A Shadow All of Light Page 5

  “Milady.”

  The old man came to us, bowed, and padded away to a door at the farther end of the salon, and we followed at a befitting distance.

  This small room off the main salon lay quiet. A single bowl-shaded lamp on the table between four chairs in the center gave off a genial glow and Chrobius set the jewel casket beneath it. He wore a thin, silvery beard that came to a point below the V of his soft collar. His voice was gentle, weary, and he displayed the slender, ivory fingers such as might grace an accomplished harpist. He seated us and offered refreshment, which Astolfo declined. I followed his example. Then Chrobius sat in the chair between us and told us that almost nothing was known of the provenance of this diamond that so concerned the countess.

  “How now?” said Astolfo. “So handsome a jewel must have a voluminous history.”

  “It will be a history of which we are ignorant.” Chrobius’s voice was extraordinarily calm, almost hypnotic with its measured cadences. “It was discovered among the effects of the countess’s second husband, Tyrin Blanzo. The Blanzi were a family of merchants quite powerful in former days but latterly fallen upon scanty luck. Like many another trading company, they had ventured ships into the perilous seas northward, seeking for trade among the woodland tribes of Justerland and with the fisher folk of the Aurora Isles. But tempest and piracy dealt severe and at last mortal blows to the Blanzi enterprises, and then their finances rested upon the rents of their estates. It has been supposed by some that this stone was derived from the profits of trade, but no record of its provenance has survived.”

  “How long after the death of Blanzo came its discovery?” Astolfo asked.

  “A good two years,” Chrobius replied. “The countess had remarried by that time and considered that for purposes of economy she ought to make an inventory of her late husband’s possessions. In going through his sea chests, she found the casket with the jewel.”

  “Was it then in the same condition as now?”

  “I know little of the lore of precious stones, but meseemeth it has changed since that time. Perhaps it has dulled somewhat. The countess says it has goldered, and that is as apt a term as may be.”

  “And the countess herself? Has she changed since the advent of this diamond?”

  He hesitated. “I should not like to say overmuch. She speaks of certain misapprehensions to which she is prey; you heard her speak of these. Whether this jewel has connection to her condition, I cannot affirm. It appears very unlike, but ’twas at that time she began to complain. Some who have long known her claim to have noticed a change, but she was always somdel bewildered in the world.”

  “Are there those who wish her harm?”

  “You see our little orbit here, so much like a court of rural royalty. There is hardly anyone who is not wished some degree of harm by another. The countess is subject to arbitrary humors and peremptory demands, some say. Injured feelings follow in her train.”

  “Have you ever felt the brunt of her impulsiveness?” Astolfo asked.

  “Not I, no. But it is well known that all women are prey to changeable moods. Her position is precarious and demands perhaps more will-call than she may possess.”

  “You use an odd term: will-call. What doth it signify? I am unfamiliar with it.”

  Chrobius smiled in the manner of an indulgent schoolmaster. “It would rarely occur in your mode of business, I would think. It is a philosophic term, meaning something like ‘fortitude’ or ‘bravery of spirit.’ ‘Manliness’ may come closest to its purport.”

  “Would anyone design the countess bodily harm? Would anyone be bold to take her life?”

  He rubbed the point of his beard with thumb and forefinger, as if feeling the texture of cloth. “I do not know. I should think it not likely. Her last husband, the third, that count of some vague area he called Ondormo, was a dark and bitter man who never showed real love for her. But he has been banished by the countess and lives in exile.”

  “So she is not thrice-widowed.”

  “She accounts him as dead.”

  “Where might he now inhabit?”

  “Again, I do not know. Some have said that the rugged coast of Clamorgra is pierced with caves and that he coils within one of them like an adder in its hole. There are other rumors also.”

  “What were the points of contention?”

  “There are whispers only, something about a division of property. But I credit none of that. He was headstrong, willful, arrogant, and she is, as you see, sometimes distracted and of sudden waywardness. There may have been little other than a conflict of personalities.”

  Astolfo took up the diamond and held it against the lamplight, turning it slowly. “I regret that she will not allow close inspection with a jeweler’s glass,” he murmured.

  Chrobius smiled. “As to that…” he said, and produced from his sleeve pocket a silver loupe, intricately enchased, “I can see no harm in your looking at it and cannot say why she objects. It may be only one of her personal superstitions. In these days, she lacks all proper and confident will-call.” He handed the loupe to Astolfo.

  I took for granted that the shadow master was expert in the knowledge of precious stones, as he is in so many other matters. He converses easily with savants and tradesmen in regard to objects of every sort. But as he studied this stone, bringing it closer to the light and then withdrawing it, revolving it over and over, his expression troubled into perplexity and he began to hum to himself singsong. This was a sign that he had struck upon an intriguing puzzle.

  Finally he laid it back, almost reverently, upon the casket plush. “It would be shameful if such a prize should be an instrument of harm,” he said.

  “Do you think that it is?” I asked.

  He turned to Chrobius. “You, sir, do you believe that it could be harmful?”

  The old gentleman gave his beard a short tug. “Today all my replies are but professions of ignorance,” he said. “I do not know. I cannot say how it might be.”

