Zaragoz

by Brian Craig

  "This greater world does not care at all about the things which occupy our little minds. All our dreams and follies are the merest nonsense to the eye which looks upon that world. Our conflicts are all absurd: diAvila and Quixana, Good and Evil, Law and Confusion—what can they matter? What significance can possibly be in them? It does not matter which side a man is on, Master Player. It does not matter whether he favours justice against malice, or love against hate, or the so-called Gods of Law against the so-called Gods of Chaos. The truth is that chaos is everything, and that order is but a little accident, which happens here or there 175

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  for the briefest instant, and then is lost as if it had never been.

  "My friend, there is but one quest a man can have which makes anything of him at all, and that is to reach out into the greater world beyond our own, and draw upon its power to transform himself and—if he becomes wise enough and powerful enough—to transform the world.

  "Tonight, you will see the people of Zaragoz put masks upon their faces, pretending to be other than they are—and at midnight they will take off those masks, thinking that they are revealing their true selves. You and I know that they are fools to think that their masks can possibly hide what they really are, and to think that their own faces are anything but masks of pretence. I am the one man in this realm who has abandoned his mask, to show his real face—which is not mine alone, but the faceof truth, the face of real existence.

  "In the coy stories which you tell of men who treat with daemons you roll your eyes and babble about the unspeakable and the unnameable, but I know that you have heard the name of Chaos, and that you are not really too frightened to speak it aloud. You know that my magic draws upon the power of Chaos, and have felt it—just as you have felt the power of Morella d'Arlette. You are afraid of the power, and rightly so, but you need not be afraid if only you can grasp the truth.

  "Put crude thoughts of good and evil out of your mind, and try to move beyond such silly ways of thinking—beyond even thoughts of order and chaos. In the true way of seeing, the authentic excitement of existence lies not in the feeding of the animal appetites but in reaching beyond the petty stupidities of ordinary life, in feeling the awesomeness of the greater world, and in bringing just a little of the intoxication of that greater existence into the narrow confines of our lesser one."

  Semjaza sank back into his chair as the high pitch of his excitement ebbed away. His bright eyes were fixed upon Orfeo's face, and Orfeo did not know how to reply. He wanted to conceal what he really thought, which was that he believed this strange view of things to be wrong and perverse, but he dared not tell a bald lie, for he knew that Semjaza could identify such lies.

  In the end, he said: "But there is power in Law as well as its opposite. You may have defeated Arcangelo here, as he said you 176

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  once did in Gualcazar, but still he had power, and perhaps it was, in the end, only his cleverness which proved unequal to your own."

  Semjaza seemed annoyed by this reply, which was certainly not the kind of speech he had hoped to elicit. "Perhaps you are not so intelligent after all," he said, "if you could not see what lay behind the masquerade of a priest of Law."

  That was not the reply which Orfeo had expected, either, and he started in astonishment when he realized what Semjaza meant.

  "Do you tell me that Arcangelo was not a priest of Law?"

  "He was a priest of Law once," answered the sorcerer. "He trusted in the power of Law to keep the lady Serafima safe in Gualcazar, but it failed him. He saw then that if he was to take her back, he must find greater powers than that to aid him. I knew it when he escaped from the prison I had placed him in, for there was only one way out of that prison—and that was downwards, into the darkest recesses of the crag. The forces which lurk in those depths are not devoted to the cause of Law."

  Orfeo looked bleakly down at the wizard, trying to fathom his unhuman expression. "He went to make a pact with your own daemons!" he said. "He sold his soul in the hope that he would buy Serafima Quixana's freedom—and was betrayed!"

  Semjaza made a disgusted noise. "If you would put it in the terms of your silly stories, yes! Arcangelo knew full well that he could not fight power such as mine without drawing from the same source. If you must think in terms of scrolls signed in blood, then he set his seal to some such contract. But your story-teller's language is only a mask set to hide a subtler truth. He tried to draw upon the power of Chaos, as do I—but he had not my knowledge or my skill. In five years he sought to outstrip me, but in the meantime, I had gone farther than he. He was fortunate not to be torn apart by the forces which he sought to control, as others have been, but he squandered his good fortune in trying to turn his new-won power against a master of the art. Did you really think that his tricks were gifts from the gods of Law?"

  "Yes," admitted Orfeo, "I did. I heard his cry on behalf of justice, and I felt that it rang true. I allied myself with him in order to be released from my prison, but also because I felt that his cause had Tightness in it. I am sorry to be told that I was wrong." But he did not deny what Semjaza had told him, for though he had 177

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  not the wizard's power to detect a lie when he was told one, there seemed a certain dreadful likelihood in this account.

  "I told you once before," said Semjaza, "not to confuse justice with Law. Arcangelo was not consistent in his pretences, and you should have seen through them. Like so many men, he had begun to confuse justice with his own self-interest and his own ambition.

  His determination to save the lady Serafima may once have been real, but in the end it was simply the mask which his hatred wore.

  Marsilio and his son mean no harm to the lady, and a loveless marriage is a small price to pay for an end to the hatreds which have torn this realm apart for centuries."

