by David Waid
The man shuddered — he knew too much about the inquiries not to — and ran his fingertips through the thinning wisps of his hair. He ambled along the corridor running the length of the house and, damn, but he was tired. The steps to the second floor were a sour reminder he must clean the room above, but he passed them by. They were also a reminder that the boy’s corpse lay in the cellar, waiting to be carried off. That thought, too, he pushed away. “The great apprentice is not so great,” was all he said.
The Maestro generally took no interest in the state of the house and, Bezio, like mist, drifted to the lowest point of effort. An occasional half-hearted cleaning seemed the only requirement. With the Maestro gone, there was not even that. At the bend of the corridor, he passed left into the salon. There, on a table by the vacant chair sat the Maestro’s wine bowl and ceramic bottle.
Bezio drained what was left from the bottom of the bowl, smacking his lips. He checked the bottle, cursed and turned for the kitchen.
The wheeled pallet with Ignacio on it found the grooves in the tunnel floor and rolled in. Hands shaking, Teresa took the book she’d stolen and placed it on her brother’s legs. Too much had happened for her to comprehend, so she thrust it all away; the horrors of the Maestro’s butchery, finding Ignacio’s body, the terror of seeing his apparition. Everything she had ever known and believed seemed to be tearing apart.
Sadness pressed like the weight of an ocean, held at bay by a wall of denial thinner than a sheep’s bladder, and the bass thrumming she felt when she allowed her thoughts to rub against it was a reminder of the power — the silent, instant, crushing weight — that lay on the other side.
Crouched by the mouth of the tunnel behind the tall shelves, she slapped her hand against the floor. Why should all these bad things happen to her family? An angry knot tightened in her chest. Teresa wanted to hurt the Maestro as he had hurt her. The books she slashed were nothing, a tantrum. She walked back to where she could see the things of the cellar. She would smash something if she could do it without making too much noise.
On the room’s edges were shelves lined with bottles, flasks and ceramic vessels, tools of the Maestro’s alchemy. She froze. Ignacio had written that these were the most valuable and most dangerous of all the Maestro’s possessions, kept here to be safely away from misuse and casual flame.
Her brow cleared. She smiled, but the skin around her mouth and eyes tightened.
Bezio paused in the doorway to the kitchen, confused, the wine bowl in one hand, ceramic bottle in the other. The door to the cellar stood open and he had left it closed. Flickering light came up the stone steps along with the sound of breaking glass. A quick thrill of fear ran through him. Had the Maestro abandoned his departure? Returned?
But he’d seen the man off himself.
He stole forward to the top of the stairs and cocked his head to listen. For some reason, he recalled the sound he’d heard in the hallway earlier while standing before the Maestro. Impossible. His face darkened in purple splotches. Impossible, he thought again. But he was already descending the stairs.
Teresa moved from shelf to shelf, gathering armfuls of the jars and bottles. She spilled their contents across the stone flagging in the room’s center. Sharp, bitter, acrid smells made her eyes water and her head feel light, but she didn’t stop. Whatever scrolls and parchments she could find were added. On top of the pile, she placed the wood pulleys for good measure.
Tearing back the drapery of some furniture, Teresa found two amphorae. They nestled against each other as innocent as jars of cured olives. Something nagged at her memory until she remembered what Ignacio had written. Two amphorae. Ignis Volatilis. By far, the most dangerous of the ingredients in the cellar. She stood looking at them and each beat of her heart pounded out against her ribs.
Setting the lamp carefully aside, she lifted the vessels, one at a time, leaning back with her hands clasped underneath and brought them to the center of the pile. The heap would burn well. Teresa had saved three casks of lamp oil and used them now to make radiating trails into the Maestro’s surrounding collections. Let the spreading fire take it all. Backing up, she poured the oil along each line. As she splashed a trail to the Maestro’s collection of junk by the spiral stairs, she exulted. For his great debt, the Maestro would soon make a costly first payment.
