by Brian Craig
"Who is a prisoner in the castle!" Orfeo exclaimed.
"She is in the castle, to be sure," said Rodrigo. "But whether she is a prisoner is a different matter. Marsilio has become anxious for the stability of his realm since he succeeded his father, and I think that he would like to erase the legacy of hatred which the name Quixana carries by another means than wholesale slaughter.
He sent his emissaries to Gualcazar some years ago, when the lady was but a child, in order to arrange her betrothal to his son.
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when the lady Serafima conies of age, but there have been rumours that she is not altogether happy with the prospect."
Orfeo remembered what the lady Morella had said to him, about having seen Arcangelo some years before in Gualcazar. "When does the lady Serafima come of age?" he asked.
"Soon, I think. I do not know the exact day, but this will certainly be the year."
"In that case," said Orfeo, "we have a ready explanation for the timing of this wretched affair. That must surely be what brought Arcangelo here to try his art against Semjaza's—but if he has already failed, it is difficult to see how anyone else could make a serious attempt to release the lady from her prison. The sorcerer seemed ready enough to believe that I knew nothing of any wider conspiracy, but I suppose he may be anxious lest Arcangelo has not come here alone, and may be waiting for a more powerful magician to take Arcangelo's place."
"I know nothing of this," said Cordova tiredly. "And I do not see what it has to do with me. I am loyal to the Duke, and I cannot believe that Marsilio could be so foolish as to conclude that because Arcangelo came to my house, I must be in league with the Quixanas."
"No," said Orfeo, grimly, "I do not think it is as simple as that.
But my friend, we must decide in spite of our ignorance exactly what we should do next. I think we must decide now, for we are coming close to Zaragoz again, and we will certainly be seen and recognized if we go through the gate of the town. This adventure did not end with your release; it has hardly begun. Your enemies—whoever they may be—will surely strike again."
"I know that," answered Cordova, in a tone which was equally dour. "But I cannot go into hiding. Were I to ride back to my estates, I could be no more certain of having men I can trust about me than if I were in my house on the hill, and I would be no less vulnerable to an assassin's dagger. My enemies, whoever they are, have tried to act treacherously against me, but I am not that kind of man. I would rather bring them out into the open if I can, where I can confront them face to face. I intend to return to Zaragoz, openly and boldly. You need not come with me if you are afraid—this is not your affair, and I can make sure that you have safe conduct to the border."
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Orfeo considered this for a few seconds, but he quickly saw that just as Rodrigo could not be certain of his safety wherever he was, so he could not be certain of his own, even though he left the borders of the realm. In any case, the fact that there was so much he did not understand made him reluctant to let the puzzle alone.
"No, my lord," he said, forgetting for a moment the equality of friendship which had been offered to him, "I will not do that just yet. After all, my lute is in your house, and how am I to live without it? And I have promised, have I not, to play for the lady Veronique on that Night of Masks to which you Estalians look forward with such enthusiasm?"
Rodrigo Cordova turned in his saddle to look into his companion's eyes, and Orfeo knew that the young man was staring straight through the mask of his irony, into his very heart.
"Thank you, my friend," said Rodrigo. "I will be proud to have you by my side. And if my enemies prove too strong for me, I swear that I will do all in my power to see that they do not harm you."
Orfeo was grateful for this promise, though he knew well enough how difficult it might be to keep. Well, he thought, I am in the web now, and will not escape until its strands are ripped apart, to reveal whatever monsters are lurking at its heart. And if Chaos has Zaragoz in its grip, let us pray that the forces of Law may yet prevail against it!
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Chapter Seven
As they rode through the streets of the town Orfeo looked about him all the while, wondering whether any who saw them would be surprised or alarmed, and whether news of Rodrigo Cordova's homecoming might already be winging its way to the heights of the crag by mysterious means. But he saw nothing untoward in the way that any man looked up at them as they passed by, and there was no sign that rumour of the murder of Theo Calvi had yet been broadcast in the streets. They had come through the gate unchallenged, and as their horses mounted the narrow road to Cordova's house they were saluted most politely by all those whom custom forced to acknowledge their presence.
While their horses were being stabled Cristoforo came out to meet them, and Rodrigo immediately instructed him to send a messenger to the castle, to summon Estevan Sceberra.
Privately, Orfeo wondered whether this was altogether a wise thing to do; although he had declared his certainty that the man who gave the instruction for Calvi's murder had not been Sceberra, he was by no means convinced that Sceberra was not behind the scheme. Still, if young Cordova was determined to take the bull by the horns, then the minister was certainly the man he must first confront.
Rodrigo led Orfeo into the house by the same door which had 93
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admitted Arcangelo the night before. It gave direct entry into the hall which had been used as a dining-room and ballroom. As they passed the spot where Arcangelo had been struck down Orfeo looked up at the balcony from which the magical blast had been fired, and was suddenly disposed to wonder about the exact circumstances of that event.
"Rodrigo," he said, ignoring the start of surprise which the steward Cristoforo gave when he heard the familiar mode of address, "last night I saw Sceberra signal to the man who fetched the sorcerer. He could not have come from the castle even if there is a secret way. He was already in the house, was he not?"
