Дэймон Найт - Orbit 12

So the surprise was not entirely as pleasant as it might have been when I turned in at my archway in the Street of the Woodcarvers. A female form slipped out of the shadows toward me, to reveal itself as La Singla. She was full of apprehension that she might have been followed and insisted on coming upstairs with me—not that I long resisted the idea, for her perturbation lent her added prettiness. How demurely and professionally she turned her bangled Iberian wrists in expressing that disquiet!

Of course, she wished to find out from me what her husband had been saying before the fire started—wished so insistently that she pressed me against the door of my own bed chamber.

“Ah, so you are involved in some deep affair, Mistress Lemperer! Else why should you be so anxious! You delightful creature, you have certainly come to a man who can take your mind off your troubles.”

“Do not sport with me! Tell me what my husband said—you know as well as I that he cannot be trusted. Tell me, and I will give you a kiss and go.”

“It’s a friendly opening offer. Firstly, you must tell me who your fortunate lover is, then I will help you.”

She looked very unhappy. “That I cannot do, for I do not trust you entirely.”

“So! Whom do you trust? Well, who could trust you?” But I began to feel sorry for her and eventually told her what her husband had said, confirming that I had not revealed her visit to the plump fortune-teller. She gave me my reward—and largesse beyond—and when I had seen her out, I fell on my bed and went at once to sleep.

That evening I left the Street of the Woodcarvers rather later than usual. I had spent some while working on my idea, conceived in the ombres chinoises . My inspiration was this: that I should play Phalante as a soldier rather than as an apothecary, and we could then bring in some contemporary business referring obliquely to the bankrupt military state of Byzantium, which would naturally amuse a Duke of Ragusa.

I rummaged in my chest and produced most of the uniform needed, even to a fine pair of soft cuffed boots. I equipped myself with a wooden sword in scabbard, which hung from a heavy scarf crossing over the coat from one shoulder, and a fine cravat dividing in two and falling near to my waist, in the fashion of Croatian mercenaries.

Regarding me in my cheval glass was a gallant military figure! He saluted me. All he lacked for true effect was a plumed tricorne hat. What battlefield would not have been enhanced by his apparition on it? He was fully as colourful as any puppet—and I could work all his joints with greatest flexibility!

I began to work them, marching my gallant soldier back and forth before the mirror. What a swagger he had! How alert and fierce he was, fit to cut down fifty Ottomans! How speedily and yet gracefully he drew his sword, tempered from best Toledo timber!

There lay one of the pleasures of being a player. I could be who or what I would, merely by changing my outer clothes. An old man, a young man? Rich or poor? Soldier, judiciary, cut-purse, monk, apothecary, noble, beggar, miller . . . ? All trades, professions, ranks, and degrees were within me—wise man or fool, it needed only the appropriate dress for the appropriate character to be called forth, to take me over, to live my life for a brief hour. I had been such a necromancer that my every mouthful of food had been eaten by the correct star, such an elder statesman that my every limb had trembled and creaked for weeks after, such a jackanapes that all my friends shunned me while the piece was running! By no more than the trifling adjustment of my hat, I had plumbed the wells of folly or scaled the mountains of truth. I was that instrument, an actor, which could strike out all the chords of human feeling.

Only one trifling disability attended this great gift: among the dazzling concourse within me, my own self was often lost to view.

The next morning I allowed the cockerels to rouse me earlier than usual. Today I would be a soldier, and go to Lemperer’s rehearsal as a soldier. In that fashion, I could persuade him more readily to my idea; he could resist a costume no more than I. It was a shame I would have to borrow a plumed hat from him. But would not La Singla love me a little more for seeing me in these wondrous feathers?

While dressing, I gazed down at the street, which the bustle of the day had already wakened. Apprentices were coming and going, often with food and drink, laundry women were about, and the milk cart was rumbling along the street, pulled by an ox with silver bells on its horns. And I saw a soldier there, happening to catch his gaze as he glanced up at my window. He wore a plumed tricorne such as I coveted!

Going down at leisure, I bought a pasty at the bakers shop, still hot from the oven, and munched it as I went along. I would be in time for Mass, for once . . . Resurget igitur caro . . . But before getting to the cathedral, I could not resist turning off, as customary, to walk under the ruined arcade and see the Night Guard dismiss in the square.

I stood munching at one end of the arcade, sunning myself and watching the bright uniforms and smart movements of the Guard. Nearby, in ferny shade, two magicians crouched in an alcove, muttering over a great bronze globe. Their two corrupt boys played barefoot by them with caduceus and other implements. In the shadows behind, among their tarpaulins, a sacrificial goat stared fixedly up at a rent in the masonry, through which a tattered and blasted pine grew. One of the magicians had a malign and stupid face, which stretched sideways like a toads in a smile as he turned and beckoned to me.

As I moved away, I was aware of someone following. I stepped back behind a crumbling column. Past hurried the very same young soldier I had seen from my window walking in the street below!

So military were my thoughts that, on impulse, I drew my sword and confronted him.

“Spare me!” he cried, throwing out his arms. “I intend you no harm. It was your acquaintance I wanted, not your life, by any means.”

He was a handsome little figure, if a trifle gaunt, and no more than a couple of years my senior. I envied him his curly brown moustache, although there was something none too trustworthy in his look. Liking the situation and his anguish, which I noted for future rendering, I kept my sword point at his throat. This tableau was broken by one of the magicians. Under his black enveloping gown, he must have been a cripple, for he crawled across the paving stones, thrusting out one gnarled brown hand and saying to us, with a display of yellow fangs, Take heed, young masters, for you two are unknowingly involved in one bed, and trouble is about to befall one or other of you!”

I put up my sword and ran, and the soldier ran too.

“That wizard lies!” cried the soldier. “I have less than no inclination to climb into your bed!”

“Nor I into yours! Sooner into a river bed!”

We halted and glared at each other. Then he reluctantly smiled and held out his hand. “I never take the word of whores or soothsayers. I am Captain Pellegrino de Lasinio, black sheep of the Lasinio family of Dakka, and I admit I was following you.”

“And I am the actor Prian, appearing on the boards as Bryan de Chirolo, star of the merchants’ company. Unlike you, I am a soldier only in dress.”

“As a professional soldier can observe . . . But of course the deception would take anyone else.”

“By the same token, I observe you are the black sheep of your family. Tell me why you follow me. I covet your hat—what of mine do you covet?”

His manner became downcast, he stared gloomily down at his boots. “Your peace of mind I mainly covet. In what a carefree manner did you stroll along, eating your cake! As for me—well, I am desperately in love!”