She thought it through as she worked. Positioned by the tunnel entrance, Teresa would start the fire, pull the heavy iron door shut and leave with Ignacio. Setting aside the empty oil cask, she lifted her lamp. When she straightened, she once again saw herself reflected in a half dozen silvered mirrors. And in every reflection, from every angle, Bezio stood behind her.
Teresa screamed.
His reflected face was ugly, filled with rage. He rushed forward as she started to run.
“Puttana!” he shouted.
He slammed into her with such force it took the two of them forward, driving Teresa hard into a tall chest. The lamp fell from her hands. She was bent over, face pressed to the wood, but she heard the lamp shatter on the ground. The cellar plunged into darkness, then, with a low whupf! a new light blossomed.
Bezio wrestled Teresa around so she faced him. “I want to see your eyes,” he said. Scratching at his arms and face, she tried to twist away, but he pressed his weight against her, forcing her down and back so she lay on top of the chest. The man grabbed her neck with both hands, squeezing. He seemed oblivious to the fire burning nearby, rippling toward the pile. Her fingers pulled ineffectually at his arms. His face pushed close to her, flecks of spittle flicking from his lips.
Black spots swam in Teresa’s eyes. She dropped one hand, fumbling at her belt for Ignacio’s knife. The man shook her, banging her head against the chest and she almost lost consciousness. The knife came into her hand and she swung wildly, scoring his arm in a bloody line. It wasn’t a deep cut, but the burning surprise of it caused Bezio to release her. Shouting in fury, he fell back, clutching the wound.
Teresa gasped and coughed, putting a hand to her neck. Flames danced on the edge of the pile, burning green and blue, dense clouds of smoke curling into the air.
Bezio stepped toward Teresa. She waved the knife to ward him off, but he only laughed. Screaming, she rolled sideways off the chest and ran as soon as she touched the ground. One of her feet stepped in oil, slid, she had a moment of nauseating vertigo and then landed hard on her side, pain lancing out through her hip and elbow.
While she struggled to her feet, Bezio stalked forward. “Bitch.” He kicked her as hard as he could.
Teresa rolled over, clutching her stomach with both arms. Bezio walked calmly around, took the knife from her hand.
Little fingers of flame slithered out along oil trails, radiating into the cellar corners. As darkness gave way, Teresa saw sheets moving as if they were alive, billowing and on fire. In the center of the pile, flames licked the amphorae. Teresa rolled onto her hands and knees again, attempting to rise.
Moving as if he had all the time in the world, Bezio squatted by Teresa. “Now you die, girl.” He brought the knife towards her face. Teresa’s hands were in muck on the floor, a wet mixture of the Maestro’s strange ingredients. She grabbed a fistful, hurling what she could at Bezio’s face and a gray, glistening clot spattered his eye. The man stood and staggered, clawing at his face and screaming in pain. Teresa scrambled up to back away. A popping noise came from the pile. A shower of sparks.
Perhaps the pain cleared his head because, for the first time, Bezio seemed to recognize his danger. Tears streaming from where the mixture had hit his eye, he looked between the burning pile and the stairway behind him. The exit was close. But his head swung back to Teresa just as she ran the twisting course for that space behind the shelves. Over the crackle and hiss of the flames, he shouted a curse. She looked over her shoulder as the man sprinted for her.
Teresa caught one last glimpse of the pile, just as flames enveloped the two amphorae and she dove behind the shelves. A flash of light burnt the
air and a white roar shook the world, taking her breath away. She was thrown sideways, hitting the wall, body falling limp to the cellar floor.
She groaned, but the only sound Teresa heard was a loud, unending ring. For several heartbeats, she couldn’t move and lurid red light danced across the stone flag under her cheek. With great effort, she rolled on her side. The shelves had been blown over so that they leaned against the wall above her. The back had been ripped from one by the force of the explosion, and through the empty shelving, she watched fire drip like liquid from the wood beams of the ceiling. A thick layer of smoke hovered in the air. The cellar had become an inferno.
Teresa raised herself on hands and knees, almost fainting from the pain. She crawled toward the iron door, while heated air whipped chaotically around her. The door hung by a single hinge in a pile of broken tunnel bricks. Her arms, she saw, were peppered with splinters. Ignoring them, she pulled herself over the bricks and into the darkness. Ignacio and the pallet had been pushed from the wheel grooves and the front of the thing had lodged against the tunnel wall.