"Yes he was," answered Rodrigo. "He came with the party from the castle, as he often does."
"But not to dance?"
Rodrigo smiled, but mirthlessly. "Semjaza does not care for dancing," he said, "and if he did, I think he might spoil the pleasure which the others took. He is not a handsome man, and you have seen that he can hurt with the power of his will."
"Why, then, does he come here?"
"He likes to look at the books and scrolls which my ancestors gathered here. Many were once owned by wizards, though my family has not kept a wizard of its own for three generations now.
Were it not for Semjaza the books would remain unread, and I think that even he can only read a few of them, for they are written in many different languages. Cristoforo, who has sufficient skill in the literary arts to keep account of all my business affairs, cannot make head nor tail of any but a few of them."
The steward gave a sad nod to confirm this judgment of his relative incompetence.
"May I see these books?" asked Orfeo.
"Of course—can you read, then?"
"Like your steward," said Orfeo, "I can read the tongue which we speak, and write it after a clumsy fashion, but little more than that. Nevertheless, I have a certain interest in books."
Shrugging his shoulders—for it was obviously not an interest which he shared—Rodrigo led Orfeo up the principal staircase of the house, and then along a carpeted corridor which led to a wing beyond the rooms which were commonly used. There he unlocked the door of a small room, using a key which he took 94
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from one of the recesses where candles would be set after dark.
The room had a glazed window, but the diamond-shaped pieces of glass were heavily begrimed, and the room seemed a dark and dingy place. It was narrow, with wide shelves to either side, on which books were stored in untidy heaps. There was a table in the centre of
the room, with two chairs at either end, and the tabletop was littered with candle-trays and the stubs of candles, as well as several scrolls, three inkwells and an assortment of quills.
There was a good deal of dust on the table-top, too, but its pattern was irregular, sitting much deeper here than there, occasionally having been wiped away from a little area before one or other of the chairs. There was an unpleasant odour in the air, which Orfeo immediately connected to the noxious stink of the sorcerer's breath. Though it was in Rodrigo Cordova's house, this room was Semjaza's if it was anyone's. And yet the house, if what Arcangelo had said was true, had been bewitched by some Quixana spellcaster to work against the cause of the diAvilas.
Then he remembered that Arcangelo had not said that, but had actually said instead that the house had been charged to serve the cause of justice, and to react against any who dared to work "dark magic" within its walls.
Was that, he wondered, why Arcangelo had come here—to provoke the working of "dark magic"? And had Semjaza often come to study here in the hope of discovering a way to set aside the curse which had been set upon the house?
Orfeo ran his finger along the binding of a nearby book, and found it black with dust and fungus. The parchments were literally rotting on the shelves. It was not that the room was damp, for it was as dry as a bone—but that dryness had not kept decay at bay.
"After all," said Rodrigo, as he read disapproval in Orfeo's roaming eye, "parchment is but a kind of flesh, and it is the destiny of all flesh that it should return to dust in the end. What does it matter, when no one can read them?"
"The men who wrote them intended that they should be read,"
murmured Orfeo. "And it seems that Semjaza has tried to penetrate their mysteries. Arcangelo spoke, you will recall, of a learned man among the traitors who betrayed the Quixana Duke, who learned more about the history of this mountain than had been known before. Perhaps the book from which he learned it is here."
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"I do not know," said Rodrigo. "I have kept the books, because they belonged to my father and my father's father—they are part and parcel of the House of Cordova, which I hold in trust for my son, and my son's son—but my father never cared for them and nor do I. I saw no reason to hide them from Semjaza."
When he heard Rodrigo use the phrase "House of Cordova"
Orfeo saw what he should have seen all along—which was that the word "house" had more than one meaning. Arcangelo had said of the defeated wizards who had helped Quixana rule that they had "cursed this house", and then had gone on to imply that he meant the building itself by talking about its walls. But Estevan Sceberra may not have understood the words that way, and may have thought that the curse was upon the family of Cordova and not the walls of the house in which they lived. Was that why the Duke's men had been sent against his loyal servant?
"I am not sure that Semjaza's curiosity is a harmless thing,"
said Orfeo, cautiously. "Do you know what kind of wizardry he practises?"
"Kind?" replied Rodrigo. "I hardly know what kinds there a r e -
all wizardry is alike to those who have no magic, though I think that the greater part of it is mere trickery. I know that the common folk dislike him, and. call him an evil man who has daemons to command, but evil is like justice: where the unfortunate see evil, the fortunate see only good, and the common folk see daemons in every peculiar shadow. Semjaza likes to be feared, like all his kind, and is pleased when others call him sorcerer and suspect him of acquaintance with vile gods and godlings. I do not say that he is a good man, but I do not think him half so black as he is painted."
"I wish I could agree with you, my friend," said Orfeo, quietly.
"I know well enough how rumour sees daemons where there is naught but darkness, and I have known many spellcasters who have taken great delight in seeming more powerful than they are, encouraging false belief in their ability to command dark powers.