  But when this man says 'no harm thought Orfeo, he does not count it harm that she will be brought into the untender clutches of those forces which he thinks he controls, and which may in fact control him.

  "Perhaps," said Orfeo, pensively, "there is nothing which can be made of a man like me, after all."

  Semjaza only smiled, and said: "If that is true, then I must abandon you to Morella's tender mercies. And if it is true that all that you value in life is pleasant meat and the tuneful measures of the dance, perhaps you will not be sorry to have a taste of ecstasy before she tires of you or consumes you with the heat of her passion.

  But when the time comes to choose, Master Story-teller, remember that there is one in Zaragoz more powerful by far than your greedy mistress or her playful duke!"

  "Acccording to your own account," riposted the player, "the thing to remember is that Zaragoz is but a tiny rut in a greater world, where there are powers which could crush us all without deigning to notice our passing. Arcangelo sought to stir those powers into violent action, and was willing to sacrifice his life as well as his soul to do it. I do not think, my lord Magician, that you are as sure of your victory as you claim to be."

  For a brief second, there was something dreadful to be seen in Semjaza's white-rimmed eyes—as though a shadow had passed behind them. But the direction of the sorcerer's gaze never shifted, and his composure was quickly recovered.

  "Arcangelo is dead," said Semjaza, flatly. "All that he achieved was to activate a protective spell within the walls of this house, which has only power to save and not to harm. Sceberra is dead, 178

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  but we have a hundred who can fill his shoes, and his spies are rooting out all those who were moved to a spirit of rebellion by rumours of the prophet's ciy and the murder of Theo Calvi. The betrothal of Tomas diAvila and Serafima Quixana will be announced this evening. All is well in Zaragoz, and so it shall remain."

  But in his head, Orfeo heard other words, as though from the lips of a dead man, which said: "If justice cannot come again to Zaragoz, then Zaragoz is doomedr

  Whether that was t
rue or not, he was sure of one lie that Semjaza had told. The sorcerer had lied when he said that he was the only man in Zaragoz to wear his true face. That shadow in his eyes, however fleeting, had betrayed him. His monstrous appearance was but one more mask—and behind that dreadful mask, fear still lurked, unconquered and unhealed.

  It was not until he descended to the garden that Orfeo realized how foul the air had been in that room where Semjaza sat.

  It surprised him to recall how quickly he had ceased to notice the odour of the wizard's breath once he had been exposed to it.

  Was it, he wondered, the same with evil? Did a man cease to notice the horror of what he did when it became familiar to him, and a matter of custom? Or was Semjaza right to say that the notion of evil was simply a meaningless phantom conjured out of men's fears of being hurt?

  There was a saying in the Empire, he recalled, that vanity in excess was an invitation to destruction. Semjaza's dealings with the powers which he sought to command might be more reckless than he imagined. But the wisdom of sayings and fables was simply one more aspect of that wisdom of lore and legend which the wizard affected to despise—and which even Orfeo, in his heart of hearts, found it difficult to trust.

  Orfeo found the invention of stories and pretty turns of phrase far too easy to put much faith in the ones which others had made.

  While he was immersed in this turbulent sea of thought he went to stare out over the low stone wall which flanked the garden, looking down at the roofs of the houses in the town and the fields laid out between the city wall and the Eboro.

  From this vantage-point the realm did not seem so very large, 179

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  and the people in the streets were so tiny they might have been ants. How much tinier they must seem from the High Tower on the peak, from which Marsilio diAvila and his wizard could look down upon them! But that tininess, he knew, was only apparent.

  The common people too were human beings, with the same needs, the same appetites and the same illusions as their aristocratic masters—even some of the same petty vanities. Tonight, all would wear masks and costumes, rejoicing in the temporary freedom of setting aside their identities...but when they took away the masks, they would still be the same people.

  Semjaza's arguments, he decided, were nothing more than a mask which evil wore, which could not really conceal it, and which ultimately must be set aside, when the appointed hour came.

  "Zaragoz is doomed!" he whispered, echoing again Arcangelo's defiant cry.

  But he could not believe that, either, for the wisdom of lore and legend said clearly enough that a nation like Zaragoz would always be the same while its people could find no better way to live than to spill their blood in ceaseless wrangling over the fate of its shabby crown.

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  Chapter Fourteen

  That evening, at sunset, Orfeo rode with Rodrigo Cordova's party up the winding road which led to the castle gate. Rodrigo had five servants in attendance, including the steward Cristoforo—all masked, as convention demanded, though they would play little part in the actual festivities, save to fetch and carry for their master.

  The lady Marguerite rode at her son's left hand, so that he was on the side where the sheer slopes fell away. Rodrigo had left his house in the charge of a dozen men-at-arms, who were instructed by him to be on guard and in readiness—though he could not say for what.

  The party merged with others into an endless procession whose torches and lanterns made a lighted spiral around the upper part of the crag, drawing the noble blood of Zaragoz from all the houses which comprised the heart of the realm. Orfeo was one of very few common men on horseback; servants rarely had mounts of their own. There were but a handful of carriages on the road—perhaps because of the steepness of the hill, but more probably because the noblemen loved to let their horses parade and prance within the throng.

