Part 9 (2/2)
”It's nothing,” he told Saara, looking away. ”He always knew I preferred dogs.” And he paced heavily down the hill among the birch trees.
Gaspare's few possessions were tied in a square of linen, two ends of which went around his waist and two ends of which went around his shoulders. The lute in its sheepskin case he carried. Saara carried nothing.
The day was fulfilling its high-summer promise, but in the aromatic pine woods of the hill's lower slopes, it was still cool.
”There is a broad road not far north of Ludica,” Gaspare was calling to the woman behind him. ”It runs all the way from Franche-Comte. In the east it leads to... to the faraway east, I think. Once we strike that, we will have easy going, and our choice of trails going into the Alps themselves...
”Then we will have to take our bearings again, and I must search my heart for presence of the Devil, as Delstrego said. In fact, I ought to do so constantly, lest we lose our path and valuable time...”
Though she knew more about the roads of Lombardy than Gaspare could hope to, Saara let himprattle on. She was used to Italians by now, and besides, she wanted to keep an eye on the shadow in the woods-bulky, black, wary-that was following them.
As Gaspare detailed his plans for self-examination (they involved certain mental imageries of food, drink, cards, dice, and other appealing objects to which he alluded ellip-tically), this shadow rose onto the path behind, stepping silently on the carpet of needles. Saara faded off the path and let it pa.s.s.
For twenty steps the black horse paced behind Gaspare without making his presence known. Then he nudged with his nose.
The gangling youth skittered forward, flailing for balance. Then he turned in outrage and confronted Festilligambe, who stood motionless behind him with muzzle touching the ground and ears flat out to the sides.
Gaspare also stood frozen, though he blinked repeatedly. At last he put his hand on the geldings bony withers and he sighed.
Since Delstrego had been known to play his lute while riding, nothing could stop Gaspare from doing the same. He did not do so happily, however, for he was never completely relaxed on horseback, and his knees gripped Fes-tilligambe's sides like iron tongs.
But the horse picked its way along the rough ground with egg-cheris.h.i.+ng care, for the dove which perched on its pointed head had told him just what would happen if he spilled the lutenist. Slowly the gelding climbed into the fresh air of the mountains, wondering all the while why anyone would want to go to a place with so little gra.s.s.
Saara's bird body was breathing heavily. She had shrunk to dove size so as to keep up with the horse without burdening him further, but by the give-and-take of magic, it cost her just as much effort to ride thus as it would have to climb at the geldings side.
Listening to Gaspares lute playing was another payment of sorts, for Saara. That the boy had control of his instrument was obvious. His sense of time was good, and his rhythms were highly original. But Saara had been born into a culture where chant was the most respected form of music, and Gaspare's carefully cultivated dissonances upset both her nerves and her digestion.
Yet she said nothing, for among the Lapps (who were all song wizards), to tell a person to stop his music was to tell him to stop his being. She merely wondered if the twigs of the alpine willow would be effective against headache.
Gaspare, who had been raised (or who had raised himself) in the shadow of the mountains, drank deep lungfuls of air scented with evergreens, and he turned his eaglets face to the stony north. He felt sparks of energy within him like the sparks the horses feet made hitting stone. Gaspare had only the vaguest idea where they were going, but he had confidence.
Saara did not, for she had no faith in their present course.
It was not that she doubted the words of the spirit, but she knew that there is no translation as difficult as that between the living and the dead, and what Damiano had meant by saying Gaspare knew the way to the Liar's hall might be something completely different from having the boy lead her there.
In fact, would Damiano-who had died rather than let her risk herself-have sanctioned bringing this clumsy young fellow into danger of body and of spirit? If he HAD meant for Gaspare to fling himself against Satan, then the dead were indeed a different order than the living. And though Damiano's suggestion was little more than Saara had protested that same night on her own behalf-that one must not keep a soul from its proper risks-still she found it difficult to extend that liberty to others whom she felt were not fit to meet the challenge. Gaspare, for instance. What could he do against pure wickedness, and how could he survive?
Saara shuddered over the ruthless understanding of the dead.
But perhaps it was all in error. Perhaps he had meant she would find the path by looking in the boy's eyes, or in some ceremony of their Christian church. She had never studied these Italians' rites. Perhaps Gaspare was right in supposing that the Devil (this time) lay in the south.
Perhaps, perhaps. Doubt, like black water, seeped into her small feathered body and chilled her. Shefelt old.
