Thorn

by Fred Saberhagen

  More likely, Thorn considered, the oddity of what was lacking in the glass escaped her. Experience had long ago proved to him that people usually accepted such accidental non-perceptions without thought, or sometimes rejected them completely as being caused by momentary aberrations of their own senses. Of course there was a chance that the mirror had been placed there deliberately, and Seabright might have looked into it to check out his guest. Thorn himself, of course, could tell a vampire without any such subterfuges; but even the wisest breathing folk might have difficulties sometimes in doing so.

  Fortunately for him.

  Meanwhile the two men had walked through an odd little curving tunnel, with white curving walls, and had entered what looked like a miniature museum. All white walls and new brown carpet. As far as Thorn could tell, Seabright’s mind was still firmly on things other than vampirism.

  “Some of the things in this room are mine,” the big man intoned, sounding quite satisfied. “Were mine, I mean, even before last night’s auction. Never seem to have room in my own house in Santa Fe for all my stuff. What do you think of this?”

  It was a graceful silver ship, intricately modeled, standing alone on a low cube of furniture. Thorn chose not to see his host’s generous gesture inviting him to pick it up. If he touched it the non-reflectable quality of his fingers would be very plain in the curve of argent hull. Instead he bent his head and walked around the object on its low stand, looking at it carefully.

  “German … almost certainly sixteenth century. It is some time since I have seen a nef of this quality in private hands.” Well, the piece was not really all that impressive; but it did not seem likely that a little judicious flattery would do any harm.

  It seemed that he had passed the examination, or its first question anyway. Seabright, a little more relaxed now, chatted some more. Still probing, doing what seemed his best to probe cleverly. Finding out, as he must have thought, a fair number of things about Thorn without giving away much about himself. Thorn inclined more and more to the opinion that the mirror in the game room-lounge had been completely accidental. He doubted more and more Mary Rogers’s estimation of this man as a Machiavellian murderer. Seabright simply did not seem bright enough to carry off any such scheme successfully.

  The portion of the Seabright collection here visible contained a couple of really respectable things, not to mention the one in which Thorn was really interested and which they had not come to yet. Also it contained some that verged—no, more than verged—upon the pornographic. Those two young ladies under the oddly rumpled coverlet had their eyes closed but were enjoying more than sleep; the sculptured monk standing close behind the choirboy was, on second glance, not really intent on music. These examples and others more explicit appeared to be for the most part underground Victorian imitations of earlier masters. Maybe the porn things were all Ellison Seabright’s to start with, for he discussed them roundly and seemed to take an extra pride in their display. They were not really to Mr. Thorn’s taste, but he could be polite.

  The walls of these underground rooms were thick, Mr. Thorn knew, inside their earthen envelope. Even with only interior surfaces visible he could sense the thickness all round him, virtually impenetrable, like the walls of a bomb shelter or a bank vault. Faultless air conditioning, that even Thorn could barely hear, maintained a good museum’s silence, coolness, balanced humidity.

  Yet there were soundless echoes of murder and violence in the air down here. Death not all that old. The much-publicized Seabright murder-kidnapping, of course. But Thorn had got the impression from the news accounts that all those scenes had been in the upper levels of the house.

  Trading opinions, some of which may have made sense, about the Renaissance, the two men presently moved farther into the gallery. Mr. Thorn came to a halt. He saw with a pang the well lighted, centrally located space on a wall where the Magdalen should obviously be. She was not here, though she must have been. The empty place of honor was marked by the very faint outline of her frame.

  He hoped, but did not immediately ask for, a quick explanation of where she was right now. Feeling more disappointment than was entirely reasonable, he continued his expected admiring commentary on the lesser works surrounding him. A few of these he could recognize as having been at the auction room. They had been brought back here afterwards, but she had not.

  At last he stopped talking, to stand gazing pointedly at that central gap.

  His huge host gestured, with self conscious drama. “That’s where the Verrocchio was, of course. Naturally I’m curious as to just what you meant when you mentioned the question of its origins to my secretary on the phone. I hope you’re not going to try to cast any doubts on its authenticity? I’d hate to think that my confidence in that painting as an investment has been misplaced.”

