He was less pleased when he realized that these were not his friends, but his enemies. The lady Marguerite had retired from the floor, and her son seemed hardly able to keep pace with his partner, Veronique diAvila. No matter what convention had to say about the male prerogative to lead it was clearly the flame-haired lady who was leading here, and her companion merely following. The same was true, it seemed, where Morella d'Arlette danced with Marsilio diAvila, for she was more possessed by the spirit of the music than any other, while he was the only man on the floor who was cool without being discomfited.
No other couple came close to reproducing the energy of these, including Tomas diAvila and the woman with whom he was dancing, whose mask and dress were almost identical to Veronique's, though her flowing hair was jet black. This, he knew, must be the authentic Serafima Quixana.
Orfeo saw that there was one more person who seemed to love his playing as much as any, though he had not danced at all.
Semjaza, staring from the depths of his death's-head, was not moving in time to the beat of the drum, but was moving nevertheless, holding his arms wide and arching his fingers as though trying to catch and hold the insubstantial magic voice which spilled into the air from the singing strings of Orfeo's lute.
Orfeo was proud of all this—proud that he could stir the emotions of those who meant to do him harm; pleased that although he had no power to hurt them, they were not immune to his effects.
When he finished that round, and bowed to Marsilio diAvila's applause, he felt that he was in command of the moment. It was, 185
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of course, an illusion.
Rodrigo Cordova, with apologetic gestures, moved away from the lady Veronique and went to speak to his mother, who stood by a curtain beside one of the great doors. As he did so the crowd which was by the door parted, to let in a sergeant and four guardsmen. They were masked, and costumed, but the moment Orfeo saw them he knew that they were armoured beneath their bright tunics, and that the weapons they wore were by no means for show—two carried half-pikes, at the ready. One held a paper, which he gave to Marguerite Cordova. It was, in a way, a futile gesture, for neither the sergeant nor the lady could read—but its symbolism spoke volumes.
Orfeo looked around for the two men-at-arms who had come with Rodrigo's party to the castle, but they were nowhere to be seen. Force or higher loyalties had taken them elsewhere.
The lady had gone quite pale, and Orfeo realized that the warrant of arrest was for her and not her son. Marsilio diAvila had found a different way to subvert any threat which the cursed House of Cordova might present to him.
Orfeo saw that the move was a gentle one, more statesmanlike than the duke's first bungled scheme—but he also saw that Rodrigo Cordova was not in any frame of mind to make subtle calculations of possibility, or to weigh the matter coolly in the balance. All that Rodrigo saw was a threat to his mother, and no thought of caution or danger stayed his hand, which went straight to the hilt of his sword.
There were men near enough to take Rodrigo's arms and hold him—and no doubt they had been charged by diAvila with exactly that duty—but they were taken aback by the suddenness and the fury of his reaction. Perhaps they too had been absorbed by the music of the lute, and had not quite recovered their quickness of wit. Whatever the reason, when Rodrigo snatched at his sword and they came forward to prevent him from drawing it, he sent them tumbling with an angry sweep of his arm, and while they fell over one another's feet the blade came free, and carved an open space around him as he lashed it back and forth.
The sergeant-at-arms transferred the warrant to his left hand and grabbed at his own scabbard, but Rodrigo slashed the tendons in the back of his hand, and he yelped in pain. The blades of the 186
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half-pikes came down as their carriers tried to force Rodrigo back by their threat—but Rodrigo was not in any mood to give way.
With his left arm he swept one blade away and stabbed with his sword at the throat of the man who held it, drawing blood.
As the man fell away Rodrigo caught the half-pike, and used it to block the clumsy thrust of the other weapon. Now the men-at-arms tried to fall back, to give themselves room, but the crowd at the door was far too thick, and they had to struggle for space to draw their weapons and bring them into play. Rodrigo whirled the half-pike around in a long, low arc which cut at their legs like a scythe, and they could not dodge the blow. Down they went like ninepins, all five of them.
Rodrigo whirled to face the crowd within the Hall, but the men appointed to hold him were no longer enthusiastic to do the job, and they retreated, looking towards Marsilio diAvila. Because the Duke's mask was full-faced it was impossible to guess what expression was on his face, but he drew his sword with practised ease, and half a dozen of the others on the floor—including Tomas—drew theirs.
Orfeo saw Cristoforo struggling through the crowd, and Rodrigo shouted at him to make the lady safe and take her home. There was not the slightest possibility of his doing so if diAvila's men moved to stop him, but the Duke signalled to them to let her go.
Rodrigo had made his choice, whether he had known there was a choice to be made or not, and now that he had faced Marsilio diAvila with the challenge of a naked sword, he had to be killed.
His mother no longer mattered.
