A Shadow All of Light Page 3

  He leaned over him now with his blade freed and prepared to do him in.

  It came to me to say what I imagined Astolfo might say: “There is little sport, Mister Thief, in dueling a fallen man.”

  He spun round and thought to bring his sword up, but my point was already set upon his heart-spot.

  “Too late for that,” I murmured. “Best let it drop to the ground.”

  He did so.

  “Let us go speak to the master of the house,” I said. When he gestured to the form prone on the ground, I added, “Leave him as is. The gardener may desire to manure the roses with him.”

  I prodded him round to the back entrance and we entered the antechamber there, where Mutano awaited us. He ran his fingers over the big man’s tunic and sleeves and belt and, finding him weaponless, led us into the kitchen, where Astolfo was perched on the heavy butcher’s block, swinging his legs like a farm boy sitting on a stone bridge with a fishing pole. There was a low stool in the space between the brick oven and the long counter and Mutano thrust our guest roughly down upon it.

  Astolfo looked him over. He closed his eyes for a moment. Then he said: “A cousin, I think, and not a brother. There is some small resemblance to the one whose heel you nipped with your little blade, Falco. See what nuisance you have brought us. This one came to avenge us on your trick of rolling on the floor like a dog in excrement.… Is that not so, intruder? I see you are a Fog Islander like the other, so there must be some bond between you. The only question of moment is whether Pecunio set you upon us. Did he do so or is this invasion a notion of your own?”

  The man stared at the oaken floor. Then Mutano pulled his head back by the tangle of crisp black locks so that he must look into Astolfo’s face. His expression was impassive.

  “The hour is late,” Astolfo said. “The morning slides up the eastward and I have missed my proper sleep.”

  He nodded at Mutano, who pried the man’s left hand loose from the seat of the stool and broke the little finger.

  The fellow did not cry out, but his eyes bulged wide, sweat suffused his forehead, and his complexion went from blue-black to dullish ebony. “I am Blebono,” he croaked, “Dolo’s cousin. My cousin is injured in his leg and will lose much wage by the knife of that man there. I come to get money for lost wage. Dolo has children, much to feed.”

  “Falco is young and somdel rash,” Astolfo said. “He has a deal to learn.… For one thing”—he gave me a straight look—“if he ever tries out that rolling-in-the-dirt device on a seasoned bladesman, he shall be pinned like a serpent and left to wriggle his life away.”

  I started to speak but thought the better of it.

  “You came by your own advisement? Pecunio is faultless?”

  Blebono snuffled and nodded.

  “Tell us a little about the old goldbags. Are there any new folk in his employ? What visitors has he lately entertained?”

  The islander shrugged.

  “Well,” said Astolfo, “I must think of more questions. I have only three or four in mind and you have fingers yet unbroken.… Tell us about the visitors.”

  When Mutano took up the man’s hand again and grasped the thumb, he said, “I work for the old man, no. Only my cousin, he do work for him.”

  “Even so, he will babble and gossip all the secrets of the miser’s house. Tell us of his guests.”

  “Dolo told of one to me. Young fellow—skinny, secret fellow. Talked not much.”

  “Did he bring a shadow to sell to Pecunio?”

  “Bring, no. Talked some about shadow. He talked big. Said he had good shadow, very fine shadow.”

  “Tell me about the feet of this shadow-seller.”

  Blebono stared at Astolfo in pure incomprehension. Sweat dripped from his nose. He shook his head.

  “Big feet? Big feet on a small man?”

  “Boots, Dolo said. My cousin Dolo, he laughed. Big boots up to the thigh of quiet fellow.”

  Astolfo rocked back and forth; he seemed to be thinking of many things at once. Then he slipped nimbly down to the floor. He said to Mutano, “Bind the broken finger of this imbecile. Give him a copper coin and ale to drink. Make certain he knows never to come again where I can lay eyes on him. Toss his comrade into a barrow and wheel it down toward the wharf and dump him in an alley. Fetch me mutton and bread and a flagon in the small library in the late afternoon. Hold the house quiet until then. Falco is to sleep and afterward read through three swordplay manuals in the large library. When he finishes those, take him to the courtyard and practice him with wooden swords. If he begins to squirm around in the dirt, stamp him like a blindworm. Signal unto him that big boots may disguise delicate feet.”