Red light danced as she worked to pull the cart wheels back into the track. A second, smaller explosion rocked the room behind her. She put her head down as a blast of searing heat blew past. With a jolt, the wheels fell into their ruts and the cart began a slow roll toward the sloping pitch. Teresa grabbed Ignacio’s ankle and then the cart itself, pulling half her body onto it. The cart rumbled forward and down with her feet dragging limp behind.
Cradling Ignacio’s head in her lap, Teresa sat on the cobblestones in the middle of the street. Her skin, hair and clothes were a ruin of soot, but the air felt cool and clean. Farther up the hill, a black plume spread out against the sky. Her ears still rang, but now it seemed distant and unimportant.
When she had crawled from the other end of the tunnel, emerging in the basement of the abandoned building, there’d been no light at all. In the dark, she moved as if stunned, fumbling with the sheet that covered Ignacio, wrapping him as best she could. She staggered up the stairs and into the street, blinking at the sunlight and staring stupidly at the people rushing by. A woman came and held her by both arms, shouting something.
“My brother…” she stammered and gestured to the door behind her. “My brother… “ The woman pulled Teresa to the side as others rushed in. Someone fetched a candle. It seemed as if only short moments passed and Ignacio was there with her. People ran past on either side carrying buckets of water. And then, for the most part, the street stood empty while citizens battled a fire that threatened to burn a city block.
A breeze tousled Ignacio’s hair. In the sky, white birds wheeled and dipped. Down the hill, a vista of red tiled roofs ran their disorderly jumble to the edge of the Mediterranean. Genoa’s clear, green harbor lay wind-rippled and empty save for one lone ship cutting away with sails full, pushing out to sea.
14. ‘Divil Take the Man’
Leinster
“Who’s hurt?” The brigand with the bandaged thigh limped across the room. He picked up the sword he’d dropped when Bran bit him, careful to keep his right wrist elevated, his elbow dripping dark pearls of blood. At least one tooth hole marked his skin, and the flesh around it showed swollen and red. He straightened as the youngest of the brigands looked calmly back at him. The giant shrugged.
“What, just me? The Devil! Why is it always me?” He limped over to Bran and tried to kick the dead dog’s body, grunting with pain as soon as the weight shifted onto his bandaged leg. “Blood and balls!” He whipped his sword back and forth in the air, face turning red.
The giant watched impassively and the boy laughed.
“What’s happening?” Nairne whispered. When Eamon didn’t respond, she gave him a gentle shake.
“You let them kill Duff,” he replied.
“I preserved yer life, if only fer now.”
“See for yourself, then, if you’re able.”
“You there,” said the limping man. “Stop yer prattle, or I’ll twist yer scroggins and be done with ye.” The man hobbled to the cottage’s table and lit a candle. Speaking to his fellows, he pointed at Nairne and Baodan’s bedrooms. “Look sharp and make sure no one’s hiding.” The giant squeezed into Nairne’s room and the boy sauntered in behind. The limping man, meanwhile, pulled a chair to himself and eased into it.
Caitlin clutched Nairne’s sleeve in white-knuckled fists as she described the scene in whispers. She finished with, “Duff is dead. Your son and the dogs, too.”
Holding up her index and smallest finger, Nairne spit between them. “Short be their murderin’ days,” she said.
From Nairne’s room, came the sound of the brigands turning over furniture. Something smashed. Soon the boy emerged. “Nothin’ there.” He stood aside so the giant could exit and precede him into the next room.
Caitlin pulled Nairne’s arm. “Duff! He’s alive!”
It was true, his lips were moving. Eamon and Caitlin were about to rush forward, but Nairne stopped them. Eamon still held the skinning knife he’d taken from Nairne. Now she closed her own fingers over his. “He who is not strong must be cunning. Hide this in yer sleeve.”
The seated brigand leaned back in his chair. “I said shut up.”
