FSF Magazine, February 2007

by Spilogale Authors

  It was from a chance remark of one of the thieves that I first learned of a chamber deep below the palace, a lead-lined vault locked and sealed and barricaded behind a wall of rubble. To it there existed only one key, and that key remained always in the bishop's possession. When I pressed the thief, he would say no more. I knew him to be a man of great daring, yet when I questioned him about the chamber he grew hesitant and evasive. He assured me that it was no more than an idle tale and urged me to dismiss it from my mind.

  My curiosity was aroused. No one else in the household had ever made reference to this chamber. Only from an old servant, and at the cost of many tedious hours, did I draw out an account of the chamber and its contents.

  Since long before the bishop's time, the vault had been a repository for books of an abominable nature, books so steeped in evil that they were beyond the power of man to destroy. To bury them in the ground would blight the earth; to drown them in the sea would poison the waters; the smoke of their burning would kill every living thing. All this the old servant told me, in fearful whispers.

  I thought it wise to profess disbelief, and even to scoff at his tale. Inwardly I became obsessed by the thought of such power resting under my feet in this very palace. I had to possess it.

  Thanks to the bishop's tutelage I had become as skilled a reader as any clerk. Now I had a purpose for that skill. Desire to find that chamber, to hold those forbidden books in my hands and glean their wisdom, overmastered me.

  I revealed my intention to no one. I knew the value of stealth and patience, and my purpose demanded both in great measure. I knew the palace cellars well, and after much diligent searching I located the chamber. To the unsuspecting eye it was no more than a pile of rubble heaped against a wall, but when I dug, I unearthed a locked iron door, icy to my touch. The chamber was real.

  Still I was forced to bide my time. I replaced the concealing rubble and waited. I observed the bishop closely, and eventually I learned where he concealed the key. One night when all the rest slept I entered the vault.

  A dead and penetrating cold enveloped me the moment I entered, and a surge of fear nearly overcame me. But I could not turn back, not when those forbidden volumes lay within my reach. My hand trembled as I raised my lantern and scanned the shelves of that cold silent room. Those ancient volumes whispered a promise of power beyond imagining.

  I saw books and scrolls of widely varied shapes and sizes. They numbered something more than a hundred. No two were alike. Some of the books were bound in plates of gold embedded with precious stones; others had simple leather covers free of all adornment. Some, I believe, were bound in human flesh. The scrolls too varied in size, from slim as a finger and scarcely longer to the length and thickness of a man's arm.

  All these observations I made in great haste. I knew that I must act quickly. Time was limited and my courage was all but gone. I might never have the opportunity of a second visit, even if I dared it. The room grew ever colder, and my fear increased as the cold gripped my spirit. I had only the strength and will to snatch a few volumes and conceal them in some safe place where I might return to study them at leisure.

  But many were too heavy to lift; others were sealed by intricate locks or were in languages I could not read. A few shrank from my touch like live things. Terror possessed me completely. I seized a single scroll and fled in panic from the chamber.

  I have never again known such fear as I felt that night. In a cold sweat, trembling, my heart racing, I cowered in a far alcove until I had recovered. And then a change came over me. As if burned out of me by the cold, all fear vanished forever. Never again would I fear anything on this Earth. I still could sense the fear in others, but I did not share it.

  Emboldened, I returned to reseal the room and replace the stones that concealed the entrance. When all signs of my visit had been removed, I returned to my chamber and collapsed in utter exhaustion.

  When I read the scroll, I found that I had chosen well. It contained a malediction that I might invoke three times to destroy my enemies.

  Had I remained in the bishop's palace I might have revisited that chamber and learned much more, but like so many good men, the bishop died in the prime of life, his health broken by years of sacrifice and self-denial. The new bishop was a very different man. He found many of the household unsuitable, myself among them. When I left the palace, the scroll remained behind. Its contents had long been fixed in my memory. Whether it has yet begun to corrupt the soil around its place of concealment, I neither know nor care. I had learned enough.