Anyone who believes every story which is told of men who deal with daemons is a fool—but I think that is to the great advantage of those who really do make pacts with Chaos, and I know that some peculiar shadows do indeed mark the work of daemons. I cannot believe in all the wonders which are spoken of in travellers'
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tales, and have certainly never seen such things as dragons or manticores, but there is something in the wisdom of lore and legend which I trust, and I know that there are powers in the world which men do well to fear."
"Perhaps there are," answered Rodrigo, "in distant and savage lands near the World's Edge. But this is Estalia, which is a civilized place."
"You are a good man, Rodrigo," said Orfeo. "And I wish that those to whom you owe fealty were as good as you. But Semjaza and Morella d'Arlette belong to a different kind, and I suspect that they have brought others into the morass of their corruption."
When he looked carefully to see what effect this statement had on Rodrigo Cordova, Orfeo saw that the other was not disposed to believe him. He was not entirely surprised, given that the young man was reputed to be enamoured of Veronique diAvila, and given also that he must have known Semjaza all his life, and grown up thinking of him as a friend no matter how repulsive his face might be.
"Would you have me destroy these books?" asked Cordova. "I would not like to do it, despite that I do not care for them at all."
Orfeo shook his head. Though he did not like to think that a man like Semjaza might find the means here to increase his power, nor did he like to think of knowledge being destroyed—and he believed that there might indeed be knowledge here which could be put to use by those who could learn to decipher it. He had been in university towns in the Empire, and had seen much larger libraries than this one, and which seemed infinitely better kept—but he knew that they consisted mostly of the routine produce of copyists and paid scriveners. Never before had he seen such an accumulation of very old books as this room contained, and he knew they would be reckoned a fine treasure by any honest scholar of the Empire, all the more so because most were written in languages forgotten and arcane.
Orfeo sighed, and said: "How many secrets are buried in this room, not needing lock and key to keep them in? Words by the thousand, written by those whose main purpose was to keep them for a few privileged eyes. What a world it would be, Don Rodrigo, if those who had knowledge were to write it plainly for every man to read—for then it would be in the interest of the many rather 97
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than the few to learn their letters and be privy to the accumulated wisdom of the generations. How then might men make progress!
"Instead, the knowledge which men have is hoarded thus, condemned to die and rot and crumble as their own frail bodies die and rot and crumble. No wonder we are naked to corrosions of the soul, my lord, when we consign our best thoughts and our worst to such tombs as this, where only such necromancers as Semjaza can bear to come in quest of their resurrection. Even so, my friend, I beg you not to destroy what you have. It is too precious."
Orfeo came out of the room, wiping grime from his fingers on to the hem of his tunic.
"I wonder...." he said, and then hesitated.
"What do you wonder?" asked Rodrigo.
"I wonder whether Arcangelo knewthaX Semjaza would be here last night, and whether what happened was part of his plan. I think Semjaza and Sceberra might be wondering about that too. They may be anxious that their victory was too easy."
"I do not think so," said the younger man. "Is it not more likely that he intended to deliver his dire prophecy and disappear into the night?"
"Perhaps," said Orfeo, "but he did not seem surprised when Semjaza struck him down."
They reached the head of the stairway again, and descended in a calm manner. When they had nearly reached the bottom they heard the sound of hooves clattering in the narow courtyard, and within a minute the main door of the house was opened by the guard which Rodrigo had set there, admitting Estevan Sceberra, w
ith two men-at-arms of his own.
As Rodrigo Cordova strode forward to meet the minister Orfeo hung back, and watched the two men come together. While they looked at each other Sceberra's expression was all friendship and concern, but when they clasped hands in greeting they came so close that Sceberra was able to look over Cordova's shoulder, at the spot where Orfeo stood. In that brief moment, Orfeo saw the expression change—and it was as though the hostility of it emitted a brief cold blast which struck him in the face.
That Sceberra did not like him, he already knew—but he could not help but feel that there was far more in that foul glance than 98
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mere dislike. And when the other looked away, Orfeo formed the distinct impression from the way his gaze flickered right and left, then up and down, that Estevan Sceberra was a worried and uneasy man, who felt that the course of events had perversely turned to his own disadvantage.
"I swear," said Estevan Sceberra, "that when I find these men—and I do not say if I find them—then I will make them talk. I have a way with men's tongues, as you know."
Sceberra was sitting in an armchair, sipping from a goblet of wine. Rodrigo Cordova sat opposite, apparently at ease, though Orfeo—who sat nearby—knew that the young man's mind was very active. The lady Marguerite was also present, having been informed of all that had happened to her son, and she seemed every bit as uneasy as the minister, perhaps for very different reasons
"I know how you treat your prisoners, Estevan," said Cordova, gently, "but I know only too well that a man in pain will confess to anything which is put into his head. I could have questioned the two we left alive, but I would never have been sure that what they told me was the truth."
"Semjaza can judge the truth of what men say," said Sceberra confidently, turning his stare to Orfeo.
