A Shadow All of Light (5 page)

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?”

“Umm … Yes. That is true,” I said, and at last tore my gaze away from her true blonde charms and her large gray eyes, which were now filling wetly.

“Pay no mind to her tears,” said Astolfo. “She can pour them out at will, as if from a canister.”

At once the welling stopped and she gave Astolfo a stare of scarlet enmity.

“We have crossed paths before, a few seasons ago, and Fleuraye saved her Belarmo from the fate I designed for him by means of a diverting ploy I may sometime whisper to you. But I believe they must have fallen out with each other now. In fact, I am certain that the shadow you purchased from her is that of her consort.”

“It does not belong to Morbruzzo?”

“That savage pirate would have retrieved it by now, wherever it was hidden and whatever the cost to him. No, this is the shadow of Belarmo.” He held it at shoulder height before him. “And you see what decadent state it is in. Fleuraye has worked upon it so as to make it a poison thing. This you can observe in its colors, the nauseous tints and tinges of corruption.”

“Poison…” Pecunio's weak murmur sounded like an echo of itself.

“Did she not implore you to cloak yourself in it? Did she not tell you how brave and stalwart it made you appear when she came to your bedchamber? And yet the anger and jealousy that rages within it fed upon your manhood and shriveled all your virility. Is not this true?”

“True as the summer sky,” Pecunio said. “And now, if you will but hand me her sword where she dropped it from within the shadow—”

“No no,” Astolfo commanded. “Nothing of that. I have saved your life and you are indebted to me in the amount of three hundred gold eagles. I shall collect another three hundred from Belarmo when we rescue him from whatever grim place it is where he is being tortured.”

“He is yet alive?”

“If he were dead, if his lover had dispatched him, his shadow would be a poor, pallid thing almost lifeless. But it stands in strong sympathy with him. As its condition is, so then is his. I suppose that this all fell out as it did from the beginning because of a lovers' quarrel. Jealousy will be in play.”

Flueraye spat her words. “A low tavern wench. A slattern with teats like harbor buoys. An arse like a refuse barrow.”

He spoke to her. “And so you suborned some of his men with gold and they turned on him and you are exacting your revenge. At the same time, you thought to acquire a coin or two and increase the humiliation of Belarmo and of my friend Pecunio here.”

“I am not of a mood these days to coddle the coxcomb sex,” she said.

“Yet your only hope to escape the gallows is to tell us where to find your lover. Rescuing him, you rescue yourself. For your other crimes a prison ship bound for the sultry latitudes may suit. But now is the moment to tell us, for he is after all little more than a pirate himself and his life may not weigh greatly in your favor. Yet if he die, that fact will weigh large against you. And I think you would not long be able to endure being cloaked again in Belarmo's shadow. The rage within his spirit as he lies bound and tortured makes his shade a cruel garment to don, does it not? I am of temper to fling it about you on this instant.”

And so she told where Belarmo lay in the cellar of a warehouse near Rattlebone Alley and gave clear directions how to reach him. Then she added, with the most baleful of looks, “I daresay we shall encounter again, Astolfo. Perhaps next time you shall not fare so lucky.”

“Perhaps by next time Falco shall have learned the proper use of a sword.”

So Pecunio was rewarded with his life and some restoration of his health; Astolfo was the richer by hundreds of eagles; Belarmo was to be rescued from his agonies. My reward was to undergo more practice bouts with Mutano, my bruises black as onyx and purple as sunset. This discipline for the craft of shadow-taking is a harsh one and I do not lightly recommend it to anyone whether or not you may have thought of taking up the trade and art of shadows.

But if you are attracted to this occlusive way of life, you will find the demanding disciplines salutary. Some individuals come to attach to them for the challenges they present. If I had relied upon my previous martial skills, I might have been slain a dozen times. If I had not turned over so many musty pages, I should never have known of the hidden associations that shadows share with echoes, with cats, and with certain types of jewels, such as the one belonging to the eccentric Countess Triana.

 

II

The Diamond Shadow

The heavily gilded carriage that brought us hither halted before the side door of this elegant château with its air of slight desuetude. The silent footman opened the carriage door, let down the stair for us to descend, signaled to the driver, and the conveyance rolled away.

Astolfo and I stood alone, he taking a long moment to survey our surroundings. Then we entered without ceremony into a dim, long hall. Why had no one come out to greet us? I trusted that the maestro had made a prior arrangement that I was not privy to.

We walked slowly, tentatively, toward a door at the end of the corridor. A streak of light shone at the sill beneath the door edge.

“We were fools to come to this place,” I said.

“This place,” said the right-hand shadows.

“Disgrace,”
said the left-hand shadows.

“We were fools, Falco,” Astolfo said, “before we were bidden here. You must not lose courage.”

“Courage,” said the dexter shadows.

“Outrage,”
said the sinister.

“I am none a-feared,” I said. “But I mislike these shadows that mock my phrases.”

“Phrases.”

“Mazes.”

“The shadows do not speak,” Astolfo said. “They stand silent in their long corridors. Only a peculiarity of the construction of this dim hall makes them seem to speak. When we are silent, they will be silent. They own no breath.”

“Breath.”

“Death.”