  * * * *

  The old bishop admonished me repeatedly to speak only good of the dead. He also urged me to speak the truth. I am therefore in a dilemma about how to refer to my next master, a wealthy merchant. His home was a treasure vault and a prison. He was false to God and men, cruel without cause, and now he is dead.

  His death was mysterious and to those who were present, terrifying. It was the first test of my knowledge from the vault; a squandering of power, perhaps—the malediction could now be used but twice more—but a reassuring proof of its efficacy.

  It was the master's habit to lock the door of his sleeping chamber against thieves and enemies. His bodyguard, a giant mute named Orso who could kill a man with one blow, always slept before the door. On the night of the master's death, all in the household were awakened by his shrill cries and the sound of a violent struggle. Another voice could be heard within the room, and while none could agree on the language it spoke, all agreed on the terror it inspired in them. The door could not be opened, and resisted all Orso's efforts to break it down. Yet at dawn it swung wide, and those who entered saw a sight that sickened them. The master's blood spattered walls and floor, and his body lay torn and rent as if by the claws of a great beast. Little remained of his face but the eyes, which were fixed in a look of horror.

  I was pleased at these results. Now I knew the power of the malediction. Two uses remained, and I resolved to use them prudently.

  I recount what I was told, for I was not present at the master's death. I had planned carefully. It occurred on a night when two other servants and I were away on an errand of some importance. My role in his death was never suspected.

  The master's sudden passing caused great disorder in the household. Another servant and I took the opportunity to fill our pockets and set out on our own.

  * * * *

  My education now took a different turn. I already knew how difficult the world is for one whom others consider fair game for their sport. I had acquired a powerful defense, but could not employ it lightly.

  Now I learned simpler ways that a man, though misshapen and lacking a protector, can be a match for the strong.

  My companion Giulio and I lived for a time on our late master's ducats and when they were gone, by theft. We might have continued in this manner until we were hanged, but the unfortunate lad had a hot temper. He died in a foolish brawl. With him fell two others, one of them a member of a troupe of traveling players. I saw an opportunity. The very next day I joined their company.

  The bishop had instructed me in rhetoric and logic, and trained my memory. I was skilled in dispute and ready in repartee. From fellow servants I had learned to juggle and become something of an acrobat. My talents improved with practice, and with my addition, the company prospered. My lot improved. I had no need to call upon my darker power. I knew how to use a weapon and had companions who would come to my aid. I had money in my purse, and could purchase meat and drink and the companionship of women who treated me, for a time, as a man like all others. But the world held more, and I meant to have my full share.

  One night, at a taverna that welcomed players and charged them dearly for the privilege of drinking poor wine and eating worse food, a man in elegant but somber dress entered into conversation with me. I was wary, as one must always be of strangers, especially those who are clearly superior to the surrounding company; but he was well groomed and well spoken, and spent freely. I anti
cipated some profit in listening to him. We discussed commonplaces for a time, and since I am aware that people do not speak to me out of kindliness or fellow-feeling, I grew impatient for him to broach the subject that had brought him into my company. At last he asked, “Do you like the life of a traveler?"

  "I have little choice,” I replied.

  "Life in a great household is more comfortable and rewarding."

  "I am certain it is. And it is better to be rich than poor.” He smiled and nodded, and when he did not speak, I went on, “What great household would welcome me, sir? Good men cross themselves at sight of me, and women miscarry. If I tend animals, they pine away. Put me in the kitchen and the milk will sour. Stand me by the fire and it burns blue and stinks of sulphur. I have heard all the jokes others make at my expense, sir, and require none from you."

  His placid expression did not change. He lifted his palms in a pacifying gesture. “I do not joke. I offer a possibility."

  "Offer it, then."

  "You might be a powerful man's jester. You have the necessary skills."

  "You are polite, sir. Whatever I do, I am already a jest to all who see me."

