Drawing of the Dark

by Tim Powers

  A certain tune had been building up in the background of his playing, and now he brought it to front and center, giving full rein to the alternately regal and elfin melody. His audience stirred with recognition, so the Irishman began to sing, in the language Fenn had described as 'Gaelic or something'.

  Several German voices joined him, and a moment later several more. But it was an ancient song that had passed through many languages, and soon Fenn was roaring English lyrics, and Vertot's Frenchmen were singing along in a minor key that reflected the main theme and was almost a mirror image of it, convex to concave.

  Before long the room thundered with the song, and many of the men had got to their feet to give their lungs fuller play, and the interweaving polyglot chorus set the fancy glass beer pitchers rattling musically on their high shelf.

  The Irishman wrung stronger chords from the instrument as the song neared its crest, and then, just as it did, the bells heralding eight o'clock mass began ringing in the tower of St Stephen's. The song reached crescendo gracefully, effortlessly taking in the pealing of the bells as accompaniment; and a moment later a deep, window-rattling bass was provided by rumbling cannon-fire from the city walls.

  After whipping the tail end of the melody through a couple of unnecessary flourishes Duffy handed the harp back to Fenn. All the men were on their feet now, clapping and cheering, and Duffy bowed and made his way back to his table.

  His eyes looked a bit haunted and scared, but nobody noticed it. 'That was good,' pronounced Stein. 'After twelve days of being cooped up within these walls, the men tend to lose heart. Music like that gives it back to them.'

  'And you can fight too, from what I hear,' Vertot commented. 'Yes, you have picked a good man to be your lieutenant, Eilif.'

  The cannon-fire was not followed by the alarum bells, so they knew Bluto was just sending a few balls arcing through the night to remind the Turks he was there. More beer was poured, and the evening proceeded noisily but uneventfully. After a while someone complained of the draft, and the windows were closed again.

  A couple of hours later Eilif and Duffy were staggering back toward the barracks. 'Grab as much sleep as you can,' Eilif advised. 'We've got this meeting to go to tomorrow morning.'

  'Meeting! What meeting?'

  'Never mind. I'll have one of the lads dump a bucket of water over you when the time come's.'

  'Make it beer.'

  'Right. A malty baptism. Say, when did you learn to play the harp.'

  Duffy stared at the Street, which seemed to be rocking in front of him. 'I never did,' he said. 'I never did.'

  The second hour after dawn found Eilif and Duffy, both dressed fairly respectably, striding up the Rotenturmstrasse. The sky was overcast and the air was chilly, and the Irishman pulled the gauntlets of his gloves up over his tunic sleeves,

  'How are we doing for time ?' he asked, his breath steaming.

  'We're a bit early - I don't think Stein had left yet when we did. Von Salm will probably be late anyway, to show us that he isn't impressed by our position. I think we can make a good case, though - and you just nod and look determined at whatever I say, got it?'

  'Certainly,' Duffy agreed airily, though privately resolving to speak up if he should want to. They turned left, and soon he could see their destination, several blocks ahead.

  The Zimmermann Inn stood at the wall end of the Tuchlauben in the north section of the city, a good half mile from the actual focus of the Turkish offensive, and something very like Vienna's normal daily life still went on here. No soldiers trooped by, the streets were free of rubble and charred lumber and masonry-scarred cannon balls, and the west wind kept the smoke away; it was possible to imagine, seeing the usual milkmaids and beggars, that there were not seventy-five thousand Turks only three miles to the south.

  The place looked, in fact, just as it had five months ago when he'd seen it, and he couldn't suppress a reflexive home-at-last feeling. He had to remind himself that this was also the home of a sorcerer whose goal it was to drive him literally out of his head.

  And it's also Epiphany's home, he thought, my old girl-friend who, until I finally left here, had got to the point of bursting into tears every time she saw me. The Irishman had a tendency to let long-standing guilt dry out into annoyance, and it had happened in his dealings with Mrs Hallstadt. Why do women have to be that way, he wondered impatiently. Very well, I did let her down, broke a promise - admit it! But do you suppose a man would let something like that sour the rest of his life? Hah! Why, you could show me the Nine Virgins of Luxor this minute, all of them naked and beckoning, and spirit them away from me a minute later, and a cup of wine would clear me of the tragedy. And it's been five months, after all. Hell, maybe she has got over me by now.