  “Falco and I must consult our sources,” Astolfo said. “In the shelves of my libraries at the manse there may be helpful folios. If you will guide us, sir, back to the corridor of whispering shadows, we can find our way from there.”

  “No need for that nuisance,” he replied. “There is another way, speedier and more pleasant, to the entrance.”

  “Thank you for your kindness,” Astolfo said. “Yet we should like to retrace our steps. Those shadows appear to have secrets they desire to share.”

  “I think you can gain little from them, but I shall be glad to accompany you the way you came.” He set off slowly, then paced lightly through the salon. The countess was absent and her tall, thronelike chair had been set against the wall. A few murmuring late-stayers stood about and seemed to take no notice of our passage. At the door to the corridor Chrobius made a final bow and bade us farewell.

  * * *

  My mount at this time was a dapple-gray cob of complaisant temper. My heavy-handed colleague, Mutano, had chosen this horse called Torta from Astolfo’s stable and handed her to me with that fleering, sardonic smile that signified he had picked out an easy mount because he considered her suitable to my abilities. As to that, he was mistaken, but I accepted the reins with good grace and resolved to take excellent care of the animal. I could see that this Torta had her points: not swift but powerful and of steady courage. She would not shy during a set-to.

  Astolfo had turned off on the way back to the town villa with a salute signaling that he would return in a short time. I could see that he was headed into Tardocco, but what his errand might be I could not know. It was late afternoon and the sun was just at the roof edges of this busy city, now settling out of its workaday bustle, readying for the pleasures of twilight and early evening.

  I stabled Torta and looked to her welfare and then went for a stroll about the grounds. Early summer gladdened the grasses and trees and some of the rare flowering shrubs Astolfo was partial to. It occurred to me that he might have go
ne to consult in the town with one of his friends, perhaps an astute jeweler, and I thought I might gain a little credit in his eyes by some quick study. I went into the house, into the great, quiet library, and strolled to the area where the volumes on valuable trinkets were shelved. By this time, I had achieved some familiarity with his extensive collection of books and maps and manuscripts, though I knew the maestro would not agree. He held me as being only a little more learned than a runt beagle.

  Even so, I knew enough about the subject to begin by looking into a late edition of the Grand Albertus and to follow its hints into Rhodius’s Gemmae liminosae et lucidae, thence to Cassurio’s Lux opali et carbunculi.

  It was in these latter pages that I came upon the story of the Lady Erminia. This antique baroness always wore a dazzling opal in her hair. The resplendently milky stone closely matched the character of its mysterious owner, sparkling brightly when her mood was lightest, spitting out red gleams when she angered, clouding like a wheel-parted lane puddle when she wept. In her later years, when her heart was broken by a perfidious suitor, the opal cracked into five pieces, spilling its various, shattered colors upon the air and extorting from the miserable woman her dying breath. When her spirit passed from her, the five fragments of the stone crumbled to a dull gray powder, as did the shrunken form of Erminia herself.

  I wondered if the legend of this opal could suggest fruitful application to the case of our countess. When I mentioned the possibility to Astolfo, who had now returned, he did not instantly reject it. He professed pleasant surprise at finding me at search in the library but warned me that the study of precious stones was a complicated and uncertain matter. “Superstition collects around expensive gems as thick as rumors around a beautiful woman,” he said. “And, as with the woman, the more pure and powerful the virtues, the darker are the conjectures that swarm. The brightest and clearest diamond will be accounted the most perilous to its owner.”

  “How does this come about?” I asked.

  “Partly because of envy,” he said. “If thou hast not the means nor the fortunate luck to possess the fine sapphire that your rival possesses, thou’lt impute every dire quality to it and find ready credence among your rabble friends.”

  “But is none of the hearsay true? Ominous tales about jewels are thick as the winter fur of an Aurora wolf.”

  “Some knowledge is certain. I for one would never wear a black pearl,” Astolfo said. “And I would not allow a mumbling priest with his stinking smoke and his murky sprinklings to come within half a league of any topaz I might have in store. But ware you of anyone who says a sard has been tainted by the poison of a dragon who guarded it in his hoard.”

  “Are there any so gullible as to believe?”

  “There is many a merchant sharp-eyed in accounting, in the surveying of lands, in the lading of ships, and in the interest rates of lending who will lose all compass when he comes to the subject of gems. Those small bits of gleam seem to have been created to drive men’s wits astray. Here is another quality they share with women.”

  “Is not the countess right to be concerned? Her diamond seems of no steadfast state. It is changing from its former condition, is’t not?”

  “’Twould seem so. But what have you observed of the countess? We had but short time in her company, yet I found her a striking figure.”

  “She is a conundrum,” I said. “I could not even judge her age.”

  “Tell me of her shadow.”

  “The flicker of torches and candles made examination difficult, but I thought she possessed a double shadow.”

  “Two primaries, you mean—apart from the many penumbrae caused by multiple lights.”

  “Two primaries.”

  “Describe them.”

  “Both were small,” I said. “One was a playful, gray shade, lively in its motion, with flirting, fluttering outlines. The other was of a cast much darker, its shape somewhat crooked, the edges crabbed and ragged. It was bent in upon itself, reclusive, where as the first shadow was an outgoing thing, ready to engage with any surface or slant of light.”