  "Commoners and rabble,” he said. “They toss you a few pennies and then curse themselves for spendthrifts. Your skills are wasted on them. A great man's fool eats good food and sleeps in a soft bed. He wears fine clothes. He has a protector. A good master can reward you generously if you please him."

  "And where am I to find this benefactor?"

  He smiled a tight, satisfied smile, like one who holds the answer to a child's riddle. “In the palazzo that lies not half an hour's walk from this inn, on the grand piazza of the city. My master's fool was killed in a quarrel among the servants, and he seeks a man to replace him."

  "I have no wish to be stabbed by some angry kitchen boy,” I said.

  "The Count Ridolfo is a just man. He made an example of the murderer. Such an incident will not recur,” said the stranger.

  "And how will my lot improve?"

  "Pour out that ditch water and try this,” he said, pushing before me a leather bottle from which he had been drinking.

  I emptied my cup on the floor and refilled it with wine from his bottle. It was better than the best from the bishop's cellar.

  "The Count's servants drink it at table. Their food is as good as their drink,” he said.

  "And they sleep in soft beds under a dry roof. Tell me, do they dress in silks and furs?"

  He looked my shabby false finery up and down and said, “Their livery is somewhat more pleasing to the eye than yours, and much cleaner."

  "Why do you offer me such good things, sir? Are you my guardian angel? My patron saint?"

  "Not an angel, still less a saint,” he said, still smiling. “I am the fattore of Count Ridolfo. My duty is to keep the household running smoothly. We have lost a fool. I saw you perform and decided you would be an admirable replacement. Come to the palazzo in the morning, and say you come at Benedetto's invitation."

  I had learned long ago not to trust anyone. But that night I gave his offer much thought. My occult learning was useful, but dangerous to use; the safety of a great household was desirable. I was weary of traveling, of the bickering of these players, of coaxing coins from peasants who were nearly as ugly as I and as dull as oxen. The life of a powerful man's fool could be no worse. And thus I came to a new calling.

  * * * *

  As I walked to the palazzo of Count Ridolfo the following morning I heard no more than the usual taunts of street loafers and young idlers. The sight of my weapons discouraged anything more than catcalls from a safe distance. Benedetto's name admitted me to the palazzo, and he saw to it that I was quickly installed in the household. By nightfall I had met most of the servants.

  Only one incident marred my arrival, and I quickly turned it to my advantage. When I was introduced in the servants’ quarters a loud red-faced fellow whom I could see at once was the sort who was always eager to put a newcomer in his place looked up from where he sat and said to his fellows, “Here's a beauty. What shall we call him? I say we christen him ‘Malfatto.’ What say you?” When no one objected, he raised his cup and said, “Come, Malfatto, and receive your new name."

  I laughed along with the others as I went to his side, my hand extended in friendship. The laughter stopped when I locked my fingers in his and bent back his hand until he slid from his seat to the floor, whimpering for release.

  I let him plead for a time, and then I leant closer and said softly in his ear, “My name is Niccolo. Tell that to everyone. Say ‘Malfatto’ in my hearing again and it will be your dying word."

  I gave him a hard kick in the ribs to impress my words on his memory and then helped him to his feet. He welcomed me by name.

  The incident had the desired effect on my fellow servants. Unfortunately for my antagonist, he chose to discomfort me in other ways. I might have employed the power of the scroll to dispose of him, but it was not necessary. He died in a fall from the bell tower.

  Before my first week's end I was measured for my livery. Soon I was wearing the finest outfit I had ever possessed, of excellent materials perfectly fitted to the contours of my body. For a full month I busied myself learning the ways of the household before I was admitted to Count Ridolfo's presence.

  There had been much coming and going in the palazzo during those days, solemn faces and wary glances among the family, and among the servants much speculation about the cause of this tension. Rumors abounded, but no knowledge. As a newcomer, I was the least informed of all; and so I waited, made myself agreeable to everyone I met—it is a skill one acquires—and before many days learned the cause of all the stir.