  Thorn smiled. “Oh, by no means. It is extremely valuable.”

  “I’m glad you agree. I will take your opinions on art fairly seriously, you know, now that we’ve had this little talk. Though frankly some of the ideas you have on the Renaissance seem pretty farfetched, no offense, I’m willing to concede there may be areas where you know what you’re talking about.” Seabright emitted a calculated chuckle. “You mentioned the painting’s origins. I’ve already heard one crackpot theory on that subject, which I hope you’re not going to endorse. But there, I’m sure I do you an injustice, Thorn. You must have something sensible to say on the subject. Possibly with evidence to back it up?” The big man paused, in an attitude of hopeful inquiry, of generous expectation that he was going to be told something that made sense.

  Thorn hesitated. “I do have some ideas on the subject, as I told your secretary. As for evidence … before I begin, Mr. Seabright, would you mind telling me how long the painting has been here?”

  “In this room? Why not? Since 1953. That’s when my brother brought it home from Argentina. Some Nazi who evidently saw the end coming sent it there from Europe in 1944. During the war one of the collecting teams working for Goering had evidently liberated it, shall we say, from a chateau in Normandy. How long it had been at that particular chateau, or where it had been before that, we were never able to discover. Only a tantalizing hint or two … these things, the great ones, tend to have remarkable histories, don’t they?” Seabright ran a hand back over his suntanned brow.

  Thorn glanced at him, then back at the blank wall. “Indeed they do. They also have a habit of being stolen.”

  “Had you ever laid eyes on it, yourself, before two nights ago? I don’t suppose you had the chance.”

  “On the contrary. I saw it several times. Some years ago.”

  That had not been the answer Seabright was prepared for. The big man swung his heavy arms, like a furniture salesman getting bored on floor duty. “You saw it here? Ah, I see, you were acquainted with my brother, then.”

  “No, I regret, I did not know him. Or that he had the painting here … it was in Europe.”

  Obviously calculating years, moving his lips very slightly as he counted, Seabright gave a little shake of his head, whose thickness seemed to be becoming more and more apparent. “You must have been only a child.”

  Thorn had turned, was leaning with his arms folded against the blank space on the wall, staring at things on the far side of the room. “Yes … yes, I suppose I was. An ill-tempered child. Though at the time I was quite sure of my own power and wisdom, and there was no lack of people willing to humor me. But then—this painting—”

  He came to a halt, not knowing how much he ought to say in the presence of this fool. Talking to Seabright was helpful, in a way, as talking to a child might be. But who else might be listening?

  “The painting,” Thorn went on, “acquired for me some special associations. Special meanings, that even now I find it difficult to explain. Yes, even difficult to explain to myself.” He looked closely into Seabright’s uncomprehending face, and for the first time the big man drew back a little. Thorn added: “For a long time I have wondered whe
re it was.” Then, more mildly, with a smile: “My own collection runs heavily to the Renaissance.”

  “Oh.” Seabright blinked. “Then our tastes are alike in that, at least. Forgive me, Mr. Thorn, but I continue to find it somewhat odd that your name has never come to my attention before now. I had thought that all the world’s important collections in my field were known to me.”

  “Almost all of them are, I’m sure.”

  “Almost. Yes, I see. My brother and I never cared for a lot of publicity either. And I am sure your collection must be important.”

  “Thank you, yes, I believe it is. And you are right, very little known. And also, regrettably, incomplete.”

  Seabright let out another chuckle, this one gross and uncontrolled, the laughter of a man who cares nothing for what he sounds like. “What real collector is ever satisfied? Tell me, are your things in this country?”

  “Very few of them.”

  “I see. Well, I have no wish to pry. But I am always on the lookout for genuinely valuable articles. As investments, even if they do not match my own tastes perfectly. I prefer to deal confidentially whenever possible. I needn’t talk to you about taxes and so on, you understand those matters, I am sure. There are possibilities of barter and exchange as well as purchase. I even, sometimes, have things that I wish to sell. Well, Stephanie. Join us?”