  The servants in the crowd wore plain black masks which covered only their eyes. The gentler folk were by no means so minimal in their observation of the ritual of concealment; they wore full 181

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  faces which were brightly-painted and sometimes studded with ornaments, and broad hats or scarves to cover their hair, so that only their eyes remained to say who they were. Some of the masks were smiling, others sternly impassive, but it seemed to Orfeo that the more such false faces sought to conceal by their size and prettiness, the more they actually revealed about their wearers.

  Whispers passed ceaselessly back and forth through the crowd as servants pointed excitedly at every fine display, and put a name to the person behind each mask.

  There were many fanciful tales of the Night of Masks told in Bretonnia. Most were variants of a single plot, in which curious alliances and romantic attachments were made because kings and dukes were mistaken for commoners and serving-maids for women of quality—alliances and attachments which triumphantly withstood the test of unmasking. Orfeo saw that in Zaragoz no one but a fool could be so confused. Masked as they were, the servants were still servants and the nobles still their masters—it was in their bearing as well as the quality of their clothing, and there were no strangers here who could mingle unsuspected with the crowd. In the streets of a great city like Magritta it might be different, but in the little walled town at the foot of this hollow crag the shopkeepers and the artisans knew one another only too well, and kept their proper distance from the peasants, as they always did.

  The space within the castle walls was lighted by candles and lanterns attached to every vertical surface, so that the gloomy terraces which had confronted Orfeo during his fateful ascent to the High Tower were utterly transformed, into a scene far more delightful to the eye. While the horses were led to the stables—which would be crowded on this night as on no other—the people gradually filled up the pavements which extended from the western tower to the eastern. There were too many to fit comfortably into the Grand Hall, but that space would be reserved for the highly-organized dancing of the nobles, while their more numerous servants would find opportunities for their own casual performances out of doors.

  Seven players, in addition to Orfeo, had been summoned to the castle to play for the dancers, including three pipers and two drummers. While the early part of the festivities—devoted to eating 182

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  and drinking—took their course it was the Duke's pipers and lute-players who took turns to play in the Grand Hall, while Orfeo mingled with the crowd in the courtyard, awaiting his summons.

  Though his pale smiling mask covered his face completely Orfeo was recognized wherever he went. Accounts of his duel with Sceberra had been widely circulated, and it was plain that neither servants nor men-at-arms could understand why he was free to walk among them. The paradox made them uneasy, and the crowd parted ahead of his path to let him pass. Beneath the unease, however, there was an undercurrent of admiration—the minister had been the most feared man in the kingdom, and there were many even among the innocent who were not sorry to know that he was dead.

  Orfeo ate little, drank less, and kept to his own company. This was a night for making assignations, but his was already made and though it was one that he could not relish, he was not free to make another. He had seen Morella d'Arlette briefly, in close company with Marsilio diAvila; she was dressed in scarlet, fiery with a jewelled mask, while he was in black and grey, ostentatious in his calculated sobriety. The sorceress had measured him with the barest of glances before turning to her conversation, but he knew that he was merely put away until later.

  He had seen Semjaza too, in unexpected finery, with silver thread spun into confusing webs and whorls against a backcloth of black silk—but the magician's mask was shaped in the semblance of a grinning skull, hardly less horrid than the face beneath.

  When the dining-tables had all been moved back, arrayed against the inner walls of the Hall, preparing the floor for the dance, the Duke's steward came to find Orfeo and bid him do his duty. As Orfeo walked across
the terrace to the doors of the Hall he was uncomfortably aware that every eye was upon him. Just as a path had opened before him while he walked in the courtyard, so the gap behind him closed now as the crowd drifted towards the doors to watch the dancing within.

  Orfeo consulted briefly with one of the pipers and one of the drummers, who declared themselves more expert than the rest in the music which was suited to the new dancing. The piper was a traveller like himself, who had been in southern Bretonnia.

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  began, with a formation-dance whose paces were trod as prettily by the nobility of Zaragoz as any other company which he had seen. He saw, though, that the gaiety and ease which had been obvious in Rodrigo Cordova's house were missing. The location, the occasion, and the fact that the present assembly had five or six times the number of the earlier one, combined to make the dancers stiffer and more precise in their movements. While they concentrated on the neatness of their steps, the possibility of true enjoyment was lost to them. Orfeo did not like that, and determined that the energy and passion of his music should loosen their manner a little, even if it could not entirely swallow them up.

  With this limited objective in mind, he applied himself to his playing, and soon found the force of the music taking hold of his own heart and soul, so that the other matters which hung heavy on his mind were gradually brought into neglect. When he led the throng in the first line-dance, winding them around and around the Hall to mimic the sinuous movements of a lazy snake, he gradually increased the tempo of his playing and the vigour of his prancing, so that what started as a mere stately walk accelerated by degrees into a canter—and whenever the company reached what seemed to be a climax and an end he moved smoothly into another round, extending the dance to twice its normal duration, and then to three times, deliberately bringing their excitement to a far higher pitch than they had prepared for.