The Magicians of Caprona

by Diana Wynne Jones

  “How nice,” Angelica answered primly.

  “My lord,” said the Duchess, “these good people did not come here to discuss the theater.”

  “Maybe, maybe,” the Duke said, with an impatient, eager wave of his large hand. “But while they’re here, I might as well ask them about that too. Mightn’t I?” he said, diving at Old Niccolo.

  Old Niccolo showed great presence of mind. He smiled. “Of course, Your Grace. No trouble at all. After we’ve discussed the State business we came for, we shall be happy to take orders for any stage-effects you want.”

  “So will we,” said Guido Petrocchi, with a sour glance at the air over Old Niccolo.

  The Duchess smiled graciously at Old Niccolo for backing her up, which made Old Guido look sourer than ever, and fixed the Duke with a meaning look.

  It seemed to get through to the Duke at last. “Yes, yes,” he said. “Better get down to business. It’s like this, you see—”

  The Duchess interrupted, with a gentle fixed smile. “Refreshments are laid out in the small Conference Room. If you and the adults like to hold your discussion there, I will arrange something for the children here.”

  Guido Petrocchi saw a chance to get even with Old Niccolo. “Your Grace,” he barked stiffly, “my daughters are as loyal to Caprona as the rest of my house. I have no secrets from them.”

  The Duke flashed him a glistening smile. “Quite right! But they won’t be half as bored if they stay here, will they?”

  Quite suddenly, everyone except Paolo and Tonino and the two Petrocchi girls was crowding away through another door behind the red hangings. The Duke leaned back, beaming. “I tell you what,” he said. “You must come to my pantomime, all of you. You’ll love it! I’ll send you tickets. Coming, Lucrezia.”

  The four children were left standing under the ceiling full of wrestling angels.

  After a moment, the Petrocchi girls walked to the chairs against the wall and sat down. Paolo and Tonino looked at one another. They marched to the chairs on the opposite side of the room and sat down there. It seemed a safe distance. From there, the Petrocchi girls were dark blurs with thin white legs and foxy blobs for heads.

  “I wish I’d brought my book,” said Tonino.

  They sat with their heels hooked into the rungs of their chairs, trying to feel patient. “I think the Duchess must be a saint,” said Paolo, “to be so patient with the Duke.”

  Tonino was surprised Paolo should think that. He knew the Duke did not behave much like a duke should, while the Duchess was every inch a duchess. But he was not sure it was right, the way she let them know how patient she was being. “Mother dashes about like that,” he said, “and Father doesn’t mind. It stops him looking worried.”

  “Father’s not a Duchess,” said Paolo.

  Tonino did not argue because, at that moment, two footmen appeared, pushing a most interesting trolley. Tonino’s mouth fell open. He had never seen so many cakes together in his life before. Across the room, there were black gaps in the faces of the Petrocchi girls. Evidently they had never seen so many cakes either. Tonino shut his mouth quickly and tried to look as if he saw such sights every day.

  The footmen served the Petrocchi girls first. They were very cool and seemed to take hours choosing. When the trolley was finally wheeled across to Paolo and Tonino, they found it hard to seem as composed. There were twenty different kinds of cake. They took ten each, with greedy speed, so that they had one of every kind between them and could swap if necessary. When the trolley was wheeled away, Tonino just managed to spare a glance from his plate to see how the Petrocchis were doing. Each girl had her white knees hooked up to carry a plate big enough to hold ten cakes.

  They were rich cakes. By the time Paolo reached the tenth, he was going slowly, wondering if he really cared for meringue as much as he had thought, and Tonino was only on his sixth. By the time Paolo had put his plate neatly under his chair and cleaned himself with his handkerchief, Tonino, sticky with jam, smeared with chocolate and cream and infested with crumbs, was still doggedly ploughing through his eighth. And this was the moment the Duchess chose to sit smiling down beside Paolo.

  “I won’t interrupt your brother,” she said, laughing. “Tell me about yourself, Paolo.” Paolo did not know what to answer. All he could think of was the mess Tonino looked. “For instance,” the Duchess asked helpfully, “does spell-making come easily to you? Do you find it hard to learn?”