Orfeo was not so far moved to wrath as to forget his ability to calculate, but mere arithmetic seemed not to matter much in the present situation. To stand back now would be to accept—indeed to welcome—the plans which the diAvilas had for him. He laid down his lute and drew his rapier, and found the sound of its drawing falling into a sudden silence, where it attracted attention.
Even Marsilio diAvila turned to look at him.
"To me, Rodrigo," said Orfeo, who had a solid wooden table behind him and not a crowd. But Cordova did not move.
"There is no need for a melee," he said, sourly. "Far better to settle the matter between ourselves, my noble Duke."
Marsilio laughed. "But that, young sir, would falsify our relative 187
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strength—for we are half a hundred, and you are but two. And if you were lucky enough to kill me—why, there's another Duke beside me, and a dozen of my kinsmen nearer to the title than yourself. Would you duel with Duke after Duke, until you had slain us all?"
"Why not?" replied Rodrigo, sullenly. "If a dozen Dukes are bent on taming me,
let them try in their turn until one of them can do it."
"Any one of them could do it," said Marsilio diAvila, his voice hard-edged. "I doubt that more than two or three could best your player friend, who outfenced Sceberra as prettily as one could wish, but you are a boy facing men, and you know it."
"My lord," said Orfeo, before Rodrigo could reply, "this is the Night of Masks, and at midnight we are all required to show our faces. Until then, we are privileged to be anyone we pretend to be. A player may pretend to be a warrior, a boy may pretend to be a man, a Duke may pretend to be.. .whatever he wishes. Your people say that you are a cruel man, but tonight your cruelty is masked. Why not let the mask remain, and let the boy fight as a man. Appoint one to fight him, not six."
Marsilio shook his head. "The dancing is done," he said. "If Don Rodrigo lays down his arms I will not have him killed, but this is play no longer."
That would have settled matters, but for two interventions which the Duke had not looked for. Tomas, his son, said: "I will fight him, sir—and when I kill him, none can say that it was man against boy." And Veronique, his daughter—perhaps upset by the unexpected turn of events, of which she can have had no warning-said: "Boy or man, he is not a dog. Let him fight, father, as he demands to be fought."
Perhaps the Duke scowled blackly beneath his mask; perhaps he was amused—but he could judge the mood of the crowd. The aristocracy of Zaragoz was gathered here in its entirety, with a hundred servants looking on. This was no ordinary night or ordinary arrest, and if judgment were being pronounced on anyone, it was the state of Zaragoz which stood to be judged, not Rodrigo Cordova.
Outside, there was a clatter of hooves, and Rodrigo tried to look over the heads of the servants gathered in the doorway, to see 188
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whether his mother had been allowed to go. Orfeo could not hear what was said, but he judged by Rodrigo's manner that the news had come back that the lady Marguerite was gone.
Rodrigo said nothing, but simply waited calmly.
After half a minute's silence, Marsilio diAvila shrugged his shoulders and said: "If we must make a tournament of this, so be it. But if Rodrigo Cordova claims a man's right, he must have a man to fight. And if the Duke concedes that right, then the Duke must be the man."
So saying, he levelled his blade, and moved into a fencer's stance.
Rodrigo hesitated for a second, then cast the half-pike away, and copied him. The pairing looked odd, because one was right-handed and the other left, but when the Duke came forward and the blades clashed the sense of incongruity was quickly dispelled.
Although Rodrigo tried with all his might to turn the attack around Orfeo saw at once that Marsilio had spoken the simple truth. Rodrigo had been schooled in the art of swordsmanship, but he had been educated more as a sportsman than as a killer.
He had the show of skill, but not the force of it. Marsilio, on the other hand, was as swift as any swordsman Orfeo had ever seen, and knew his business completely.
When Marsilio broke off the first engagement to draw back, Orfeo knew that the Duke could have pricked his opponent already, but had elected instead to make a display for his loyal subjects.
Orfeo grimaced behind his mask.
Rodrigo came forward furiously, determined to make up by sheer fervour what he lacked in technique, but the desperation of his thrusts made them less effective rather than more, and diAvila parried them easily, rejoicing in his control of the situation. Orfeo could only wonder how long the Duke would let the duel go on, and whether he would kill the boy with a flourish or content himself with cutting him, then sending him to the dungeons. He gritted his teeth, and tried tadecide what he should do—if, indeed, there were anything he could do.
There was no sound but the clash and click of blades, which echoed oddly in the high-roofed Hall. Tune seemed suspended by that near-silence, so great was its contrast with the noise which had earlier filled the Hall and the courtyard with the hubbub of celebration.
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Marsilio diAvila came smoothly forward again, teasing his opponent's blade with his own. Rodrigo parried, tried to counter-attack, and was suddenly bested. The Duke's blade drew a line of blood across his chest, and the swift spread of the stain showed that it was a deep cut. Rodrigo staggered back, and though he did not fall his sword-arm dropped until the blade rested on the floor. With his left hand he swept the mask from his face to reveal his frightened eyes, and the gesture brought a gasp of alarm from the crowd.
