Part 17 (2/2)
Kadjebeen was sitting on the table. He had both hands laced around his middle. Now his color was returning, and he looked more like a raspberry and less like a bag. ”Because the Master gave him away.”
”Gave him away?” echoed Gaspare. He struck his bony fist on the tabletop. The greasy grapes bounced. ”He gave away an angel of G.o.d?”
”Watch out for the image,” mumbled the demon reflex-ively. ”It's a perfect correspondence, you see, and one has to be careful.” Then the demon realized that Gaspare's attention could not be diverted from his goal.
”Yes. He melted off his wings and gave him to one of his toadies-uh, servants. Perfecto the Spaniard, the man's name is. I imagine your Raphael is in Granada now.”
Observing the dusky flush of Gaspare's face, Kadjebeen added, to console him, ”The wings were gone by then, anyhow. ”
Gaspares impersonal glare sharpened. ”You must take us to him!”
The demon squeaked, and drew in both hands and feet, so that nothing but his trembling eyes disturbed his rotundity. ”Oh, I couldn't! The Master would never let me! He'd be so angry if he even knew you'd asked!”
Gaspare, whose own fear had somewhere been left behind, strode to the window, where the dazed horse stood placidly, seeing nothing. All sounds of battle had faded, but in his heart was growing a conviction that the battle was already won: a conviction which had nothing to do with Saara's magic, or the length of the dragons teeth.
”Your master, little insect, is nothing but sc.u.m!”
”Oh dear, don't,” quailed Kadjebeen, as his ears and eyes rotated nervously. ”He is the Prince of theEarth and very sensitive about it.”
”He is the Prince of Cowardice,” Gaspare declared. ”And all his victories are cheats.”
He spun theatrically and smacked his chest. ”I myself tell you this, you poor deluded slave. And I should know, because I AM A VERY BAD MAN!”
Kadjebeen stared at Gaspare with an increase of respect.
”Or I WAS a very bad man. But with the grace of G.o.d and the help of His angel Raphael, I am trying. It is hard,” added the youth, staring with wide green eyes at the round body on the table, ”when you are born with low instincts and have habits both worldly and violent, but it is possible to throw off Satan entirely. Even you could do it.”
His gaze on the demon lost certainty. ”... I think.”
”This Raphael person,” Kadjebeen thought to mention, ”didn't last very long against my Master.”
Gaspare frowned, remembering Kadjebeen's part in that deed. ”Raphael sacrificed himself,” he said with dignity. ”For MY sins, I am told.
”And I... I will release him from bondage. I have the greatest witch in all Europe at my side. We cannot lose.”
Kadjebeen's stalked gaze s.h.i.+fted to Festilligambe. ”The greatest witch in all Europe is a horse?”
”Uh, no. This is Festilligambe. He is probably the fastest horse in all Europe. He is certainly the most troublesome.” A glance at the slack-jawed, lop-eared face forced him to add, ”He is, however, not feeling his best.
”My companion, the Lady Saara, is at this moment chasing your foolish master's legions from the skies, while I have the responsibility to locate and rescue Raphael.”
”He's in Granada,” repeated Kadjebeen helpfully.
”So.” Gaspare cracked his knuckles, one by one. ”Take us to Granada.”
”I couldn't...” began the raspberry demon, but he changed his mind in midsentence. ”I would like to, but I don't see how...”
”And you call yourself an artist!” Gaspare's voice, not naturally resonant, rang strangely loud in that stale, tiled chamber.
”An artisan,” Kadjebeen corrected him. ”I build things. Images. As a matter of fact, I am the greatest maker of images that-”
”Artist, artisan... Bah!” Gaspare brushed the distinction aside. ”Don't you know that all the arts are blessed, and Satan is their enemy? Raphael is the greatest musician ever created, as well as the most beautiful; it is out of jealousy that Satan has done him hurt. I myself-”
”I myself am tone-deaf,” interjected the raspberry demon. ”As well as ugly. But go ahead-you were about to tell me what YOU were greatest at.”
”I was not,” grunted Gaspare, instantly deflated.
”I'm not the best at anything, although my old friend and partner... Oh, never mind.” For to Gaspares mind came the words the ghost had said at the top of the hill in Lom-bardy. ”Don't strive to be the best, or you will wake up one day and know yourself no good at all.”
There was no sound to be heard, except the droning sighs of Festilligambe, who seemed to be waking up. Suddenly Gaspare wanted to be out of this square room with windows that made no sense and air like doused ashes. Even if its owner never returned, it was no good place to be.
”Granada, you say?” He spared a last glance at the demon. ”Then to Granada we will go, on the back of the greatest dragon that...” Gaspare swallowed.
”On the back of a dragon.” He leaped lightly onto the sill.
Festilligambe nickered sleepily. Gaspare dragged him along by the mane. ”Come on, a.s.s-face. We have what we came for...”
It was black outside, and all noise of combat had ceased. A dust of stars whitened the sky. Gaspare lifted his head, and cold wind caught his russet hair.Where were Saara and the dragon? Gaspare felt pregnant with news and wanted to communicate it.
Surely they had not chased that stranger dragon so far they could not get back to him? All pretty white and gold, it hadn't looked like a beast with much fight in it.
As he stood in the mountain darkness, huddled against a black horse for warmth, Gaspare heard an awkward scuffing behind him.
A squarish black shape was following his trail on spindly pink-purple legs. It looked like a bedding box with the hindquarters of a chicken. For a moment Gaspare's hair stood on end, not out of fear but disbelief, until he recognized the object as Kadjebeen's toy palace, propelled by Kadjebeen himself.
”I'm coming,” panted the demon, unnecessarily. ”With that?”
Kadjebeen hugged his masterwork with arms too short for the purpose. His eyes drooped protectively over the top. ”It's mine,” he mumbled. ”I made it. Best thing I ever made. It's an image of the whole palace. Even His Magnificence has never appreciated how perfect a job it is.”
Gaspare only sighed. Together he, Kadjebeen, and the horse stepped out of the shelter of the rocks.
There, on the gray-lit slope of the peak itself, lay a long body like a length of rope cast off by some giant. Moonlight glistened on it, for it was coated with some sort of slime, and small, scuttling things went in and out of the great, scimitar-lined mouth, which leaked steam. Yellow eyes shone faintly, staring at nothing.
Caged in one iron paw, undamaged but motionless, was a small shape in a scorched blue dress.
Gaspare stopped dead, causing Kadjebeen to b.u.mp into him. The horse reared in panic.
Then Gaspare ran wildly over the rubble and stone, up the slick and gripless slope of rock, toward the fallen dragon with its phosph.o.r.escent infection. He reached the black-clawed hand. He squeezed between the bars.
With both hands Gaspare wiped the ooze from Saara's eyes. He wept and cursed together as more came out of her nose and lips. Her flesh looked and felt like wax.
The creeping disease touched Gaspare.
Kadjebeen stood alone on the road, leaning on his work. He was feeling very low.
The fellow had seemed so certain of himself, with his greatest this and his fastest that. It had been a long time since Kadjebeen had met anyone except the master himself who was so self-a.s.sured. He tried to remember when and where he HAD met another like Gaspare. His memories were sadly jumbled.
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