  “Oh no, Your Grace,” Paolo said proudly. “I learn very easily.” Then he was afraid this might upset Tonino. He looked quickly at Tonino’s pastry-plastered face and found Tonino staring gravely at the Duchess. Paolo felt ashamed and responsible. He wanted the Duchess to know that Tonino was not just a messy staring little boy. “Tonino learns slowly,” he said, “but he reads all the time. He’s read all the books in the Library. He’s almost as learned as Uncle Umberto.”

  “How remarkable,” smiled the Duchess.

  There was just a trace of disbelief in the arch of her eyebrows. Tonino was so embarrassed that he took a big bite out of his ninth cake. It was a great pastry puff. The instant his mouth closed round it, Tonino knew that, if he opened his mouth again, even to breathe, pastry would blow out of it like a hailstorm, all over Paolo and the Duchess. He clamped his lips together and chewed valiantly. And, to Paolo’s embarrassment, he went on staring at the Duchess. He was wishing Benvenuto was there to tell him about the Duchess. She muddled him. As she bent smiling over Paolo, she did not look like the haughty, rigid lady who had been so patient with the Duke. And yet, perhaps because she was not being patient, Tonino felt the rank strength of the unsaintly thoughts behind her waxy smile, stronger than ever.

  Paolo willed Tonino to stop chewing and goggling. But Tonino went on, and the disbelief in the Duchess’s eyebrows was so obvious, that he blurted out, “And Tonino’s the only one who can talk to Benvenuto. He’s our boss cat, Your—” He remembered the Duchess did not like cats. “Er—you don’t like cats, Your Grace.”

  The Duchess laughed. “But I don’t mind hearing about them. What about Benvenuto?”

  To Paolo’s relief, Tonino turned his goggle eyes from the Duchess to him. So Paolo talked on. “You see, Your Grace, spells work much better and stronger if a cat’s around, and particularly if Benvenuto is. Besides Benvenuto knows all sorts of things—”

  He was interrupted by a thick noise from Tonino. Tonino was trying to speak without opening his mouth. It was clear there was going to be a pastry-storm any second. Paolo snatched out his jammy, creamy handkerchief and held it ready.

  The Duchess stood up, rather hastily. “I think I’d better see how my other guests are getting on,” she said, and went swiftly gliding across to the Petrocchi girls.

  The Petrocchi girls, Paolo noticed resentfully, were ready to receive her. Their handkerchiefs had been busy while the Duchess talked to Paolo, and now their plates were neatly pushed under their chairs too. Each had left at least three cakes. This much encouraged Tonino. He was feeling rather unwell. He put the rest of the ninth cake back beside the tenth and laid the plate carefully on the next chair. By this time, he had managed to swallow his mouthful.

  “You shouldn’t have told her about Benvenuto,” he said, hauling out his handkerchief. “He’s a family secret.”

  “Then you should have said something yourself instead of staring like a dummy,” Paolo retorted. To his mortification both Petrocchi girls were talking merrily to the Duchess. The bulge-headed Angelica was laughing. It so annoyed Paolo that he said, “Look at the way those girls are sucking up to the Duchess!”

  “I didn’t do that,” Tonino pointed out.

  As Paolo wanted to say he wished Tonino had, he found himself unable to say anything at all. He sat sourly watching the Duchess talking to the girls across the room, until she got up and went gliding away. She remembered to smile and wave at Paolo and Tonino as she went. Paolo thought that was good of her, considering the asses they had made of themselves.
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  Very soon after that, the curtains swung aside and Old Niccolo came back, walking slowly beside Guido Petrocchi. After them came the two gowned great-uncles, and Domenico came after that. It was like a procession. Everyone looked straight ahead, and it was plain they had a lot on their minds. All four children stood up, brushed crumbs off, and followed the procession. Paolo found he was walking beside the elder girl, but he was careful not to look at her. In utter silence, they marched to the great Palace door, where the carriages were moving along to receive them.

  The Petrocchi carriage came first, with its black horses patched and beaded with rain. Tonino took another look at its coachman, rather hoping he had made a mistake. It was still raining and the man’s clothes were soaked. His red Petrocchi hair was brown with wet under his wet hat. He was shivering as he leaned down, and there was a questioning look on his pale face, as if he was anxious to be told what the Duke had said. No, he was real all right. The Montana coachman behind stared into space, ignoring the rain and his passengers equally. Tonino felt that the Petrocchis had definitely come out best.

