Ilario, the Stone Golem

by Mary Gentle

  extended family back in Taraconensis; I doubted he would attempt that.

  But . . . I have no idea who else is here from Taraconensis. Who may

  be on the road here, of docking on a ship this minute . . .

  No one knocked on my door. Honorius and Rekhmire’ both knew me

  better than to think I would want companions. I curled up in the window

  embrasure, taking charcoal to a wooden board, and rubbing out

  everything I drew that I was unsatisfied with. Which was everything.

  Proportion, value, perspective: all eluded me.

  Some time towards the evening, when the dusk came swiftly down, a

  servant brought a plate of food and a jug and cup. Not until I caught his

  individual way of moving in peripheral vision did I realise it was not a servant, but Ramiro Carrasco de Luis.

  Not a servant but a slave.

  I put the drawing-board down and stretched my legs, uncurling out of

  my seated position with spine to the wall. The secretary-assassin stood

  by the table, food abandoned, his expression awkward. I wondered why

  he was so ill at ease; whether I should be suspicious.

  ‘I’ll take it back.’ Carrasco’s resigned voice broke the silence. ‘I’ll get someone else to bring you a meal.’

  Poisoning me will keep his family alive, at least, provided Videric

  keeps his word – even if it’ll get Carrasco handed over for a judicial

  burning as a poisoner.

  Unless they flay him, as a slave who has killed his master.

  Ramiro Carrasco’s face showed a faint pink colour that was not

  reflected warmth from the hearth fire. ‘You ought to eat.’

  He abruptly reached down to pick up the wooden plate. It had dark

  bread and pale cheese on it, and I could smell that what was in the jug was honey ale. All of which can be sabotaged, I suppose, if a man sets his

  mind and ingenuity to it. But then, what can’t be?

  Crossing the room, I caught hold of Ramiro Carrasco’s wrist, took the

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  plate out of his hand, and set it back on the table. He appeared surprised

  that I would be strong enough to arrest his movement.

  ‘I’ll eat,’ I said. His skin felt cool in my grip. I released him. ‘Who sent

  you? My father? The Egyptian?’

  Ramiro Carrasco de Luis looked down at the floorboards.

  There was enough light from the window and the hearth-fire to let me

  see he ferociously blushed.

  I could scent him sweating, too, but there wasn’t the cold sweat of fear.

  ‘You got this for me.’ I couldn’t help smiling at his evident

  embarrassment.

  ‘It’s not – tampered with!’

  ‘You got this for me. Because . . . ’

  He was not in the dark Italian doublet and hose that he had worn as

  Sunilda’s secretary, and naturally enough he had no stiletto at his belt.

  I’d bought him, but who clothed him?

  Honorius, probably, from the household guards’ baggage. The

  rumpled woollen hose, and doublet with darned point-holes, both looked

  as if they might have been discarded by some soldier after long service.

  Carrasco had enough of the freeman still in him that he stood as if the

  scruffy clothes were a humiliation rather than a fortunate gift.

  ‘Because?’ I prompted.

  Some man in the house had cut his hair back to the scalp, presumably

  to rid it of prison mites. Under his leather coif, he was quite bald. The same long-lashed black eyes looked back at me that I had spent weeks

  drawing.

  I doubt he really needed to have his head shaved rather than washed –

  but someone will have found it amusing.

  Ramiro Carrasco looked down at the table top, and blushed painfully

  red over his neck and ears, that I could see where the coif was cut high.

  He muttered, ‘You’re right, you can’t say anything honest between

  master and slave. I just wanted . . . You . . . I do know I’d be dead of sickness by now!’

  I picked up the crust of dark bread and bit a corner off. It was

  yesterday’s. Dry enough that anything would soak into it.

  What? some part of my mind scoffed. You think he has a chest full of

  poisons in his bedroll, all ready to play the assassin again?

  Although he only has to have had access to my painting gear. The

  poisonous paints will kill any artist, if a painter is foolish enough to lick

  their brush.

  ‘If I were in your position,’ I said, ‘I wouldn’t poison the first plate of

  food. Or the second. I’d wait until I was trusted, until people were used

  to me, until I wasn’t noticed. Then I could be certain the food would be

  consumed . . . What? You think I was never sold to any man I didn’t

  dream of killing?’

  Carrasco flushed. ‘I forgot you’ve been a slave.’

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  It would have taken counting on my fingers to get the right of it. ‘I

  think I’ve spent more of my life formally as a slave than formally free. I

  know all the tricks. And it’s not like I’ve forgotten how many times you

  tried to have me killed. Even if I do understand why.’

  The look Ramiro Carrasco de Luis gave me was something to

  treasure, if one is not immune to normal human vindictiveness.

  He stood with his balance on the balls of his feet, shoulders hunched a

  little. I thought he would have liked to brawl with me. He glanced at my

  hand, where I bit at the dark bread again, and looked remarkably

  uncomfortable.

  ‘You will not allow me even to thank you, for keeping me alive—’

  ‘You don’t want to thank me. You just feel you ought to. I have saved

  your life.’ I couldn’t help grinning, momentarily.