  “Which of these two would you say matched the countess herself both in body and in spirit?”

  I hesitated. “Neither of them. Maybe both combined in some way I cannot explain. Yet not even such a combination would well connect to her.”

  “And the diamond?”

  “From where I stood I could not well see. Its size is it salience. ’Twould be shameful if it is damaged, for a jewel of that size, be it perfect or not, might bring a small realm as its price.”

  “And the velvet?”

  “Velvet?”

  “It was placed upon the casket’s purple cushion. What saw you there?”

  Long I thought, closing my eyes. “There was a little space where the nap was depressed, just next the stone.”

  “Good.” He nodded. “Perhaps this estimable gem had a companion in its casket.”

  “May we conjecture that the diamond may have some spiritual bond with the countess?” I asked. “For I have read how a certain Lady Erminia was so closely soul-yoked with an opal that—”

  “Enough of that old tale,” Astolfo said. “It is as moldy as a cave for cheeses.”

  “Is it not true?”

  “Even a truth, if too often cited, may lose some of its savor. And that antique instance carries us too far from our present one. We must keep close our attentions upon the countess herself. What kind of person will cast two shadows?”

  This was a question familiar to apprentices in our profession. “One whose twin died at birth. Or one who has been loved, adored beyond all measure by one who lies in the grave. Or someone whose mind is distracted, split into two minds, so that the man or woman is twain. Or a mother or father who early lost two dear children. Or—”

  “Good enough,” he said, and gave me a calm look. “You are not the blockhead that once you were. Now tell me, what manner of person will cast three shadows?”

  “I am not certain. I have heard it said that priests who serve three gods or a triple-god-in-one may drop three umbrae, but I have not actual knowledge of this.”

  “Sometimes there are born,” said Astolfo, “certain persons who embody the spirits of three others, being themselves but vessels. They will be triply shadowed, but none of the shades belongs to them personally and those shadows are only evidences of the entities that inhabit them. Among women, however, there occur figures who are themselves three-in-one and embody the three great powers of womanhood: the capricious candor of the child, the copious beauty of the adult, and the age-wise, humorous, secret lore of the crone. These triple figures are rare in the world and much revered by members of the female gender when recognized. I believe the Countess Triana to be such a figure. As such, she will be a remarkable, strong leader of her people, if she is not debilitated in some fashion.”

  “She is a beautiful woman,” I said, “and it is easy to find in her much of the child, the spoiled brat. But I saw no trace of the crone about her. And I saw only two shadows.”

  “She complains of being distracted in her mind, of not being at one with herself as formerly she was.”

  “If she lost one of her shadows, that might mean one-third of herself was missing.”

  “Lost? Stolen?”

  “I cannot say.”

  “I will suspect theft,” Astolfo declared. “Chrobius has warned us that there is something not right about our little ‘orbit,’ as he called it, of her great hall. We need to pursue further. I am particularly interested in the diamond that was shown us. We must examine it at leisure, with our library of jewel lore and history at hand.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “You will have to steal it,” Astolfo said. “But only as a temporary stratagem. Being honest gentles, we could not plan to keep it.”

  “Steal it? I? I could never—”

  “Are you eager to learn the art of shadows or not? This is but one simple early step.”

  “Very well,” I s
aid, but my heart lurched within my breast like a skittish horse balking at a leap.

  * * *

  I had made no long-drawn vocal objections to Astolfo’s statement that I was to purloin the diamond from the countess. He and Mutano, who was my constant and ever-vigilant drillmaster, would surely spend some weeks educating and training me for this unsavory and dangerous exercise.

  So I thought. But once again I had failed to apprehend the design.

  The theft was to take place on the second night from today—or rather, in the second morning, for I was to enter the grounds of the countess’s petite palace two hours before daybreak and to make my departure just as the earliest dawn-light brushed the rambling brick walls surrounding the edifice.

  “We must be brisk about this business,” Astolfo said, “for I believe that the countess stands in danger to herself and to the little realm that is loyal to her. The task is not so difficult as it may first seem. This is no iron fortress high-perched upon some vulturous peak but only a small habitation of many doors and corridors, many adits and exits. Formerly it was a religious institution with the great salon as its principal place of worship and the outlying rooms and buildings serving as quarters for the clerics and devotees. ’Twas never constructed to keep out intruders, expert or clumsy. Mutano will attempt to subtract some of your natural clumsiness, but it is unnecessary for you to gain the handiness of an experienced burglar. The place is not well guarded. The wealth of the countess is comparatively small—though I would not say meager—and her palace holds no strategic position.”

  “What if I am apprehended?”

  “’Twould be a sour business,” he replied, “for you will be recognized and the surmise shall be that you have come for the diamond.”

  “As will be so.”

  “And then they will attempt to discover if you have entered there at my order and whether I am involved in some intrigue against the countess.”

  “What is to be my answer?”

  “Why, that you came to thieve out of your own cupidity and that you have betrayed my trust in you and that I will be in a fury upon you when I am told.”