  She had entered the gallery on bare and silent feet, still wearing her tiny swimsuit and her beach cape. Her dark hair was uncurling quickly in the dry air. Almost without looking at the two men she came to stand, in a model’s pose so practiced as to be second nature, before the dim scar on the wall showing where the large painting had been removed. Her liquor glass had been left back at the bar.

  “I miss that picture,” she announced. “Isn’t it foolish, with everything else … but I do miss it.”

  “You have good taste, then, in painting,” said Mr. Thorn, pausing ever so slightly before the last two words. Stephanie’s eyes turned from the wall to him.

  “I myself,” said Seabright, “prefer something more sensual than Verrocchio.”

  “A matter of taste,” said Thorn. “So, you have paid a fortune for a supposed Verrocchio that does not really suit your preference?” He was still looking at the lady. Help me, her eyes seemed to be broadcasting. I would like very much to get out of this. Sometimes it seems that I can wait no longer.

  What is it that you are waiting for? Thorn would have liked to ask. But there was no way to put the question now. He could be patient.

  Seabright was answering him: “An investment, my friend, remember? But ‘a supposed Verrocchio’? Aha, you are going to have some supposed revelation concerning the painting to offer me after all.”

  Thorn turned back to his host and asked him bluntly: “Is it being brought here today? I look forward to seeing it again.”

  “Here?” Seabright tried to sound surprised. “Why no, it isn’t being brought back here at all. I’m taking it to Santa Fe, to my own house.” He consulted his wristwatch. “In fact it’s en route right now, on my own plane. Most of this other stuff is going to follow in due course. I’m having another room built on. But I wanted the Verrocchio there right away.”

  Thorn stood up straight, no longer leaning on the wall. “Ah,” he said slowly. “Then I must hope to be able to see it there someday, in Santa Fe.” He had the feeling of just having been checkmated. But not by this great fool, surely, nor this preoccupied woman. He felt a certain bewilderment. His real opponent, it seemed, had not yet even come in sight.

  “Why not?” said Seabright, jovial and insincere. “If you’re ever there, give me a call. It’s been a real pleasure to converse with someone who knows what he’s talking about. Now what was this idea you had about the painting’s origin?”

  Mr. Thorn had nothing to say on that subject now. Anyway he would not have had much chance to talk. He could hear the sound of the elevator door opening, back in the lounge, followed by the agitated approach of one person, a young man, and worried, to judge by the sound of his busy feet.

  A figure to match the calculated image appeared, almost dancing through the white curve of the tunnel, garbed in white shirt and necktie, topped with a neat haircut. His face, that Thorn had never seen before, bore an expression eloquent of disaster. Thorn was conscious of calamity, like a compact cloud of darkness, hanging somewhere just above.

  “Mr. Seabright, sir? Santa Fe just called.”

  Seabright rounded on the perturbed aide, turning his broad back on Thorn. “Well, what? Spit it out.”

  For a moment the young man sputtered, as if trying to take the order literally. Then he managed speech. “The plane is almost three hours overdue now, sir. And they can’t contact Mr. Gliddon on radio.”

  Chapter Six

  During the fifteenth century, for good and sufficient reasons, travel across most of Europe was considered hazardous. In one or two geographical areas this rule had happy exceptions, about which more presently. But in general one did not set out alone on a journey of any length, not if trustworthy or only moderately dubious traveling companions could be found. So before leaving Ancona, I attached myself to some Medici traders who were on their way home to Florence after successfully completing a mission in the south of Italy. Helen had last been reliably reported in the northern portion of the boot, and I could think of no better place than the City of Flowers, that nerve center of every type of communication, in which to try to pick up further news of her. As for the merchants, when they had looked at the letters of identification and introduction that had been given me by my king, they were glad to have my sword added to their escort. One crime of which I have never even been accused is brigandage. If my reputation had reached my fellow travelers’ ears, and if they recognized me despite the letters’ ambiguous treatment of my name, the recognition must have made them more rather than less eager to have me in their company.