  ‘Ilaria—’

  ‘You’re another one who’s going to have to be beaten into remember-

  ing “master”.’ I put the bread down, drank from the jug – watching him

  and seeing no reaction other than a flushed anger. ‘Listen. You call

  everybody master or mistress. They call you . . . whatever they like. It’s like a dog or a horse. If I don’t like the name “Ramiro” I can change it.’

  That brought his head up. His dark eyes glared at me. Names are

  important.

  ‘As for thanking me,’ I said. ‘You’re glad to be alive, but you don’t

  desire to thank me for keeping you that way. You hate the fact that I

  rescued you. I’d guess you spend half your time wishing I was dead, and

  half the time wishing you were. And you don’t wish to thank me for making you a slave – you find it humiliating, because you have more

  pride than any man ought to have. Certainly more than you have sense.

  Travelling with Federico and his wife and daughters, being Videric’s

  man covertly, knowing what was really going on . . . that suited you.

  Being property, being a shield between Videric and the man-woman . . .

  No, that sticks in your throat.’

  I watched Carrasco go as white as he had been red.

  ‘She-male!’ he spat out finally, intending it for insult, not description.

  ‘Ramiro, I spent enough time drawing you to know you.’

  He knocked the wooden plate off the table, stalked out of the room,

  and his footsteps died away while the plate still spun and clattered on the

  floorboards.

  How many times is he going to be whipped or starved before he

  realises what he is, now?
/>
  One word could have started that process. I felt more sympathy than I

  wanted to admit with his position. Am I to be the first to cause weals on

  his back?

  A shield.

  Yes, I thought. And I must finally admit it: Rekhmire’ and my father

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  are right. It merely puts Ramiro Carrasco where he has to be killed before

  I can be.

  There must be a solution.

  I can’t see it!

  The night came; I slept deeply, aware of no dreams; and opened my

  eyes with a snap in the morning, mind suddenly awake and aware,

  everything instantaneously laid out before me as the light and shadow of

  a drawing sometimes is.

  I hauled a man’s doublet on over my night-gown and clattered down the

  stairs.

  The smell of cooking permeated the house from the kitchens to the

  main room downstairs, overlooking the still-bald garden of the embassy.

  Evidently I had slept through men breaking their fast. Walking in, I

  found that the long oak table was cleared – of knives and plates, at least.

  My father and Rekhmire’ sat with opened boxes and crates about their

  feet. Some of the smaller crates occupied the table top, surrounded by

  heaps of straw. The window’s light caught shining curves.

  I recognised glass goblets, lantern-shields, beads, jugs; all such as I had

  seen on the lagoon-islands of Murano and Burano.

  ‘Old mercenary habit,’ Honorius murmured, as he had in Rome;

  studying the pattern of a blue glass goblet he held up. ‘Venetian glass will

  make excellent export goods . . . ’

  The room’s far door closed behind Ramiro Carrasco.

  Rekhmire’ and my father, at the bench at the long table, smiled their

  individual smiles.

  ‘I know another slave who was impossible to train,’ the Egyptian

  remarked, blithely provoking.

  I met his gaze.

  Rekhmire’ stopped and looked closely up at me. ‘What is it?’

  Honorius hooked a joint-stool up to the table, in invitation to sit, his

  gaze narrowed expectantly.

  ‘I have the answer.’ I slide a crate towards me, picking one of the glass

  goblets out of the straw. ‘I doubt you’ll like or approve of it.’

  Rekhmire’’s dark eyes fixed on me, intent and intense. Characteristic-

  ally, he said nothing, only waiting for me to speak.

  I tilted the goblet, watching the spiral of coloured glass in the stem

  catch the light. ‘I don’t like it either . . . But I can see no other way.’

  Honorius reached and took the glass out of my hand, and set it firmly

  on the table. ‘ Well? ’

  ‘Videric isn’t going to stop—’

  Old habits coming back to me, I sprang up, striding to open the

  room’s far door. No man was listening. I checked the door I had come in

  by, and left both open – since it’s harder to eavesdrop at an open door.

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  ‘Bear with me, and listen.’ I paced back, resting my palms on the table

  as I leaned and looked at them, across the crates and packing.

  Honorius nodded. Rekhmire’ remained motionless.

  ‘And tell me where I may be wrong,’ I added. ‘Ramiro Carrasco is

  some protection to us, because he will implicate Videric thoroughly,

  should he come to be tortured. And I suspect, if Videric harms his family

  out of pique, Carrasco would turn into a willing witness for us. But – if

  Videric can send a man who kills Ramiro Carrasco before he kills me,

  that doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Masterly,’ Rekhmire’ murmured under his breath, and held his large

  hands up defensively as I glared at him. ‘No, Ilario, please. Continue. I’m

  sure this has a point . . . ’

  The waspishness reassured me. Rekhmire’’s temper only verges on

  inadvertent rudeness when he is under great stress.

  And that means the situation is as dangerous as I say it is.

  Leaning with my hip against the edge of the table, I picked fragments

  of the straw packing out of one of the boxes, and looked across at

  Honorius.

  ‘Tell me why you first went to Castile and Leon.’