I said nothing more. It behooved me, I thought, to observe wordlessly until speech became necessary. I felt honored to accompany the maestro to the court of this small domain within the province of Tlemia. I felt also a little puzzled, for I knew well I had not acquired manners and graces proper to the situation. I was satisfied that I had been making fair progress in attaining the skills and knowledge of swordsmanship, shadow-taking, geometry, shadow-history, and so forth. But polish and finesse had not blessed my social encounters, especially with those of elevated rank.

So I held my tongue when we pushed open the heavy door that blocked the corridor and swung it shut behind us. It almost seemed that these doors had been hung to keep back the shadows, for the space we entered into was bright with ensconced torches and batteries of flaming candles that swathed in a soft glow each object here.

There were a good two dozen people ranged about—grave courtiers, expensively appointed ladies with their maids and young daughters, quick-smiling lads in silken trunks and with curiously sheathed short swords—and though they made the noises a pleasant company makes, they now fell silent and looked upon Astolfo and me with undisguised curiosity. I felt as if I had come into a court of petty royalty, though our hostess was no more than a thrice-widowed countess; so Astolfo had informed me.

A countess then, yet she sat in her high-backed chair of dark oak with its carvings of gryphons and lions' heads and fleur-de-lys with seat and back sumptuously brocaded. There was no dais, but a respectful space surrounded this chair as the men and women kept proper distance. On her right-hand side a standard displayed on a white background two interlocking rings. In one of them three crossed lances signified the county (formerly the duchy) of Trevania; in the other the Mardrake symbol of the Tlemia Province was black upon scarlet.

These courtiers watched closely as we approached, as if they had gathered there for no other purpose than to observe Astolfo and me. The maestro made a graceful obeisance, I a clumsy one, and he addressed her in a confident, easy voice: “Milady Triana, we have come at your bidding.”

“At my invitation, Master Astolfo. I have no power to order you about.”

Was it the bulk of her chair that made her look so petite? Though her face showed her to be a woman of handsome middle years, the way she was perched upon her seat caused her to appear no larger than a child. Her voice, however, possessed the sound of old age, not quavering, but with an uncertain timbre and a lightly suggested crackle. Her hair was blonde streaked with white and it seemed to shiver in movement with a liquid opalescence. Her eyes were fixed at a point somewhere between herself and the person she addressed, as if she looked inward more than outward. This gaze gave her a distracted air, though her words were clear enough.

“We are honored by your kind invitation,” he replied, and bowed again, pulling back his stiff linen cape with his left hand and sweeping the right before him like a violoncellist drawing his bow.

“May I inquire into the health of your wife and children?”

“I have none,” said Astolfo. “As an unfortunate, I live alone with my mute manservant Mutano and with this man, Falco”—he nudged and I bowed—“and with such house servants as I require. It is sometimes a cheerless existence, almost eremitic.”

“But perhaps this way of life has allowed you to gain the skills and arts you need in your cult of shadows. I have been informed that your craft requires stringent and constant application.”

“I have labored in my discipline, but maybe to a quick-witted chap it would come more easily.”

She said nothing for a moment and paused to take in the figure of my plumpish, balding master with his swift hands and uncustomary finery and mild gray eyes that never threatened.

It seemed to me that she knew already much about Astolfo, and perhaps about me also, and that her questions had been put merely to give her time to form impressions. I was a little surprised when she said, “I think that we have met aforetimes.”

“I believe we have not met, milady. I am certain I would remember someone so gracious and charming.”

Her tone sharpened as suddenly as a gust of wind off a frozen peak. “If I say that we have met, then so it has been. It is true that my mind is not so agile as in former days, nor so integral in its workings, yet I must recall Astolfo the thief who filched the shadow of the assassin Torrodo and delivered it to his mortal enemy to ravage at will.”

“Those stories of days long past are more rumor than history, milady.”

“'Twill do no good to set at me crosswise,” she said. “If I say we have met, we have met. If I say you have done such-and-such, you have done so.” She drummed her heels under her broad skirt of figured white silk against the stretcher of her chair, as an impatient child might do.

“Milady.” He bowed once more.

“I do not much like shadows,” she declared. “Creeping, sneaking things they are. People say that you are a thief who steals shadows for profit. I do not understand how anyone can steal a shadow. But if a shadow is a thing, I suppose it can be stolen. There are thieves everywhere. I am continually missing rings and gold and silver bangles, tiaras and suchlike. Some of the thieves are in this room at this moment.”

“Milady.”

“Not you, Astolfo, but these others. Oh, I might tell you histories about this crowd that you would scarcely credit. Fine lot they are, very fine indeed.”

Many of the assemblage must have heard her words, but none showed response. They continued to amble about and chat together in low voices. I received the impression that they were accustomed to the countess's cross outbursts and took little account of them.

“Perhaps there are misunderstandings,” Astolfo said. “We are surely in gentle company among these nobles.”

“Never believe it,” she said. “Why do you insist on contradicting my observations? Think me a fool, do you?”

“No, milady. Never.”

“Sometimes I am a fool, of the worst sort. A cloud comes into my head so that there are hours when I cannot say who I am. I am not myself and lose all placement in the world. That is when these betrayers and whisperers take advantage, perceiving that I am not all that I need to be.”

I looked the crowd over again, but they remained to my eye placid and unconcerned.

“Why,” she asked, “would anyone wish to purchase shadows from you? Nasty, slithering, lisping things they are, always dogging one's heels or clinging against the walls with sullen faces, ne'er a cheerful countenance among 'em. Tell me why.”