by Brian Craig
Had Sceberra been thinking as clearly as he should, he might not have pressed forward quite so aggressively, anticipating that he would be in trouble if he was stranded in the middle of the bridge while Orfeo had walls to either side of him—but Sceberra was obviously used to a fierce fight in which he overwhelmed his opponent with relentless pressure, and so he drove on. Orfeo allowed himself to be driven, though he kept his blade moving as fast as he could, to allow the minister no pause at all.
When he had almost achieved his object, by coming to the point where he could move more freely and launch a telling counter-attack, Orfeo was forced to a slight error which allowed the minister to prick his arm. It was a very faint hit, but it was not so faint as to draw no blood, and Orfeo heard the reaction of the watchers on the ledge, who were—not unnaturally—inclined to favour Sceberra. One or two of the men-at-arms called out encouragement, and Sceberra obviously thought that his time had come, for he pressed forward as urgently as he could.
Orfeo had felt the sting of the cut, but he knew how fatal it would be to let it disturb him—and he knew, too, that even the slightest wound in a man's sword-arm might prove a fatal disadvantage if its hurt were given time to work. He could not wait until he had come entirely into the tunnel towards which Sceberra was driving him, and he had to make his sideways move a litle earlier than he would have liked.
His rearmost foot, which should have come to a solid base at the angle of the floor and the tunnel-side, did not quite make that target, and Sceberra had no sooner reacted with alarm to the unexpected shift than he saw what grave danger Orfeo had placed himself in. The minister made haste to strike a mortal blow—but he made too much haste, for he had not entirely countered the riposte which Orfeo had set up, and instead of Orfeo's point 150
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traveling harmlessly past his shoulder it pricked his jaw and made his head flinch.
The tiny wound was no more serious than the one which Sceberra had inflicted on Orfeo—less so, given that it was on the face and not the sword-arm—but it stung enough to make Sceberra's arm tremble in its fierce attack.
There was but a tiny fraction of a second for Orfeo to respond to that tremor. The interval might have allowed him to take one more step backwards into the safety of the tunnel, but his reflexes took him along a different course, dashing his own weapon past the other's guard to put another and deeper cut into the muscles of Scebera's shoulder. Sceberra, in his turn, was able to cut at Orfeo's breast.
The pain of the new cut, in the region where his flesh had already been torn and twisted by the pincers, sent a wave of shock through the player's whole body, and pushed his groping heel right back to the edge of the bridge.
Sceberra let loose a cry of triumph as he saw his opponent perched precariously upon the edge, and he thrust again, determined now that his enemy must fall—but the thrust which was meant for Orfeo's body missed, as the player pivoted and swayed.
There was another noisy reaction from the watching crowd, who plainly thought that Orfeo was certain to go over the edge, but as Sceberra's blade stnick sparks from the edge of the archway behind him, Orfeo—with a trick which owed far more to his education in dancing than his practised swordsmanship—came under the blade and up again, away from the edge over which he had so nearly toppled.
As he rose again from this remarkable crouch Orfeo found a far better balance than his opponent, whose wrist had been badly jarred by the carry-through and subsequent abrupt interruption of his thrust.
For just a second, Sceberra was all at sixes and sevens, unable to recover his defence. Orfeo was too close to him to bring his own sword up for an orthodox thrust, but he brought it up nevertheless, almost like an upward-thrusting dagger, and rammed the point into Sceberra's neck beneath the chin.
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and the shock which echoed through his system convulsed him so badly that his flailing sword-arm went all awry. The force of the blow threw him backwards, and now it was he who was teetering on the edge, trying desperately to hold himself from a fatal tall.
It was hopeless; as Orfeo pulled back his blade, Sceberra seemed to crumple up, and he fell backward from the bridge, disappearing into the darkness of the pit. He emitted no scream as he fell, nor any to say that the fall had left him to face the rats alive. There was the dull thud of his landing, and then nothing.
Orfeo put out a hand to touch the arch, in order to balance himself. He could feel the warmth of the blood on his sleeve, and the stickiness of the reopened wound on his chest. He looked across the bridge at Marsilio diAvila, whose face was brightly lit by one of the several lanterns on the ledge, which was held close beside him by a man-at-arms.
The Duke's was a very handsome face, suprisingly youthful in its appearance. Orfeo knew that the man must be at least as old as himself, given that he had two children nearly grown, but had Marsilio appeared with Tomas on one arm and Veronique on the other the three would surely be taken for siblings rather than father and children.
"Bravo!" cried the Duke. "I swear that I have not seen such a fight with swords in all my days. I dare say that you could give even me a genuine contest, were you free of hurt!"
"I suppose I must try you, hurt or not, if that is what you wish,"
said Orfeo, trying his best to stand straight.
"But why?" asked Marsilio diAvila, in all apparent sincerity.
"Your score is settled now, and I have no quarrel with you at all!
What do you care about the lady Serafima? Come, man, you are not in this so deeply that you cannot stand aside. I extend my hand to you in friendship—take it, and you may still have your chance to play for me. Taike it!"