  Word had come from a trustworthy informant that a rival family planned an attack on the Count and his sons. I could learn no more, and did not seek to do so. It is best for the fool to play the fool until the proper moment.

  I was summoned to Count Ridolfo's private chamber late one night. He was with four men, two of whom I recognized as his sons. This was my first sight of my master, and I found him formidable.

  Count Ridolfo had a large leonine head with a great crown of white hair. His face was square, his mouth narrow, and his jaw prominent. His nose had been broken and inexpertly set, and a thin scar ran down his right cheek. That face, cold and hard as stone, was a silent warning. His displeasure was plain to see. This was a man whom ordinary men might fear, with good reason. He would be very useful to me.

  He bade me approach, stopping me a few paces away with a gesture. Count Ridolfo permitted no one to get close to him—a precaution he had adopted after a cousin gave him the scar on his cheek. He looked me over, hands on his hips. He circled me slowly, like a man studying a work of art.

  "So you are my fool,” he said.

  "No, my lord. I am your good angel,” I said, bowing and making my most hideous face.

  He did not smile. “A fool and a liar. You will thrive in this city."

  One of the others, who stood apart, kept his gaze on the floor. No man spoke or looked at his companions. I could taste the fear in the room, and it made clear to me what I must do.

  "Advise me, fool,” said the Count. “Your advice can be no worse than some I receive. I have enemies who plot to murder me and my sons. I know the identities of all those involved in the plot. What shall I do?"

  "Act like a man. Kill them all, and have it whispered everywhere that your hand has done the deed,” I said.

  "Have I another choice?"

  "Yes. Do nothing, and there will be two fools in this household."

  He did not respond for a time. When he spoke at last, there was no anger in his voice. “You speak boldly."

  I spread my arms to display my livery. “I belong to a great house, not a nunnery. Why should I speak softly, and counsel meekness?” His sons exchanged an approving glance. One of the other men nodded. The fourth gave me a quick hateful glance.

  "Some members of a great house would,” the Count said
. “Tell me, is a man a fool to take a fool's advice?"

  "Sometimes a man is a fool to heed a wise man and sometimes he is wise to listen to a fool. It depends on the man, the fool, and the advice, my lord."

  He looked at me for a time in silence, then said, “Entertain us tomorrow at dinner. And now go, before you destroy our appetites.” He dismissed me with a flick of his hand. I backed from his presence, bowing with exaggerated deference to all. I had been summoned to humiliate someone, that much was clear, and now had an enemy in the house. I hoped I had made the right one. The right enemy can be as useful as a dozen good friends. He keeps a man alert.

  As it happens, my enemy did me neither harm nor good. He was seen no more in the palazzo after that night.

  Count Ridolfo looked upon life as a serious matter. Even my most grotesque antics could not bring a smile to that cold face. He gave a nod of approval at my juggling and my tumbling, but encouraged no banter. For all he cared, I might as well have been mute. His sons were easier to amuse. Andrea, the eldest, emulated his father. He seldom smiled, but he often murmured, “Well said, well said,” at a satiric observation. The younger ones laughed at my acrobatics and once the Count had left us, reveled in my bawdry.

  There was no bawdry in the Count's presence, nor when the ladies were within hearing. The Contessa spent her waking moments in prayer. I believe she prayed even in her few hours of sleep.

  Maddalena, the youngest child and only daughter, was the darling of the family. In her, the distinctive family features were gentled and softened. She smiled often, and though fully fifteen years old, was still capable of childlike enthusiasms and affections. Her cats, her dog, her monkey, the birds who came to her window and fed from her hand, all enjoyed her generous love. From the very first time she saw me she was capable of looking at me without shrinking. Unlike the rest of her family, she was fond of my songs and tales of love and chivalry, sometimes stopping outside the kitchen to listen as attentively as any ignorant kitchen wench whenever I chose to entertain the servants of an evening.