  Chapter 4

  When the coach was moving, Old Niccolo leaned back and said, “Well, the Duke is very good-natured, I’ll say that. Perhaps he’s not such a fool as he seems.”

  Uncle Umberto answered, with deepest gloom, “When my father was a boy, his father went to the Palace once a week. He was received as a friend.”

  Domenico said timidly, “At least we sold some stage-effects.”

  “That,” said Uncle Umberto crushingly, “is just what I’m complaining of.”

  Tonino and Paolo looked from one to the other, wondering what had depressed them so.

  Old Niccolo noticed them looking. “Guido Petrocchi wished those disgusting daughters of his to be present while we conferred with the Duke,” he said. “I shall not—”

  “Oh good Lord!” muttered Uncle Umberto. “One doesn’t listen to a Petrocchi.”

  “No, but one trusts one’s grandsons,” said Old Niccolo. “Boys, old Caprona’s in a bad way, it seems. The States of Florence, Pisa and Siena have now united against her. The Duke suspects they are paying an enchanter to—”

  “Huh!” said Uncle Umberto. “Paying the Petrocchis.”

  Domenico, who had been rendered surprisingly bold by something, said, “Uncle, I could see the Petrocchis were no more traitors than we are!”

  Both old men turned to look at him. He crumpled.

  “The fact is,” Old Niccolo continued, “Caprona is not the great State she once was. There are many reasons, no doubt. But we know, and the Duke knows—even Domenico knows—that each year we set the usual charms for the defense of Caprona, and each year we set them stronger, and each year they have less effect. Something—or someone—is definitely sapping our strength. So the Duke asks what else we can do. And—”

  Domenico interrupted with a squawk of laughter. “And we said we’d find the words to the Angel of Caprona!”

  Paolo and Tonino expected Domenico to be crushed again, but the two old men simply looked gloomy. Their heads nodded mournfully. “But I don’t understand,” said Tonino. “The Angel of Caprona’s got words. We sing them at school.”

  “Hasn’t your mother taught you—?” Old Niccolo began angrily. “Ah, no. I forgot. Your mother is English.”

  “One more reason for careful marriages,” Uncle Umberto said dismally.

  By this time, what with the rain ceaselessly pattering down as well, both boys were thoroughly depressed and alarmed. Domenico seemed to find them funny. He gave another squawk of laughter.

  “Be quiet,” said Old Niccolo. “This is the last time I take you where brandy is served. No, boys, the Angel has not got the right words. The words you sing are a makeshift. Some people say that the glorious Angel took the words back to Heaven after the White Devil was vanquished, leaving only the tune. Or the words have been lost since. But everyone knows that Caprona cannot be truly great until the words are found.”

  “In other words,” Uncle Umberto said irritably, “the Angel of Caprona is a spell like any other spell. And without the proper words, any spell is only at half force, even if it is of divine origin.” He gathered up his gown as the coach jerked to a stop outside the University. “And we—like idiots—have pledged ourselves to complete what God left unfinished,” he said. “The presumption of man!” He climbed out of the coach, calling to Old Niccolo, “I’ll look in every manuscript I can think of. There must be a clue somewhere. Oh this confounded rain!”

  The door slammed and the coach jerked on again.

  Paolo asked, “Have the Petrocchis said they’ll find the words too?”

  Old Niccolo’s mouth bunched angrily. “They have. And I should die of shame if they did it before we did. I—” He stopped as the coach lurched around the corner into the Corso. It lurched again, and jerked. Sprays of water flew past the windows.

  Domenico leaned forward. “Not driving so well, is he?”

  “Quiet!” said Old Niccolo, and Paolo bit his tongue in a whole succession of jerks. Something was wrong. The coach was not making the right noise.

  “I can’t hear the horses’ hooves,” Tonino said, puzzled.

  “I thought that was it!” Old Niccolo snapped. “It’s the rain.” He let down the window with a bang, bringing in a gust of watery wind, and, regardless of faces staring up at him from under wet umbrellas, he leaned out and bellowed the words of a spell. “And drive quickly, coachman! There,” he said, as he pulled the window up again, “that should get us home before the horses turn to pulp. What a blessing this didn’t happen before Umberto got out!”

