FSF, May-June 2010

by Spilogale Authors

  Sometimes I fancied I could see my sweet and zesty youth disappearing like a gourd of water poured on desert sands, and I would wonder if learning the craft of shadows was worth the toil. How had I ever thought of doing it?

  In part, my brother Osbro helped me to decide. He was the clever son, the one quick with ciphering and plans. Something of a reader, he loved to lord over me by quoting some cloud-minded poet or graybeard sage and asking with an expression of cool mockery, “Now what do you think about that?” And my reply would be a shrug, for I never comprehended a word of what he had said. In later days, when Astolfo drove me to shelf after shelf of antique books, I had gained a little knowledge and began to suspect that all those wise saws and pithy remarks that Osbro uttered were actually senseless strings of words he linked together himself.

  Me he regarded as a backward mud-wit and his superior airs grew so intolerable that I determined to make my way in life by the use of my mind. I had heard much of those who dealt in shadows, men who stole them and sold them to artists and criminals and politicians and suchlike, men who bought shadows and fashioned them to the taste of pampered women and subtle nobility, men who kidnapped shadows and held them until their proper casters crossed their palms with currency. Such a craft seemed a sort of magic—to transmute a thing so filmy and unsubstantial as a shadow, something almost not there, a thing that was barely a thing, into gold and silver, into acres and houses, carriages and servants. If I could do that, it would be proof that I was not the stone-brain Osbro made me out. Let him poke holes in the dirt and set in his turnips and chop at weeds and counterfeit false sagacities; let him grub out the rest of his days under the rheumy gaze of our taciturn father. With subtle and daring schemes, with swift and nimble fingers, I would amass out of the air itself a fortune as solid as a mountain.

  * * * *

  After Mutano with no gentle hand had shaken me awake, I found myself patrolling the winding, silent corridors of the manse, listening to my own footfalls over the slate floors, seeing naught but the moonlight rubbing through the horizontal slits below the ceilings. No rodent, no death-watch beetle, was stirring; no nightjar sang outside.

  I searched the cellars with their huge wine casks and stone jugs of oil and bins of grain and meal. All was in order, so I stepped through a small door and sidled up the steps into the south garden. The moon was beginning to set and shadows were long and still. The breezeless, warm hour left the trees motionless.

  Nonetheless, there was another presence here, I thought, and in mid-thought saw a heavy form bulk over the top of the garden wall, squeeze carefully around the spearheads posted there and begin descent. This encounter was too easy and one of Astolfo's sayings muttered in my head: Where one is seen with ease, Two will be in place.

  I slipped off the flagstone path into the dark shelter of an arching willow. I would have been spotted by the thief on the wall; he had the vantage of height. But maybe his confederate had not discerned me and would come from hiding to join the other if I stayed still.

  No such luck. He was here among the swarm of the weeping withes with me and when I heard the whisper of leaves against leather behind me, I grasped a handful of the stringy branches and swished them about. By this means I located my man and I had my dirk in my left hand on the instant. No use for a sword in this tangle of greenery.

  The skulker grunted in surprise and, since the sound would bring his colleague, I thought I might set them upon each other. Shaking the bunched withes as hard as I could to cause confusion, I uttered a doleful, loud groan, as if I had been thrust through. This noise brought the other heedless into the swirl of branches, and, as he came blundering through on my left-hand side, I kicked with all my might the place where one or the other of his knees ought to have been.

  He crashed through the willow leaves, falling directly into his comrade's chest and this other, finding himself so rudely attacked, choked out a curse and buried his fist in the clumsy one's face. If his sword had not been so entangled in the willow, he would have taken the life of his friend. But he only laid him cold at his feet.

  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, though with a very ill grace.

  "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 schoolboy sitting on a bridge with a fishing pole. There was a low joint 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 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 ten fingers. 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."

  He 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 f
orth; 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 familiar in the south. Yet the wine did not rouse in me any desire to return to the ducks and geese, the cattle and the asses.

  Only our sour-visaged cook and the other underservants 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 gold 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.

  * * * *

  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 sad clown of the fair-day comedies, Petralchio. He was so vividly made up that his features were hard to make out. 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 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 the 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 seven hundred eagles. If I decide to find that it is not genuine, the fee shall rise to three thousand."

  "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. Why should I not play along for a while?"

  "My best games are in earnest. Now 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. 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 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 Morbruzzo 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 the twig of a crab tree. So thin and tenuous it was nigh invisible, 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 messenger. 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 stands without the door there listening to us to fetch a flask of water?"

  Startled, Pecunio crossed with unwonted swiftness to the door and swung it suddenly open. There stood the slender fellow with the large feet and tall boots. Though plainly revealed in his spying, 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 gave a start. “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 extent. 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.