Marsilio diAvila held out his right hand, while the left which held his sword hung limply by his side. But Orfeo did not move from where he stood. The voice of the Duke was pleasant enough, and there was nothing in it to betray insincerity—but Orfeo, now he had time to think, realized that he had heard the voice before, though he had not seen the man. He also saw that diAvila had not extended his foot by so much as a single inch from the ledge—as 152
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if he dared not trust its solidity.
Orfeo did not know how to reply, but while he hesitated, Marsilio diAvila was content to watch and wait.
Then, very suddenly, there was a rush of black wings as a huge bird swept out of the darkness beyond the angle of the stone, and zoomed low over the bridge as though in panic-stricken flight from some dread predator.
Before there was time for any of the watchers to register surprise, there came a terrible cry of pain and rage, which seemed to dwindle as its source—hidden somewhere in the darkness—descended precipitately into the depths of the crag. The cry was wordless, and might perhaps as easily have been the cry of a beast as the cry of a man, but somehow Orfeo knew immediately whose despairing cry it was. Before the echoes had died away, the bridge which extended from the place where he stood to the place where Marsilio diAvila waited had dissolved into dust, which drifted lightly down into the dark abyss.
The Duke of Zaragoz laughed softly.
"Poor player," he said. "You should have taken my hand while you had the chance. Now, I believe you must find your own way to the light, for Semjaza has certainly put an end to that troublesome priest with whom you came to my realm. I am told that it can be done, if the creatures which live in the lower depths will only let you alone. I hope you will find a way, and will come to the castle for the Night of Masks. I really would be pleased to hear you play."
"Aye, my lord," said Orfeo, having found his tongue at last.
"I believe you would, and I thank you for the invitation. I will not say that I am sorry to have killed your minister, but he was an intemperate man, and I have no doubt that his excesses have helped to tarnish the reputation of your reign."
"Then I surely owe you thanks, sir," answered diAvila, with a little mock bow. "
Give my love to the lady, if you find her, and do not be angry with her if she is not what you expected. Take this gift, that you may light your way to your destiny!"
So saying, diAvila plucked the lantern from the hand of the man beside him, and threw it across the gorge. He threw it so dexterously that it did not go out as it flew, and Orfeo caught it with equal grace, so that the flame became quiet again after 153
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fluttering madly for an instant or two.
Then diAvila, shadowed now—though there was light aplenty further along the ledge—signalled to his men to go back the way they had come.
Orfeo watched as the company of his enemies retreated. He was puzzled by diAvila's words—and, indeed, by his entire manner.
The duke had seemed to be amused rather than annoyed, not in the least concerned that Falquero had escaped, and must surely be somewhere far ahead with the lady Serafima in his arms.
Perhaps, now that Arcangelo had been defeated, Marsilio di Avila was certain that Falquero and his mistress had no chance at all of escaping from Zaragoz. Orfeo had the disturbing feeling that he, too, was in a trap from which there was no escape, and that even if he managed to find a way out into the daylight again, there would be none waiting for him there but his kindly enemies, who would be happy to let him entertain them—until they grew tired of him.
But he was still alive, and could only take his problems one at a time.
He shrugged his shoulders, put his sword back in its scabbard, and made his way carefully forward into the darkness, holding up the lantern to light his way.
The tunnel soon began to descend, at first sloping gently, then more precipitately. There were no steps here, but the. walls of the shaft were clean cut, and if the ceiling was too low for Orfeo's comfort that was no fault of the builders of the passage, who had presumably had none among their kind as tall as he.
He came to a division of the way, and hesitated, for there was no bright white mark such as Arcangelo had made at the higher junctions with his chalky stone. But when Orfeo held his lantern up he saw that there was a mark of a sort, where Falquero must have slashed at the wall with his blade before stumbling on into the darkness.
Orfeo was mildly surprised that the man had continued to run on into the mysterious depths, but Falquero could not have known that the pursuit would be cut off by the collapse of the magical bridge, and must have thought it necessary to go as far as he could before waiting to see who would come after him As Orfeo made his way on and down he felt desperately tired.
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The savage excitement of the fight against Sceberra had drained away now, and its absence left a void in his being. He felt weak, and the wound in his breast was hurting him again, wrenching at him as though the pincers had not quite surrendered their hold.
He came eventually to a place where the shaft widened, and the corridor which the dwarfs had hewn gave way to a natural cavern of some size. This, to his amazement, was not without light, for there was a kind of fungus growing on its wet walls which gave out a slight silvery glow. The floor of the cavern was very uneven, with clusters of humped stalagmites reaching up towards their sleeker counterparts which descended from the roof. In between these clumps was an assortment of loose boulders, all smoothed by the occasional passage of floodwater. There were also shallow pools of water.
It was surprisingly warm here—considerably warmer than the corridors beneath the castle had been. Nor was this a silent realm, for he could hear the fluttering of winged creatures and splashing sounds made by small animals scurrying through shallow water as they fled from his lantern. The boulders and stalagmites were painted with bat- and bird-droppings, dappled yellow and grey, and he could see small reptiles with bright eyes watching him from cracks and crevices. If there were rats here, they seemed not to be here in very great numbers—which might mean that this system of caves was distinct from the one which connected with the noxious pit over which Estevan Sceberra had mantained his jail, and into which it had been the minister's fate to tumble. More likely, though, the rats were simply too discreet and incurious to expose themselves recklessly to the light of his lantern.