  The noise of the horses’ hooves sounded again, clopping over the cobbles of the Corso. It seemed that the new spell was working. But, as they turned into the Via Cardinale, the noise changed to a spongy thump-thump, and when they came to the Via Magica the hooves made hardly a sound. And the lurching and jerking began again, worse than ever. As they turned to enter the gate of the Casa Montana, there came the most brutal jerk of all. The coach tipped forward, and there was a crash as the pole hit the cobbles. Paolo got his window open in time to see the limp paper figure of the coachman flop off the box into a puddle. Beyond him, two wet cardboard horses were draped over their traces.

  “That spell,” said Old Niccolo, “lasted for days in my grandfather’s time.”

  “Do you mean it’s that enchanter?” Paolo asked. “Is he spoiling all our spells?”

  Old Niccolo stared at him, full-eyed, like a baby about to burst into tears. “No, lad. I fancy not. The truth is, the Casa Montana is in as bad a way as Caprona. The old virtue is fading. It has faded generation by generation, and now it is almost gone. I am ashamed that you should learn it like this. Let’s get out, boys, and start dragging.”

  It was a wretched humiliation. Since the rest of the family were all either asleep or at work on the Old Bridge, there was no one to help them pull the coach through the gate. And Domenico was no use. He confessed afterwards that he could not remember getting home. They left him asleep in the coach and dragged it in, just the three of them. Even Benvenuto dashing through the rain did not cheer Tonino much.

  “One consolation,” panted their grandfather. “The rain. There is no one about to see Old Niccolo dragging his own coach.”

  Paolo and Tonino did not find much consolation in that. Now they understood the growing un ease in the Casa, and it was not pleasant. They understood why everyone was so anxious about the Old Bridge, and so delighted when, just before Christmas, it was mended at last. They understood, too, the worry about a husband for Rosa. As soon as the bridge was repaired, everyone went back to discussing that. And Paolo and Tonino knew why everyone agreed that the young man Rosa must choose, must have, if he had nothing else, a strong talent for spells.

  “To improve the breed, you mean?” said Rosa. She was very sarcastic and independent about it. “Very well, dear Uncle Lorenzo, I shall only fall in love with men who can make paper horses waterproof.”r />
  Uncle Lorenzo blushed angrily. The whole family felt humiliated by those horses. But Elizabeth was trying not to laugh. Elizabeth certainly encouraged Rosa in her independent attitude. Benvenuto informed Tonino it was the English way. Cats liked English people, he added.

  “Have we really lost our virtue?” Tonino asked Benvenuto anxiously. He thought it was probably the explanation for his slowness.

  Benvenuto said that he did not know what it was like in the old days, but he knew there was enough magic about now to make his coat spark. It seemed like a lot. But he sometimes wondered if it was being applied properly.

  Around this time, twice as many newspapers found their way into the Casa. There were journals from Rome and magazines from Genoa and Milan, as well as the usual Caprona papers. Every one read them eagerly and talked in mutters about the attitude of Florence, movements in Pisa and opinion hardening in Siena. Out of the worried murmurs, the word War began to sound, more and more frequently. And, instead of the usual Christmas songs, the only tune heard in the Casa Montana, night and day, was the Angel of Caprona.

  The tune was sung, in bass, tenor and soprano. It was played slowly on flutes, picked out on guitars and lilted on violins. Every one of the Montanas lived in hope that he or she would be the person to find the true words. Rinaldo had a new idea. He procured a drum and sat on the edge of his bed beating out the rhythm, until Aunt Francesca implored him to stop. And even that did not help. Not one of the Montanas could begin to set the right words to the tune. Antonio looked so worried that Paolo could scarcely bear to look at him.

  With so much worry about, it was hardly surprising that Paolo and Tonino looked forward daily to being invited to the Duke’s pantomime. It was the one bright spot. But Antonio and Rinaldo went to the Palace—on foot—to deliver the special effects, and came back without a word of invitation. Christmas came. The entire Montana family went to church, in the beautiful marble-fronted Church of Sant’ Angelo, and behaved with great devotion. Usually it was only Aunt Anna and Aunt Maria who were notably religious, but now everyone felt they had something to pray for. It was only when the time came to sing the Angel of Caprona that the Montana devotion slackened. An absent-minded look came over their faces, from Old Niccolo to the smallest cousin. They sang: