Zaragoz Read online

  Orfeo remembered what Arcangelo had said about the effects of working evil magic within the walls of this house, but when he looked about him he could see no difference. He looked back at Arcangelo, thinking to see him burned and broken, but although the priest had been knocked flat his limbs were stirring feebly, and he emitted a faint groan.

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  No one else moved, so Orfeo went quickly to the stricken man, and picked up his heavy head in his own hand, turning him on to his side so that he would not choke. Within a minute, he was sure that the priest would live, but he was equally sure that the man had been sorely hurt and that all the inner strength had been blasted out of him. Clever spellcaster he might be, but he wpuld be casting no spells at all for some considerable time.

  While he still knelt by the injured priest Orfeo felt the point of Sceberra's blade come to rest upon his back, between his shoulder-blades.

  "Now, my lanky popinjay," said the minister. "I think the time has come when we must make more urgent enquiries about your acquaintance with this man, and your involvement with his treason."

  Orfeo looked up. "I told you that I did not know him," he said, calmly. "It is still true." Then he looked at Rodrigo Cordova, hoping for support.

  The youth seemed uncertain, and was clearly shocked by what had taken place. After a pause for thought he shook his head.

  "You may question him if you think you must," he said to Sceberra,

  "but not brutally. I believe that he is innocent, and I would not have any needless injury done to such skilful hands. If the truth of what he says must be properly tested, then Semjaza must use his art to do it."

  Orfeo felt a thrill of relief when he heard these words, but when he looked again at Sceberra, he saw that the man was not entirely displeased—and then he knew that whoever Semjaza might be, the attentions of his art were not so very much less to be feared than cruder tortures.

  Perhaps, he thought, sourly, it will not be as easy to avoid the sticky clutches of this web of intrigue as I supposed.

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  Chapter Four

  Orfeo was taken to the castle of Zaragoz as a prisoner, but he was not treated roughly, nor were his hands bound.

  The approach to the gate of the fortress wound about the crag, hut was not quite as steep as the lowest part of the road. The fortress was laid out in the conventional rectangular fashion, with a tower at each corner, but the manner of its building had been constrained by the contours of the crag on which it was perched. For this reason, the walls were not at all straight, meandering in both the vertical and the horizontal dimension. The north tower—which one of the men-at-arms in charge of him referred to as the High Tower—loomed above its counterparts, while the one which faced south had by far the lowest elevation.

  When the party passed through the gate Orfeo saw that the space within the walls was no more level nor evenly sloped than the ramparts; where conventional design placed a courtyard there was instead a series of giant irregular steps, each one having two or three flights of stairs sculpted into it, and two of the larger vertical faces having doorways which gave access to chambers hollowed out within the stone.

  The living quarters erected within the castle—including the stables—were extended from the east and west towers. These two lowers were on much the same level, connected by the widest of 55

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  the natural ledges. Orfeo had little chance to study the scene in detail, though, because he was quickly taken to the door of the High Tower, and taken up a narrow stair to a doorway with a small barred window. Beyond this door was a guard, posted in a narrow corridor where two doors faced one another, each one with a sturdy bolt and a small hinged square cut at eye-height so that the guard could look in if he so wished.

  This place was certainly a prison, but it was not the lowly kind of dungeon in which a common man might might be shackled.

  When Orfeo was taken into the room where he was to be kept he saw that it was a cell designed for one above his own station, with a chair and table as well as a bed, a good supply of candles and a chamber pot.

  The men-at-arms who had brought him there left him to his own devices, but those who were coming to put him to the question were not long delayed, and Orfeo was not surprised to find that Sceberra was accompanied by the magician who had felled Arcangelo.

  Seen at close quarters, the wizard was a more fearful sight than he had seemed from a distance. The colour of his flesh was very odd, having about it far more redness than one would expect to find in a man of such dark hue. His eyes, which gaped so wide at all times that a rim of bloodshot white was always visible about the iris, were likewise dark and red in colour. His nose was thin and the nostrils were reduced to tiny slits, and his mouth was perpetually crooked. But that was not the whole of it, for it was as if he came with a kind of aura—a radiance given off by some unearthly inner fire. When he breathed there was a strange scent on his exhalation, which seemed to Orfeo a graveyard odour.

  Here, thought Orfeo, is a man who is corrupted, and not by any ordinary sin. There is something of the daemon in his deeper being.

  He saw that the man sensed his dismay, and was pleased by it, for it confirmed his power—but he also saw that the sorcerer was tired, and that the blast which he had hurled at Arcangelo had taken more out of him than he would have wished.

  Sceberra ordered a liveried servant to bring more chairs, so that he and the magician could sit by the table with their captive guest, facing him with all the fierceness and determination which 56

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  they could muster for his intimidation.

  "I am Semjaza," said the magician, "the Duke's friend and chief adviser. I think you can tell well enough what manner of man I am?"

  Orfeo nodded his head, but only a little. It signified agreement, not respect for the other's station.