  At this penultimate command, Mutano nodded and grinned. He enjoyed nothing more than to drub me with dummy weapons until my flesh swelled like bread dough.

  * * *

  I rose next morning late and sore-ribbed and broke my fast on wheaten bread and fruit and a mild white wine I recognized of old. The vintage came from near my farm home and the taste reminded me how different my life had become. It had been long and long since I had seen an honest dung heap or one of the ungainly stone barns so common in the south. Yet the wine did not rouse in me any desire to return to the ducks and geese, the cattle and asses.

  Only our sour-visaged cook Iratus and the other under-servants were about. Mutano and Astolfo had departed, though a folded note in Astolfo’s precise hand told me to ready myself for another call upon Pecunio. I used the unexpected dutyless time to lounge in the sun and think about a certain wench in a tavern in the Hamaria district. Maiden’s Sorrow this tavern was called, a pleasant place for a twilight tipple and a midnight tumble, if ever again I got my hands on a silver eagle.…

  Then I began to muse more seriously, berating myself as a fool to squander hours and silver upon sweetmeats when I should be developing my martial skills, studying the biographies of famous shadows and their casters, training my eyesight to discern outlines in deep haze, and testing my patience with mathematical puzzles. It seemed unlikely that Astolfo had wasted his youth and money in idle pursuits. I had never considered that the rigors of thievery would so closely resemble those I had heard about in the priestly vocation—for which I considered myself supremely unfitted.

  * * *

  This my second meeting with the ancient rich merchant was to be different. We had spoken about it beforehand and Astolfo had given me a few brief instructions. He wanted me to be very particular in observing Pecunio’s physique, to see if I could discern differences from the way he was two days before. I was to watch most closely his shadow.

  Now when we were ushered into his dim little office, it was by no lumbering, dark-skinned Fog Islander but by the slender slip of a lad who had shown us out before. For some reason he had now painted his face to resemble the fleering Jester of the fair-day comedies, Bennio. He was so vividly made up that his personal features were hard to discern. Most distinctive was his gait in the tall, black boots.

  He strode in an exaggerated, aggressive fashion, as if to convince the timorous that he was a daring young bravo indeed. Yet he wore no sword—an oddity. His manner seemed risible to me, the more so because it was not so long since that I carried myself in much the same fashion, probably for the same reasons.

  When he brought us into the room, he bowed and departed, backing through the door in an unwontedly servile way. I looked to Astolfo to gauge his reaction to this strange creature, but he seemed scarcely to take note of him.

  Pecunio offered us wine as before. I started to decline the syrupy stuff, but the raised eyebrow of Astolfo caused me to accept. He was also correct in surmising that the old man might have changed in appearance. He had been no tower of brawn at our first meeting, but now he was frailer, much shrunken upon himself, I thought, and the palsy of his years was more pronounced, as was his hunchback. His hand trembled the decanter almost violently, and not trusting himself with the tiny glasses, he allowed us to take them ourselves from t
he yellow lacquer tray.

  “Now, Master Astolfo,” he asked, “have you made any conclusion about the shadow of Morbruzzo?” He rubbed his hands together as if to warm them.

  “Not all my conclusions are firm ones,” Astolfo replied, “so I thought we had best make the conditions clear.”

  “How so?”

  “If I see fit to affirm that the property is genuinely that of the pirate, my fee will be seventy eagles. If I decide to find that it is not genuine, the fee shall rise to three hundred.”

  “I do not follow.”

  “You may discover that you prefer to pay the higher fee. But before the bargain is struck, I must gather some information. The more you tell me, the more you will have to pay and the better you will like it.”

  A thin, wry smile stretched Pecunio’s wrinkled face. “You are well known for your games, Master Astolfo.”