There was a moment when the Duke might have struck again, delivering a fatal blow, but he hesitated. Orfeo ran forward to his friend, and Veronique diAvila moved forward at the same time.
They reached him at the same moment, in time to catch him and help him stand up. The wound in his chest was not a fatal one, but the shock and loss of blood made it impossible for Rodrigo to continue.
Orfeo looked at the Duke's masked face, and said: "He cannot harm you. Let him go home, I beg of you."
But Marsilio diAvila shook his head, and said: "He offered himself in place of his mother. He must go to prison now."
"And if I offer myself in his place?" asked Orfeo, loudly.
But Marsilio diAvila only laughed, and said: "You are not of his quality, and we have you already, have we not?" As he said it, he looked towards Morella d'Arlette, who was standing with Semjaza at the other side of the Hall. Their masks, one gaudy and one horrible, were impassive.
"My lady," said Orfeo to Veronique, "I beg you help me carry him to yonder table, where we can lay him down. There is a door beyond it, by which he may be removed without going through that crowd." He could see her eyes through the bright, smiling mask, and knew there was genuine affection in them for her damaged lover.
She nodded, and looked at her father. Marsilio diAvila put up his sword, and signalled to her to do as she was asked.
Rodrigo was hurt, but he could still walk, and they had no difficulty in leading him away from the middle of the floor. The crowd, seeing that it was over, grew sudenly murmurous, and the Duke of Zaragoz turned to them, and said: "It is a shame that blood has been spilled tonight, for this was to be a night when 190
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wounds were healed instead of opened. I say now, so that all of you may hear me, that the troubles and anxieties which have plagued Zaragoz for many generations are laid to rest. Though the news was to be sent abroad at midnight, I see no reason to wait. I ask you to rejoice for my beloved son, Tomas diAvila, who is this night betrothed to the lady Serafima Quixana, and to rejoice also that their marriage will put an end forever to the enmities which have been the bane of all our lives. Rejoice, I say, for the future Duke of Zaragoz, and for the future of Zaragoz itself!"
As these words rang out the murmur in the crowd, which had initially been silenced, swelled again, and Orfeo thought that their intention was indeed to rejoice, or to put on such a display as would please the man who ruled them—but when the murmur grew and grew it became very clear that its clamour was of a different kind, and when Marsilio diAvila stopped speaking there was a sudden gust of chilly wind which blew about the Hall, causing a hundred candles to flare and then to die, sending shadows dancing madly about the walls and the ceiling above them.
Those shadows should have died with the wind, but somehow they did not, and though only one in ten of the flames which illuminated the room had been extinguished, there was a darkness in the air which shifted and stretched, as though erupting out of nowhere.
There was a great sound of screaming, then, which came from the open space outside. It grew within a few seconds to an astonishing volume as voice after voice took it up, howling in pure terror.
The crowd which had been crammed into the doorway had been held back as though by an invisible barrier—a wall which separated the arena of the nobility from the space where common men were permitted to walk—and no matter how many people had pressed forward in the determination to see the duel that barrier had hel
d.
Now it broke, and so great was the pressure which had been upon it that it burst with a tremendous force, hurling people across the dance-floor in every direction like a human tide.
There soared into the room above the heads of the maddened throng a great black bird, which seemed for a moment as huge as an eagle, though it was in fact a raven. It dived at the man in the death's-head mask, screeching like an angry daemon, and met 191
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the taloned fingers which were raised to ward it off with talons of its own.
Marsilio diAvila leapt backwards, drawing his sword again—but so quickly did the cataract of human flesh consume the space of the floor that within an instant he was surrounded by jostling commoners too terrified to know or care that he was there. The crowd was irresistible as it flowed to surround the others who had drawn their swords in support of their duke.
Orfeo and Veronique, backed against the table at the far side of the room with Rodrigo Cordova between them, had more time than anyone else to react. Orfeo leapt up on the table-top, and pulled Rodrigo up after him. The lady Veronique wasted no time in following this example.
Orfeo had time for one cry of alarm as the crowd swept over the lute which he had laid upon the floor—but then, over the heads of the crowd, he saw what it was which drove them to such panic and produced those screams of animal terror.
The courtyard outside, which had been brightly lit by thousands of candles, was much dimmer now, as though all but a few had been snuffed out by some invisible hand. The grey stone of the terraces was stained black now, and seemed to have come to life, agitated like dull pondwater rippled by a sudden fierce shower of rain.
The tide of humans which had burst into the ballroom was followed by a tide of rats—rats by the thousand, red-eyed and thick-tailed.
They ran and leapt and bit as though driven by some inner madness which had overridden their every instinct, bringing them forth as a furious legion from their own world to destroy the greater one that contained and confined it.