From Baodan’s room came the voice of the younger bandit. “Och! There’s a dead woman in here.”
“Yer sure she’s dead?”
“Arra! I know dead.”
“Fine. Leave ‘er be for the nonce.”
Out stepped the boy and the giant and Eamon had his first true look at all three of their faces. The wounded man had long, dirty blonde hair streaked with grey and tied back with a filthy rag. Tall and thin, he was, with sunken cheeks and stubble riding up within two knuckles of his eyes. The giant smiled. Not some bloodthirsty grin, but something tentative, almost shy, and Eamon thought the man could be simple like Derval O’Clune. Though bigger than Eamon, the youngest of the three brigands could not have been much older. He wore a bright green cap, a patchwork cloak of stitched skins over his armor and yellow trousers tucked into a pair of overlarge boots.
Nairne stood and the brigands quieted, watching to see what she would do. Her shaking hands groped over the little table beside her, scattering the things there. A ceramic bowl fell to the ground and the boy-brigand hefted the weight of his sword. The old woman continued her clumsy, shaking exploration until her hands lit on a small wicker box.
“Lead me to my son,” she said to Eamon, “and we’ll see if there’s anythin’ can be done fer him or yer Duff.” To the room at large, she said, “Divil take the man who harms a blind woman.”
“The Devil is already goin’ to take me,” said the giant.
“Tha’s true for you and me in the bargain.” The boy pulled his sword arm back to strike a blow and stepped toward Nairne. “A real shame, like.”
Thoughts flew through Eamon’s head in the space of that first step. The boy would kill them all. His stepfather might live if Nairne tended the wound. The brigands’ faces he knew from his dream. It could be the names he remembered from his dream were right, too. Pointing a finger at the boy-brigand, Eamon said, “You stand back, Corc, or I’ll strike you with the palsy.”
All three of the brigands froze.
“How do ye know my name?” Corc’s gaze darted to his comrades and back. “How does he know my name?”
Eamon swung his finger toward the other two. “You are Cahill na Copall. And you are Mabon.” He did his best to imitate the hollow, echoing voice of Father Rhys during mass. His hand was shaking, so he brought it down to his side. “Leave us alone. Begone. Or it’s sorry you’ll be.”
Nairne walked forward, led by Caitlin, but the brigands stared at Eamon. The youngest recovered first. “I may get the palsy, but ye’ll be dead, Jack boy-o.”
“Corc!” said the bandit chief. “Don’t touch a hair of their heads until I say. We’ll need the gossoon and his sister to bargain with Sairshee before this thin’ is done. Put up yer blade an’ check the
crone’s box.”
Corc snarled like a dog, but sheathed his sword and wrenched the box from Nairne’s hands. Strips of cloth lay across the top of the contents and, rooting among the things below, he found only dried herbs. He tipped the box so Cahill could see for himself.
“Do ye have the healing skills, crone?” Cahill asked.
“Aye.”
“Well that’s proper luck. I’ll let ye tend yer menfolk, though one’s past carin’, I’d wager.”
“And what is it ye want in return?” said Nairne.
“I’ve wounds of me own. Ye’ll see to yer men once ye’ve seen to me.”
“I’ll not salve the men who hurt my son.”
“Ah. Corc, I’ve changed m’mind. Kill the boy.”
“Tcha! Enough. I’ll mend yer wounds, but not while our men may be dyin’ on the floor. If ye’re talkin’, ye can bide a spell. I need my things and hot water. If any man lays a hand against me or the children, I’d sooner slip a needle in his eye than lend my craft.”
Cahill levered himself to his feet and hobbled forward, bracing against the table. Hearing him come, the old woman stood her ground, chin jutting forward. Corc held the wicker box and smiled, eyes dancing back and forth between the two.
Standing in front of the old woman, Cahill looked from Caitlin on one side to Eamon on the other. His gaze rested on the boy for a long while. When at last he looked away, it was to peer into Nairne’s eyes. He snapped his fingers in front of her face, waved his hand and nodded his head. “Better for us,” he said. “Aye, go ahead then, crone.”