  He strode on more cheerfully then, ignoring a faint, uneasy suspicion that he bad not quite honestly assessed Epiphany's feelings, nor his own.

  Eilif led the way up to the step and pulled open the front door. They stepped through the vestibule and entered the dining room, where a couple of captains already sat at a long table by the windows. From a corner of his eye Duffy noticed Lothario Mothertongue sitting by himself at a table in the far corner. I see nothing's changed, he thought - except that Lothario is looking a bit more haggard. But so are we all.

  'Good morning, lads,' Eilif greeted. 'This is my second-in-command, Brian Duffy. Brian, this is Fernando Villanueva of Aragon, and Franz Lainzer of the Tyrol.'

  Duffy nodded as he sat down, and the Spaniard smiled. 'I enjoyed your harping last night,' he said. 'You must play for us all once again before the walls come down.'

  'I'm not sure that gives enough time,' replied Duffy with a grin. 'I have to have drunk a huge quantity of beer to do it, and Suleilman's likely to have the wall down by mid-day.'

  'Then you'd certainly better start now,' Villanueva decided 'Ho, someone in the kitchen there! Beer for our musical friend! And for the rest of us, too!'

  Eilif was looking out the window, which had been repaired with clear glass after Bobo's passage through it. 'Several people coming,' he said.

  Behind him the kitchen door swung open, and Epiphany came walking across to the table, carrying a tray with a pitcher of beer and a half dozen mugs on it. Duffy averted his eyes uncomfortably, reflecting that she looked both older and dearer. Then she saw him - he heard a gasp, and a moment later a clatter and splash as the tray hit the floor. He looked up in time to see her run, weeping, back into the kitchen. Mothertongue got up from his seat and

  hurried after her.

  The Spaniard blinked in astonishment. 'She obviously disapproves of drinking in the morning, ' he said. 'Ho, miss! Landlord! Anyone! We don't intend to Lap it up off the floor like cats!'

  After several moments Werner appeared at the kitchen door, his eyebrows raised in impatient inquiry. Then he saw the foamy puddle on the floor. 'Epiphany did that?' he asked of no one in particular. 'This is positively the last! Anna,' he called over his shoulder, 'don't you go look for her. She just ran off because she spilled all this beer, and knows what I'll do this time - which is sack the lushy bitch!' He disappeared back into the kitchen.

  'It's Vertot,' said Eilif, who'd been ignoring the noise and was still watching the street. 'Aha! And von Salm right behind. He's punctual - a good sign! Sit tight, lads, this is where we straighten everything out.'

  Well, Duffy thought bitterly, perhaps not quite everything.

  Epiphany did not reappear during the meeting, in which Duffy found he could take no great interest. Anna served beer and sausage, giving the Irishman occasional glances of angry reproach.

  Damn it, he thought during a long statement by the elegantly dressed and bearded von Salm, it wasn't my fault. Was that any way for the old girl to go on, after all this time? It must have been affectation, a pose - surely

  Anna can see that! Hell, no romantic reverse ever gave me more than a week's upset...

  Oh? spoke up sarcastically another part of his mind. Then I guess it must hav
e been some other Irishman that went off to fight the Turks at Mohács in 'twenty-six, just because his girl married another man; it took him three years to face her again.

  .isn't that right, Brian? Or would you say I've overstated the case?' Eilif was eyeing him expectantly.

  Duffy raised his head, letting his frown of worry look, he hoped, like one of grim determination. 'There was no exaggeration in what you said,' he told Eilif.

  The Swiss turned again to von Salm. 'Hear? And that from a man who fought with Tomori! You can't deny...' And the discussion swam again out of the Irishman's focus of attention. Despite a vow he'd made at dawn, he was doing more than his share of putting away the beer.

  At last the captains were pushing the benches back and standing up.

  'As a limited representative of Emperor Charles V, that is all I can offer to add,' von Salm said. 'You can be sure, though, that when the Turks are driven off-assuming you landsknechten maintain your present level of performance - I will vehemently recommend a fuller payment for you all.'