  "Loyal Don Estevan would like to try another way to make you speak," the wizard continued, "but we would not like to offend Don Rodrigo, and we have assured the lady Veronique that should you prove to be our ally and not our enemy, then you will play for us on the Night of Masks, which is some few days hence. In view of these considerations, I have agreed to test you in my own way. Will you give me your hand?"

  Orfeo hesitated, but then reached out to offer his right hand, palm upwards. The magician took it in his own, which was claw-like and nearly black. The fingers felt like snakeskin, and had the same surprising warmth about them. Then, with his other hand—the left—Semjaza made a few slow passes over the upturned palm, describing symbols whose meaning Orfeo did not know.

  After a moment's contemplation, Semjaza reached out that same left hand to touch Orfeo lightly on the forehead. The reptilian lingers rested there for some two minutes before the magician removed them.

  "You are no dolt," said Semjaza, evenly, "but we expected a man with some strength of mind. I do not think you have any magic, unless you have learned a few petty tricks which do not matter, hut you have a strong will which has been schooled to some degree of resistance. Have you lived among elves, perchance?"

  Orfeo started in surprise, and said: "I was taken in by wood-elves as a child, when they found me in such condition that I would otherwise have died."

  Semjaza nodded. "Of course," he said, as though it had been so obvious to his touch that he had not really needed to ask. "They must have taught you a little of the art of minstrelsy—I regret now that I did not hear you play, but I will surely have a second chance.

  Do you believe that I will know if you lie to me?"

  The last question was asked abruptly, fired like a missile into what had been a laconic speech. The sorcerer was fatigued, and would perhaps have preferred not to use his talents further until 57

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  he had recovered his strength, but he was determined that Orfeo should not be let off lightly on that account.

  "I do not believe that you can read my mind," said Orfeo, "but I think you
would sense it if I tried you with outright deceit."

  "A wise reply," said Semjaza, with apparent sincerity. "No one can overhear the thoughts in another man's head, save perhaps the god to whom he prays, but a man of power can weigh the feelings in another man's heart, if he has the wit. Now, when did you first meet the one who calls himself Arcangelo?"

  "Yesterday, when my route met his, within sight of this citadel."

  "Good. I am glad to hear it. What did he tell you of his plans?"

  "Nothing at all—until I listened with Don Estevan to the speech which he made in Don Rodrigo's ballroom."

  "Are you a servant of the gods of Law?"

  "I am not—though I am not entirely out of sympathy with their cause."

  This answer made Semjaza smile a little, but he did not seem wholly displeased by it. He touched the player again upon the forehead, and Orfeo was convinced that he could feel the power in those fingertips.

  "And how much do you know of those whose cause the gods of Law oppose?" asked the wizard. Orfeo was surprise by the whimsicality of that question, which seemed rhetorical, and certainly was not conducive to the rendering of an exact answer.

  "Very little," he answered, "and that uncertain. In the Empire, they have a saying: Those who know do not speak; those who speak do not know. I am a story-teller, and have listened to many stories. I do not believe the ones I tell, let alone the ones I hear."

  The interlude was brief, for the magician's next question was rapped out as sharply as his first: "Have you any reason to hate the Duke of Zaragoz, or any that are loyal to him?"

  "I have not," said Orfeo promptly. But that answer drew a sharper look from his interlocutor, and he quickly elaborated: "I know nothing of the Duke or his realm save what I have seen these last two days. Nor am I the kind of man who quarrels with the people of the lands through which he must pass. But I must in honesty say this—that if I were told the story which Arcangelo told tonight, wherever I might be in the world, then my sympathies would be with the just lord who was deposed, not with the others who Zaragoz

  displaced him. For all I can tell, the story was only a story, but I judged from the reaction of one or two who were present at its telling that there is truth in it. Nevertheless, the man of Law advised me not to involve myself with the intrigues of the men of Zaragoz, and that is advice which I certainly intend to take."

  Semjaza still held Orfeo's right hand in his own, and now he louched it again with the fingers of his left. Then he released it, and sat back. He looked sideways at Sceberra.

  "An honest man," he said. "He would have told your torturers no more, and they would never have known whether a word of it was true."

  Sceberra scowled. "I suppose I must be satisfied," he said, "if you tell me so."

  Semjaza looked back at Orfeo again. "May I ask one more question? I ask permission now, because now that I have judged you honest you are a guest again, and not a prisoner—the Duke's son has invited you to the castle, and I understand that you have Agreed to his proposal."

  "Ask your question," said Orfeo, gruffly.

  "The man of Law referred to a word—a word which might unlock false hope in the hearts of those men of Zaragoz who do not love their Duke as they should. Do you know what that word is?"

  "Not for certain," said Orfeo, truthfully. "But there was a name which he used in idle conversation while we walked the road together. I suspect that may be the word he meant."

  Semjaza leaned forward suddenly, so that his foul breath was very noxious in Orfeo's nostrils. " Do not use that word 7" he said.

  "If you value your life, do not let it pass your lips. If you hear it whispered, turn away, and put it from your mind. In Zaragoz we welcome honest men, but while you are in this realm you must recognize its lawful Duke, who is Marsilio diAvila. Through no fault of your own, you know more than is good for you, and must now be careful. When the Night of Masks comes, play your lute with all the skill which your elven tutors could impart, and lead our courtiers in a happy dance—but do not meddle in matters which do not concern you."