  Honorius looked as if he flushed, under the sun-browned skin. ‘Your

  mother—’

  ‘No.’ I stood up straight. ‘No, I understand that. Rosamunda didn’t want to leave a rich man for a poor man.’

  The bluntness must have hurt him, but he only nodded.

  ‘You were a soldier. Why did you go north?’

  Honorius’s brows came down. ‘Because that’s where the war was! Still

  is, for that matter.’

  I reprised the history of it, even though I could see a light of knowledge

  come into his eye. ‘You couldn’t have succeeded as well as you have in

  Taraco?’

  Honorius shrugged. ‘There wasn’t going to be war in Taraconensis, I

  thought. I was right: there hasn’t been a war on the Frankish border with

  Taraconensis for twenty-five years, to my certain knowledge. I knew if I

  went north to the crusades—’

  I nodded, interrupting him, and set off pacing around the long table

  again, too restless to stay still. Rekhmire’ leaned his head back as I passed

  him, intent dark gaze on me.

  I said, ‘We’ve both listened to the gossip in the salons. Every man

  seems to think Taraconensis so weak now, that Carthage might send

  legions in. So that the Franks can’t press down from the north, take

  Taraco, and threaten North Africa.’

  Honorius merely nodded. His frown was thoughtful. He had spent

  more than a little time talking over this with Carmagnola, I knew from

  my own observation.

  ‘Ask yourself: what changed?’ I held up my hand, stopping him

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  speaking. ‘And we know, of course. It started half a year ago, when

  Carthage sent their ambassador over and caused a scandal—’

  Honorius scowled. ‘You’re saying Videric is the reason why—’

  ‘Rodrigo had Videric as his adviser, his First Minister, all the time I

  was growing up at the court.’ I ended at the head of the dark oak table,

  resting my weight on my hands. ‘I know Rodrigo Sanguerra. Yes, he’s a

  good king. But if you force me to admit it, I have to say – he would have

  been less good without Videric.’

  I went on swiftly, before either staring man could interrupt me:

  ‘Others think the same thing. How true it is – hardly matters. Politics is

  a matter of belief. And men believe that Taraconensis is weak because

  the First Minister has been banished from court.’

  In the silence, I heard servants’ voices distant in the kitchens, and

  Saverico out in the embassy courtyard, laughing like a much younger

  boy at some remark Berenguer made.

  Honorius’s scowl did not lighten. ‘Ilario – what is this?’

  ‘It’s inescapable.’

  I straightened up, facing both of them: the Iberian soldier and the

  Egyptian book-buyer.

  ‘Aldra Videric needs me dead. If I’m dead, the scandal starts to die,

  and eventually Rodrigo can recall him to court. Videric’s a rich man, a

  powerful man. He can afford to pay to send any number of thugs and

  murderers after me. And to arrange for any witnesses to be killed, after.’

  I
saw Honorius and Rekhmire’ swap glances. Clearly, this is not a new

  thought to them.

  I pulled one of the smaller crates towards me, running my finger

  across the grain of the beech wood. That soothed me enough to get

  words out:

  ‘I know that Aldra Videric will not run out of money. And he’s well

  enough guarded at his estates that it would not be possible to attack or ambush him. Nor will he forget this matter – the only thing Videric has

  ever had is his place at the King’s side. He won’t forgive losing it. He won’t cease wanting it back.’

  I took a breath, feeling an odd combination of confidence and

  swimming dizziness,

  ‘I remain the obstacle. What Ramiro Carrasco can say might give

  Videric a moment’s pause. But as far as that goes – as you say – he can

  probably arrange an attack by bandits that wipes out an entire party of

  travellers, just as soon as we leave Venice. He’s rich enough to crew a

  ship and send men after me that way. I’ve thought of this backwards,

  forwards, and sideways. The answer remains: Videric’s not going to stop

  coming after me.’

  Honorius put war-worn hands down on the table. ‘Ilario . . . naturally

  this must worry you. I can defend you—’

  ‘Not indefinitely. And it puts you in danger.’

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  I circumvented Honorius’s further words by pointing at the Egyptian.

  ‘You too, Rekhmire’. You’re a witness.’

  With an unexpectedly hard note in his voice, Rekhmire’ stated, ‘ I am a

  representative of Alexandria-in-Exile and the Pharaoh-Queen.’

  ‘Then go back there and be safe,’ Honorius rapped out. ‘This isn’t

  your fight—’

  The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees. Expression rigid,

  Rekhmire’ said, ‘Is it not?’

  ‘Damn it, man, you know what I mean! You can leave, and so you

  should—’

  ‘If I had not interfered at Carthage,’ the Egyptian’s voice bit down, cutting Honorius short. ‘If I had not thought it so wise to go spilling Aldra Videric’s secrets – your son-daughter might not be in such

  complete danger of being killed! Yes, you have every right to blame me

  for that—’

  ‘I don’t blame you!’ Honorius jumped to his feet, waving his hands

  wildly. ‘Ilario doesn’t blame you!’

  ‘It never occurred to me to— Will you two be quiet!’ I yelled. ‘And just for once listen!’