  The captains nodded and broke up into conversing groups, having evidently got as much as they'd hoped for.

  Eilif turned to the Irishman. 'Heading back, Duff?'

  'Uh...no.' Duffy grimaced at the kitchen door. 'No, I've got to settle a thing or two.'

  'Well, I'll see you back there.' The grizzled Swiss

  - captain grinned at him. 'Don't give it all more worry than it's worth, lad.'

  Duffy shrugged. 'I forget what it's worth.'

  * * *

  Chapter Seventeen

  He found her in the flour-dusty storeroom, sitting on a keg of salt and sobbing so convulsively that it looked as if a pack of invisible dogs was mauling her.

  'Epiphany?'

  She turned a tear-streaked face up toward him, then looked away, crying harder than before. 'Why did you come back?' she asked finally. 'Just to make me lose this job?'

  'Hey, Piff,' Duffy said. 'Don't cry. Werner can't fire you; it's Aurelianus who owns the place, and I've still got influence with him. Hell, I'll tell him to give you a raise.

  'Don't,' the old woman choked, 'mention the name ...of that little snake.'

  'What little snake?' Duffy asked, bewildered. 'Aurelianus?'

  'Yes. He's the one that put... some kind of filthy spell on you, to make you indifferent and cold toward me. Ohhh.' She went off into howls of grief again.

  Duffy considered it unfair of her to switch the subject around like that. 'It's Werner we're talking about,' he said. 'And I'll see to it that he behaves himself in the future.'

  'What do I care about the future?' Epiphany moaned. 'I have no future. I'm counting the hours until the Turks cut down the wails and knock my head off.' Duffy guessed she'd said that last sentence so often lately that she didn't

  even bother to get the verbs in the right order anymore. 'I haven't even seen my father in two weeks,' she said brokenly. 'I simply intended to abandon him when you and I left.. .and now, remembering that, I just can't face him anymore!'

  'Good Lord,' Duffy said. 'Who's bringing him food, then?'

  'What? (sniff) Oh, I've got Shrub doing it.' She looked up at him blearily. 'Brian, if you do talk to that horrible Aurelianus, could you have him speak to Werner about my brandy? I've always been in the habit of having just a sip before I go to bed and when I get up in the morning, to help me work, you know, but now Werner insults me and says I can't have any, so I have to sneak it when no one's looking, which is so degrading. As if Werner ever does any work himself - he's always hidden away talking to that damned poet friend of his. Talk to him about it, Brian. You'll do at least that for me, won't you?'

  The Irishman stared at her thoughtfully. Is this a gambit, he wondered, a story to make me feel properly guilty? Oh, Brian, look, you've driven me to drink, you heartless wretch. Is that what I'm supposed to understand?

  My God, he thought suddenly, listen to yourself, Duffy. You are a heartless wretch. This old girl was quietly happy here until you showed up and made crazy promises to her that you couldn't keep. You have driven hereto drink.

  He reached out a hesitant hand and lightly squeezed her shoulder. 'I'll talk to him,' he said softly, and left the room.

  Anna was in the kitchen, and looked up when, simultaneously, Duffy appeared from the storeroom and Mothertongue stepped in from the yard.

  'Where is - ' both men began at once.

  'After you, sir,' said Mothertongue.

  Thank you. Anna, where is Werner?'

  'The same place he was before all the racket and weeping brought him out here a few minutes ago: his private wine cellar.' As the Irishman turned in the direction she'd pointed, she added, 'I wouldn't just barge in; that poet Kretchmer's in there with him - they're writing an epic or something, and won't have interruptions.'

  'They'll have one,' Duffy predicted, walking on.

  Behind him he heard Mothertongue ask, 'Where did Mrs Hallstadt go? She isn't out in the yard.'

  'She's in the storeroom,' replied Anna tiredly.

  Duffy paused and looked over his shoulder at Mother-tongue, who, facing the storeroom door, had paused to look back at him. The two men stared at each other for a second or two, then thoughtfully resumed moving in their separate directions.

  The Irishman had never been in Werner's wine cellar, but he knew it was tucked under the main stairs, a step or two below floor level, and in a moment he stood before the low door, his hand raised to knock. Before he did, Though, it occurred to him that there was no reason to be polite - so he just grabbed the latch and yanked the door open.