  “My best games are in earnest. What I surmise is this: that you were offered this shadow of Morbruzzo by someone who claimed to have been in his employ, one of his murderous crew, an officer perhaps. First mate? I see by your expression that I have hit it. This person told you that Morbruzzo had done grave injury upon this person’s dignity or honor or purse or corpus—an insulting slap or sneaking blow or deceit at the gaming table, or in the division of booty. The latter? I see.”

  “How do you know what was said to me? Even if you had spies in my household, you could not know, for we were alone.”

  “Now this person assures you that he is not a follower of the art, that he is no thief of shadows but only an ill-fed seaman who this one time, to assuage his wounded pride, undertook to steal the shadow and purports to sell it to you for less than a fraction of its true value. He wants to be rid of it, not to be held responsible. He has said he fears Mrobruzzo will come for it and, having got it, will depart, leaving a lagoon of blood behind him.”

  “That too is just what was said.”

  “Let us make examination of the property again.”

  Pecunio went to the armoire and after fussing with the locks opened the tall door and drew forth the shadow.

  “Yes, bring it to the middle of the room, please,” Astolfo said. “My man Falco will arrange the candles in the way I have taught him is best to appraise shadows.”

  At this signal I went about the room, collecting the candles from their niches, and arranged the twelve together at the corner of the table where the decanter sat. Astolfo watched me carefully, then took the shadow gracefully in his hands.

  I had disposed the candles so that the light fell full upon the figure of Pecunio, and now I looked at the shadow he cast on the floor. At first I could not find it and supposed that I had placed a candle wrong so that something stood between. But then I managed to make it out, woefully changed from what it had been. It was a mere wisp of shade now, wavering, and crooked as a twig from a crab apple tree. It was so thin and tenuous it was nigh invisible, and it seemed barely to cling to the old man’s heel. It looked as if it might blow away like the last leaf on a winter oak.

  “Let us look closely at the selvage,” said Astolfo. He brought it close to the light and I saw that it too had changed. The mauvish-greenish glow that had smoldered within it now pulsed, throbbing like the heart of a speeding runner. The whole seemed to have gained bulk and the thin streaks of silver that hovered there before had broadened and vivified. I could feel on the skin of my face that an extraordinary power emanated from it.

  “See this edge?” Astolfo ran the tip of his finger through the space surrounding the shadow’s margin. “That is skillful cutting indeed. Falco, have a look. What implement would make such a cut, think you?”

  I examined it closely and found no sign of raggedness, no tearing, no place where it might begin to ravel. “I would say a quasilune.”

  “One such as this?” From an inside pocket of his broad belt with its leopard’s-head buckle, Astolfo produced a small, shiny, quarter-moon blade. “Of silver, honed and polished in a workshop of Grevaie?”

  “If so you say.”

  “Friend Pecunio,” Astolfo said, “your excellent sweet wine of the south has brought a thirst upon me. Could you prevail upon your servant who at this moment stands without the door there spying upon us to fetch a flask of water?”

  Startled, Pecunio crossed to the door and swung it suddenly open. There stood the slender fellow with the large feet and tall boots. Though plainly revealed at his transgression, he did not lose composure. He gave a slight smile, bowed, and said, “I shall bring water.”

  “It would be welcome,” Astolfo replied, and when the fellow had hurried away turned to Pecunio. “The instrument that took the shadow you have purchased is of use only to those who traffic in shadows as a profession. It is a special favorite of thieves. Your servant is better acquainted with cutlery than you have been led to suppose. He was wearing no sword when he left us just now, but when he returns he shall be armed.”

  The old one frowned. “What is taking place?”

  “Don’t fret. This may be the first opportunity we have to see how our Falco handles himself against artful swordplay. He is entrusted with protecting us from your counterfeit servant. If you had told me at first that he was the purveyor of the shadow, I could have saved you time and coin. But now we must see the affair through in a less efficient manner.”

  When the servant returned with a flask and clay tumblers, we three watched in silence as he poured the water. He was now wearing, as Astolfo had predicted, a sword, the short, broad-bladed cutlass favored by naval warriors.

  “Before you return to your duties, I should like to ask a question or two. Curiosity is a dire fault in me,” Astolfo said to him.