  On the second day of our journey north from Ancona we encountered another party of honest merchants. They were southward bound, their wagons freighted with rolls of Florentine cloth. These men had from us their first word of the Pope’s death, and we received from them in turn some news that my companions considered at least equally momentous. It made the good merchants of my own party look at one another grimly, and issue orders to their servants to prepare for a forced march. Cosimo de’ Medici, head of the great mercantile family and the de facto ruler of the city-state of Florence, had gone to his own reward, in the manner of a stoic Christian by all reports, and just thirteen days before the passing of Pius in his lonely tent.

  My traveling companions were not really surprised by the death of their master Cosimo, who had been ailing for a long time. Their concern, as we remounted and pushed on, was over what might be happening now. What was the effect going to be on business? The southbound travelers had told us that in Florence it was considered certain that Cosimo’s middle-aged and eldest son Piero, called the Gouty, was going to take over his father’s position as head of the family. This meant that Piero would probably also become the untitled but practically unchallenged ruler of Florence. What effect this change on leadership was going to have on the city and on the world it was difficult to say, and at the same time imperative to find out as soon as possible.

  Being myself anxious to waste no time, I willingly went along with the forced march, and in a few days more had my first look at Florence. The city burst upon us as a splendid, nearby spectacle as we topped a hill. It was then one of the largest metropolises in Europe, enclosed by three miles of defensive wall, the high stonework of which was reinforced by sixty square towers. When seen as we saw it from the nearby hills, the city was truly impressive, its interior dotted thickly with church spires, with here and there the palaces of the wealthy rising amid acres of lesser construction. The Arno made a lopsided bisection of the city, and its waters, half mud, half rainbow, flowed out of it bearing all the colors of the Clothmakers’ Guild, as well as the sewage of seventy thousand people. A
s we passed inside the walls I saw that the Guild artisans with their dyes and fabrics seemed to occupy all the banks and bridges of the river. The streets of Florence stank, like those of any city of the time; but there was also splendor in the air. The population was still much reduced from the pre-plague days of more than a century before, and considerable tracts within the walls had been denuded of buildings by fire and decay, had become gardens in which a million flowers grew along with plots of vegetables and fruit.

  Just as foulness and beauty were mixed in the city’s water, and stench and perfume in its air, so its mansions and hovels stood cheek by jowl in what appeared to me at first as a total confusion of society. Actually there was a logic. By tradition each Florentine family, however wealthy or poor it might become, still dwelt in its ancestral quarter. There was no enclave of the rich, no slum to confine the poor. The larger and finer houses contained within their walls their own storerooms, stables, and sometimes shops—none of this city’s upper class disdained the touch of money or the business of buying and selling. These facilities would be of course on the ground floor, with gardens, halls, and courtyards added when there was room. The preferred living quarters were on the level just above. A floor or two above that dwelt poor relations, guests of secondary importance, and servants, in cramped apartments more exposed than those on the first floor to summer’s heat and winter’s cold. On the day of our arrival in the city the weather was still quite warm, and my companions had been wondering aloud whether the chief men of the Medici clan might not be found in one of the family villas that were scattered through the surrounding Tuscan hills, rather than in town. But as matters turned out we found them in the city palace, still working to master the turmoil of business matters brought on by the death of Cosimo.

  The Medici palace was, as it is today, a massive stone building near the church of San Lorenzo, rectangular as a modern apartment block on the outside, and decorated with great art to which I at the time was almost indifferent. The outer walls of the ground floor were of simple, roughly dressed blocks of stone; the masonry of the second level followed the Doric pattern, and that of the third, the Corinthian. But as I say, such niceties were at the time quite lost on me, a rude barbarian soldier. Once inside the first courtyard, my fellow travelers dismounted and hurried at once into a private room to make a confidential business report to some official of the family bank. After I had goggled at the statuary for a while I too got off my horse and was courteously conducted to another room, where I presented to another officer my letters of introduction and credit from King Matthias. I realized that if my project was to thrive in Florence, I had best get off on the right foot with the Medici.