  The low-ceilinged room beyond was perhaps twelve feet long by eight wide, and bottles, casks and amphorae cluttered the shelves from floor to ceiling, softly lit by a lamp on the small table in the middle of the floor. Two men who had been sitting at the table had now sprung halfway up from their chairs, startled by Duffy's entrance, and he stared at both of them.

  Werner was a bit heavier than Duffy remembered him, and his unusually fine clothes only served to set off the powdered pallor of his face and the gray in his oiled hair. Kretchmer was a tougher-looking man, his face tanned behind a startling red beard, but he was the one who seemed most upset.

  'Ach! the poet exclaimed in a high, hoarse voice, staring nervously at the Irishman's feet. 'Common ruffians interrupt the sacred labors! A man of bloody hands intrudes into Aphrodite's very grove! I must avaunt!' He edged past Duffy, eyes still downcast, and hurried away down the hail.

  Werner resumed his seat and threw up his hands. 'Can art not be wrought without all these mundane distractions?'

  Duffy stared at him. 'What?'

  Werner took a deep breath, then let it out. 'Never mind, Duffy. What do you want?'

  The Irishman looked at the littered table and picked up a little wooden whistle that had only one fingerhole. 'Don't tell me: you're composing a musical High Mass.' He blew through it, but failed to get any audible note. 'I'd recommend a new pitch-pipe.'

  Werner got up from the table and, with much suppressed wincing, limped around the table and snatched the whistle from Duffy's hand, then just as awkwardly returned to his chair. 'Was there something you wanted to say, or are you just bored?'

  Duffy started to ask about the innkeeper's injuries, then remembered why he'd come.

  'I want to tell you that you can't fire Epiphany Vogel. You -'

  'I can do as I please in my place.'

  The Irishman smiled arid sat down in Kretchmer's chair. 'That's the crux of it, all right. How is it that you keep forgetting this isn't your place? Aurelianus owns it, and he's an old friend of mine. He won't -'You've been gone half a year. I don't think he's a friend of yours anymore. And in any case,' he added with sudden heat, 'I run this place, damn you! I have my finger on the pulse at all times. He listens to me when it comes to operating the inn. Do you think he could do it himself, without me? No sir! The little old -'

  Duffy laughed. 'Finger on the pulse? I like that! This place must be able to run itself,
for as I recall you're hardly ever on the premises. You're always over at the house of that caricature of a poet. Hell, I remember Easter night, when Zapolya nearly blew this inn to bits - and you hadn't even heard of it the next morning! You were over at his place.. .quoting Petrarch and kissing Kretchmer's boots, I expect...'

  Oddly, a sly look had sprung up in the innkeeper's eyes. 'Well.. .it wasn't exactly his boots.'

  The Irishman squinted at him. 'What the hell do you mean?'

  'Well, if you must know, Kretchmer wasn't home that night - but his wife was.' Werner smirked. 'His marvellously young and attractive wife, I might add.'

  Duffy was genuinely puzzled. 'Do you mean to tell me his wife.. .and you...?'

  'I say nothing!' exclaimed Werner, still smirking. 'I merely observe that sensitive, pretty young ladies tend to be swayed by the sort of verse I write. Swayed to an astonishing degree.' He actually winked.

  Duffy stood up, somewhat surprised and disgusted.

  Swayed right over to horizontal, I gather. Where was Kretchmer when all this wonderful stuff was going on?

  Over here swigging the new bock, I suppose.'

  'Possibly. I only know she gave me to understand he'd not be back until morning, at the soonest.'

  if you'll excuse me,' Duffy said, waving at the papers on the table, 'I'll leave you to your epic now, and - vacate poor Aphrodite's grove. But Epiphany still works here, do you understand? And she's permitted to keep a bottle of brandy in her room. I'll have Aurelianus trot down presently and confirm it for you.' He walked to the door and turned around. 'You know, you'd better be careful. Have you taken a good look at the shoulders on that Kretchmer fellow? Damned wide, for a poet. He could rip you to hash.'

  The powdered innkeeper chuckled confidently. 'I am not physically unfit. In fact, I have consistently beaten him at arm-wrestling.'