She WAS old: old and past her prime. Off on a fool's errand, and caught in a battle of spirits which would have been too great for her strength anytime. She would be trodden underfoot, and Gaspare-he would fly screaming, only to be taken by the Liar and twisted beyond recognition. It would have been better not to have come. It would be better now to turn back. To Lombardy or farther. All the way back to the frozen fens of home.
The dove's heart tripped and pounded. Her vision swam and her wings grew numb. She felt the cold, groping fingers search toward her, impelling rout.
She felt rather than saw Gaspare raise his head from his instrument. He made a noise in his throat.
”Play, Gaspare,” the bird cried. ”Don't lose the beat!”
Gaspare obeyed out of a musician's reflex, counting silently and coming down heavy on the ba.s.s, while Saara retreated into the simple, incorruptible thoughts of a bird. After a moment or two the vile blind fingers pa.s.sed over and faded.
Saara sighed and fluttered to the stones of the road. In another moment she was human again. She clutched her head in both hands. ”Gaspare,” she began, her voice quavering like that of an ancient.
”Gaspare, young one. You keep your lute handy; it is your greatest protection.
”Do you understand me?” she added, for Gaspare was staring blankly down at her braided head.
He did not answer directly, but asked in turn, ”What do you mean, protection? Has something happened?”
Saara herself was shaking. She slid down against a rock and hid her head in her arms. ”Yes, of course. Didn't you feel the attack? I can still smell it in the air!”
Gaspare s.h.i.+fted his scarecrow anatomy on the horse's black back. ”I feel only that my b.u.t.t is a little sore. And smell?” He took a deep snort. ”I smell the air of the mountains. It's very good.”
Saara's hazel eyes pitied his obtuseness. ”Nonetheless, young one, there has been great danger here.”
She bit her lip. ”It is as I feared. All the while we are looking for the Devil, he is looking for us.”
She was quite correct; Lucifer was attempting to repair his neglect of the primitives in this world, at least to the extent of locating Saara and dealing with her.
And though he had enjoyed Raphael's misery with good appet.i.te, it was the angel's confusion and sense of abandonment which really pleased his palate. After a little while that confusion subsided, because even in the form of a human slave Raphael could not be kept wholly apart from grace. In fact, the most satisfying waves of desperation in the little drama were coming from the Spaniard Perfecto, and such anguish was a cheap drink and unsubtle.
So now Lucifer was taking the time to seek out ants, which is to say, he was looking for the bothersome Saara. He had not forgotten the teeth of the bear in his neck.
But Saara, though powerful, was not a terribly complex person. She was not p.r.o.ne to greed, and understood neither sin nor sanct.i.ty. She had no more shame than a bird on a branch.
Consequently, she was very difficult for Lucifer to find.
He stepped away from his window. ”Kadjebeen,” he whispered sweetly to the air. ”Kadjebeen, I have a bone to pick with you.”
The raspberry demon waddled unhappily out from under the table. His eye stalks were wilted as he regarded his infernal master. ”I'm sorry, Your Magnificence,” he squeaked nervously. ”Whatever it was, I will not do it again.”
Lucifer's blue eyes flickered. ”You won't disarm me so easily, you mountebank. I thought I told you to beat that sc.u.m till he was half-dead.”
”Yes, well, so I did, Lord.”
Lucifer's elegant brow rose in feigned surprise. ”You did? Then why, may I ask, can I perceive him from out this window, trotting quite competently down a road in Granada, only four and twenty hours later?”Kadjebeen's eyes (also blue, like those of a scallop) stared at one another and blinked. They knotted together in thought, and at last the demon replied, ”Your Magnificence, it is difficult to know exactly how much of life or death makes half. I thought that if I erred, it ought to be on the conservative side.”
”You have always got an answer,” drawled Lucifer, frozen faced, and he raised his carnelian hand.
The raspberry demon ran (rolled, really) across the floor at great speed, but he was not fast enough.
”What use IS the stupid beast!” spat Gaspare with childish disdain as he and Saara together tried to haul a scrabbling Festilligambe up the slick bulge of a road-blocking boulder. On the other side of this obstacle lay miles of broad, flat land and a choice of roads, but it seemed that near was no closer than far, for they had been struggling with the horse all afternoon. The gelding's frantic pants left little crystal clouds in the air.
”Do not blame him,” chided Saara. ”He cannot help that this is no road for horses.” With what would have been suicidal confidence in a less stock-wise person, she got behind the horse, next to his dancing hind feet, and pushed. Fes-tilligambe wedged one hoof securely into a crack in the stone and his sweating black quarters rippled with effort.
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