  "A wise traveller does not meddle," Orfeo told him, quietly.

  "A wise traveller learns what he can, and goes on his way, raising Ills hand against no man unless that man raises a hand against him."

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  Semjaza stood up, and just for a moment there was a hint of unsteadiness in his manner, as though his old bones were aching.

  "Wise man." he said. "Wise, and honest. I think that something might be made of a man like you. my friend, and so 1 will say one thing more to you: do not be tempted to confuse law and justice.

  The man of Law who claims to stand for justice is a cheat. If you would serve justice, take Verena for your patroness, and shun the champions of Solkan, who are bitter and uncaring men."

  With that parting shot, Semjaza left the room, but Estevan Sceberra did not immediately follow him. Instead, the minister waited in his seat until the sound of the magician's footsteps had completely died away. Then he stood up himself, and leaned forward to emphasize his words.

  "You are a man of wit," he said, thinly, "to win the favour even of that monster. Everyone loves you, it seems. Well, pretty player, I do not—and I feel it in my stony heart that I may yet have the chance to tease your tender flesh after all. Should that time come, I promise that you'll pay for all your wit and prettiness."

  Orfeo leaned back, casually, but did not lower his eyes before the minister's hostile stare.

  "Poor Don Estevan!" he said. "You should not be so resentful of your failings. There is many a man of your station who is deaf to a lovely tune and cannot dance a lissome step. I would try to teach you, but I fear you are too tense in mind and limb."

  For a second, Orfeo thought that Sceberra might lose control so completely as to strike him—but this was not a reckless man.

  however ugly his temper might be. In the end, the minister tried to smile instead.

  "You may have no reason to hate the rulers of Zaragoz," he said, "but you must still beware of giving them cause to hate you."

  "I think the wizard has told me that already," replied Orfeo,

  "and I am certain that I would be very foolish to make an enemy of him."

  Sceberra conceded him that last word, but put a punctuation mark to the dialogue by slotting the bolt on the further side of the door. Orfeo did not care about that, though it could surely be reckoned an insult to one who was once again a guest, but when he thought over what he had said, he regretted being so wounding with his words. He had gained nothing by his 60

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  churlishness, and had inflamed a hostility which he might have calmed had he made his words more soothing.

  Reckless Orfeo, he said to himself, as though using the voice of another. Poor headstrong human boy. What can possibly be done with him?

  That reminded him of what the sorcerer had said, about there being "something that might be made of him," and he shuddered.

  He had little enough knowledge of the gods and godlings which that man served, but he knew enough to have a sensible idea of what those gods and godlings made of their worshippers. He hoped, in his heart, that nothing ever would be made of him by such as they, because he had reason to believe that they were very Ireacherous servants, and the cruellest masters imaginable.

  He laid himself down upon the bed, eventually, though he did not immediately try to go to sleep. He lay on his back, alone with his own thoughts, assessing the story of his own life and finding it somewhat lacking in pace and plot, despite that it was not devoid of action and suspense.

  He sat up again, abruptly, when he heard the bolts of his prison drawn back.

  He had to shield his eyes for a moment against the light which came in. It was an unnatural light created by petty magic, but it burned no brighter than an ordinary lantern, and he could not admire a person who made magic when ordinary means would do, merely to display his skill—or, in this case, her skill.

/>   It was the unknown woman who had cast such covetous eyes upon him while he played and danced.

  She looked down at him now, with the same avidity in her gaze.

  "We were rudely interrupted," she said, "when I came to speak to you before. But we will not be interrupted now."

  Orfeo studied her carefully. She was handsome in her way, Enough no longer young. It was not easy to guess her age, because he had a strong suspicion that she might be older than she seemed.

  There were no crow's-feet by her eyes or wrinkles in her neck, hut there was something in her manner which gave her away. Her lull lips were carried slightly forward, as in a perpetual slight pout, or as though she were about to lick them in anticipation of some tasty sweetmeat.

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  1He judged that she was a sensualist through and through, and tough she shared something of Semjaza's dark artistry it was plain that she employed her magic to different ends.

  "My name is Morella d'Arlette," she told him, while she still stood over him. "It is a Bretonnian name, as you will doubtless know, but my mother married for a second time, to a nobleman of Zaragoz. I was afraid to come here when I was a child, for the journey was so long and the hills so steep, but I love it now, and am proud to have adopted it as my home."

  She knelt down then, and put out her hand to touch his forehead, almost as Semjaza had done. He felt the warmth of her fingers, and something else, which made him pull away.

  "You have little faith in your charms, my lady," he said, "if you think you need your sorcery on a mission such as this."

  She laughed. "Oh no," she said, "it was not a bewitchment of that sort. I can see in your eyes and your arms that nothing lacks in your enthusiasam for love. But I doubt that you have ever had a sorceress before, and I suppose you do not know what a little art can add to the experience."