  The fellow stood at his ease, the slight smile still playing upon his lips.

  “By what method did you poison the shadow you sold to Pecunio? There are several ways of doing so, some which ruin the property forever, others from which it can be restored to some fairly useful measure. We must needs know—Falco!”

  His warning was timely, for though I had seen the fellow’s fingers twitch toward his hilt, I was surprised at the celerity with which his sword was out and ready. But I was ready too and leapt between and warded off the thrust that was intended for Astolfo’s belly. Then there we stood pressed against each other, hiltguard upon hiltguard. With my left forearm I pushed him back and then gave a quick shove. He was light-framed and I figured I would have good advantage of strength.

  But he was nimble as a dragonfly. He slipped backward easily without losing his balance and fronted me with an insolent grin.

  Then we were at it in earnest, thrust and parry, slash and sidestep, overhand and underhand and backhand. It was warmer work than I had anticipated. I struck the harder blows, but my opponent’s forte was the art of evasion and I spent much strength upon empty air. He had a smooth, swift, sidelong motion that a stoat might envy, and by the time he began to breathe a little more quickly I was panting heavily. Finally he made a quick, twisting thrust aimed at my shoulder and in avoiding it I tangled with a table leg and went down on my back, my sword clattering away into a far corner.

  I thought my hour had come as I lay helpless, seeing his sword point descending toward my nose, when he disappeared from my view. Where he had been there stood now a dark mist. I could see nothing inside this dimness. But I heard a sharp, high-pitched cry of distress.

  And then Astolfo’s voice, jovial and mocking, sounded: “Falco, this dueling tactic you cling to—falling down prone—will never be praised in the arms manuals. Why you persist in following it I shall never learn.”

  I got up quickly. I did not want to look at Astolfo. Instead, I watched the cloudy mass that had appeared above me. From this angle I saw it was the shadow of Morbruzzo. It roiled and heaved like steam that might rise a little above the mouth of a pot and hang there, working furiously within itself. Out of the mass of this shadow came little gibbers and yips, as of someone being nipped by a pack of terriers.

  Then with a bro
ad, gently sweeping gesture Astolfo removed the shadow.

  The art of shadow-flinging is a familiar conversational subject of those who trade in the commodity, of thieves of every sort, of warriors, of courtiers, of tavern-sitters, of priests, and of scribblers. I had read many an account in many a dusty page, but I had never witnessed it before. Even in the observing I was not sure what I saw, only that the roundish, shortish, baldish master of shadows held his body at a certain angle, extended his right arm and drew it in a wide semicircle, and held his hand relaxed with the fingers bent slightly inward. I could see that if I were to try such a maneuver, my hand would tear through the fabric of the shade and I would be holding nothing.

  But Astolfo brought it away to reveal Pecunio’s servant standing there in a vastly altered condition than formerly. In the first place, this was no man. Her blonde hair was cropped, and most of her clothing was in scattered rags and giblets, as if eaten away by acids. The tall boots remained intact, but the thighs that emerged from them were fair and smooth, not mannish in the least. Her figure was lissome and small-breasted but undeniably female and her face, now that the greasepaint was mostly removed, was that of a piquantly attractive woman.

  She struggled to speak but could not. Her eyes were filled with confusion and fear.

  Astolfo spoke to Pecunio: “If you had but told me you had taken this woman into your household, you would have saved yourself much grief.”

  The old man hung his head and shook it regretfully. “I thought it wise to keep her secret and all for myself. I am not the man that once I was.”

  “Your vanity and venality have cost you dearly, not only in gold but in the matter of your health. Did you not know that she is one of a famous pair of shadow thieves? This is the notorious Fleuraye.”

  Pecunio was visibly startled. He looked again at the woman with his mouth amazedly open. “I did not know that.”

  “She and her consort, the silken-mannered privateer Belarmo, have been partners in many a merry escapade. They have cozened and cheated and robbed and stolen with profitable success for some few years now. Much of their success may be credited to the fact that she is most pleasurable to look upon. Is this not so, Falco?”