Orfeo paused for a while, not knowing which way to go across this strange subterranean landscape, but then he saw a scar made by a sword upon a stalagmite, where the encrusting droppings had been scraped away. He knew then that Falquero had pressed on across the floor of the cavern, and that he had continued to mark the way for anyone who followed. Given this guidance, Orfeo set off to weave his way between the columns of the stony forest.
The light from the ceiling seemed to become brighter as he went on, though it was still faint by comparison with the glow of his candle. Leafless plants grew beside the stagnant pools and around the base of the stalagmites. They were tiny things, for the most 155
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part, some bulbous and some radiating countless rubbery limbs.
There were also creatures like great grey slugs which roamed between the plants with exaggerated slowness, patiently feeding on their meagre flesh.
He had walked for perhaps three hundred yards when he caught sight of the yellow glow of Falquero's lantern reflected from the stalactites, and hurried towards it. Not until he was very close, however, did he catch sight of the two people he sought, in a small semicircular area of bare rock beside a pool of water.
Jacomo Falquero was supine on the ground, his limbs spread wide apart, and at first Orfeo thought that he must have collapsed exhaustedly when the force of the amulet he wore began to decline.
The lady Serafima was crouched over him intently, and at first Orfeo thought that she was tenderly nursing her rescuer, deeply thankful for what he had accomplished in snatching her from the prison where her enemies had confined her for as long as they had confined him in his.
But when he came closer, he realized that that was not what was happening at all.
Jacomo Falquero was bleeding from wounds about his neck which looked as though they had ben inflicted by sharp talons—and the lady Serafima was dabbing her fingers in those bloody wounds, then carrying the blood to her lips, where she licked it off, with apparent relish.
When she heard Orfeo approaching, she lifted up her head, and she smiled.
The smile struck at him like a dagger. That such a pretty face should become so evil with merely a twitch of its muscles seemed to him too horrible to bear.
But then the face changed as its features flowed and altered.
The smile remained as it was, but the prettiness and the semblance of youth vanished completely.
He remembered what Arcangelo had said about protecting his eyes from illusions—but only his own illusions. Not Semjaza's.
This, then, had been Semjaza's illusion, and even Arcangelo had not seen through it.
Suddenly, the obvious amusement of Marsilio diAvila, and his mockingly friendly manner, did not seem quite so odd.
This was not the lady Serafima at all. He was looking into the 156
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lascivious face of Morella d'Arlette.
"Orfeo," she said, in a voice like the purring of a great predatory cat. "I am so very glad that you were not hurt. But what are you doing with such a foolish fellow as this, when I thought you were my friend and darling lover?"
Orfeo felt quite numb, and strangely distant. "It was all a trap,"
he said, hollowly. "Semjaza was alert before we ever set out. He knew exactly where we were from the moment we left the dungeons. Arcangelo thought that all was going to his plan, but he was only making a gift of himself to Semjaza's wrath."
"Poor player," she said. "Did you really think that such as he could ever get the better of usT'
Orfeo shook his head. "I had no choice but to believe him,"
he said, tiredly. "I did not want to reserve myself to Sceberra's tender care—and at least I have seen the end of that particular enemy."
"Have you, now?" said Morella, with a chuc
kle. "I never liked him. He was a stiff and sullen man, even when he played the lover.
He was never truly one of us, you know."
Orfeo could only shake his head.
"But now," she said, standing up and licking one last drop of blood from her forefinger, "everything is settled. That upstart priest can trouble us no more, and we will celebrate Serafima's betrothal to Tomas on the Night of Masks. You must play for us, Orfeo; it will be such a fine occasion, and afterwards—there are possibilities in pleasure which you have never dreamt of, my darling, and it would be a sheer delight for me to show them to you."
"I think not, my lady," he said, drily.
"Then you are wrong," she said, lightly, taking a step towards him. "For if I ask you to come, you cannot refuse me. You do know, Orfeo, that you cannot refuse me. You cannot, because in your heart of hearts, you would rather yield to me than run away—because there is something in your soul which cannot help but respond to my call. It is true, Orfeo, is it not?"
While she spoke she continued to come towards him, staring him in the eyes all the while.
He knew that there was magic in what she did, but he could not tear his gaze away. He could not avoid her stare, and as she spoke he realized that there was indeed something within him 157
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which responded to her, which could not deny her supernatural beauty, which somehow bound him to her like a slave. He had not the power in his conscious mind to reject the magical command which she was impressing upon his soul.
He knew then that if he had the power in his limbs to bring him to the castle at the appointed time, he would be there. He had knowingly let her work magic upon him when they first made love, and there was no way now to resist the demand which she made of him.
She saw it, and she smiled again. "Fear not," she said, "for we will have such pleasure in one another in these next few months that you will not mind at all when the time comes to die. I promise you, you will not mind at all"
