Avram Davidson - The Phoenix and the Mirror

Cornelia listened intently, little gleams of gold glistening and sparkling about her, then she spoke words which Vergil did not recognize. Instantly, a maidservant left the room. Vergil, glancing after her almost automatically, noticed the marble-topped table which Clemens had hefted as easily as though it were made of willow withes. Clemens, Where was Clemens? Nowhere to be seen.

The maid returned, and with her was an old woman — an old, old woman, barefooted, shawled, some sort of ornament on one of her ankles tinkling as she walked. Vergil noted, with a start of surprise, that the crone actually had a ring in her nose: something he had heard and read of, but never before seen. She moved forward confidently, speaking without ceremony in a foreign language, and holding out a little box. Cornelia took it, opened it, wrinkled her face, gave it to another servant to give to Vergil.

“This is my daughter’s old nurse,” she said. “Her name is Desfiyashtsha — barbaric, is it not? — but she’s a dear and faithful old thing. I’d let you talk to her, but she knows only the language of Carsus. She assures me that my daughter wore this almost every day. I’d forgotten she even had it, but now that I see it, I remember. Tsan foa, De-sfiyashtsha’n, Laura’t?”

“Anah, anah, Passilissa’n,” the crone said, vigorously, nodding her head, and gazing at Vergil out of tiny, dark, deep-set eyes, bright as a bird’s.

“Yes, it is hers. Will it do?”

It was a small, worn, copper fibula in the form of a brooch, very crudely depicting a lion trying to shove his tail into his mouth with both paws. It was the sort of thing that might be used to fasten an under tunic. He picked it out from the box. For a moment he stayed quite motionless. Then he smiled, very faintly. There seemed a faint tinge of bewilderment in the smile.

“It will do, Lady Cornelia.”

“And you would really rather not have gold or silver or electrum?”

“It would not make much difference, really… but, of course, copper will go into the flux very well when we are preparing to cast the speculum. It is not virgin copper, but so small an amount will make no difference. The addition of this article — which was worn very often and very closely by the Lady Laura — will physically connect her person with the speculum, which is to reveal where that person is at the moment of revelation. That is its only function. Its intrinsic value makes no difference, you see.”

It seemed as though she wanted to speak, almost strained to speak. Then an expression of absolute helplessness crossed her face. She slumped in her chair, made a helpless gesture. “I see only danger, agony, death. I tell you that I know nothing of science or witchery. Please make the speculum quickly so that we can discover where — where my daughter is.” She got to her feet in one swift motion. “Magus, I wish you well upon your voyage, and I will offer victims for your safe passage and return.” The formal words of farewell. Again she hesitated. “I know you won’t dally. Farewell.” With a final nod to Vergil, and another to Tullio, she swept from the room. He caught one glimpse of her eye, face half turned. Then she was gone.

Most of the servants followed her. Last to leave was old Desfiyashtsha, Laura’s nurse. She examined him with curiosity, spoke to him in her own language, smiled in wonder that he really did not understand, and at length hobbled away, tinkling as she walked.

“Yes, but what is your real reason for having agreed to make the speculum majorum?” Clemens asked, insistently. The afternoon was sinking away as they rode back along the road to Naples. They would make home before nightfall, but not much before.

“Perhaps my real reason is simply that I have never made one before,” said Vergil.

His companion gave a gusty sigh. “I’m glad,” he said. “I hope it’s really that, and only that.”

“Why?”

The sight of a fire some distance from the road revealed that what might have passed for a small hillock was really the mud and brushwood hut of some shepherd or farm laborer; and the smell of aubergines having their purple skins singed off disclosed the menu for supper. The few notes of a song which came on the wind were too faint for the words to be distinguished.

“Because,” said Clemens, “I’m afraid the whole thing may be a wild goose chase — an elaborrate, though mystifying, hoax. I’ll tell you why.”

When Vergil had first begun to examine the missing girl’s jewels and ornaments, Clemens, he said, suddenly became aware of that necessitious summons to which even kings are subject, and left the room to find a closet of ease. He asked his way of several servants, but they either spoke no Latin or had but a few words (“ — and most barbarously butchered, too — ”). He blundered into several wrong places before he finally found the right one.

“Do you remember that miniature which Doge Tauro has, and was showing all around at the stag hunt?”

Vergil frowned. Once again he felt the same pricklings of his flesh which he had felt when the Doge had snapped open the picture case. “Of Laura as a younger girl? Yes. What about it?”

“That’s how I knew who she was, you see.”

“Knew?”

Clemens said, quite calmly, “Laura. The missing girl. She isn’t missing at all. She’s right there, at the villa. Don’t tell me ‘impossible’ — I saw her. She was five years older than the picture, of course, but it was she all right. Her hair was red, with glints of brown. And her eyes were brown, with glints of red. Very white skin, nice ears, nice mouth. Not my particular taste, you know — I prefer them either younger or older. Like cheese. However… what’s the matter?”

Matter enough for his companion to strike his thigh with the flat of his hand, causing the white hackney to break pace, in alarm. “Upon my life!” he exclaimed. “And by my father’s ashes! I saw her too! How could I have forgotten? When I first saw Cornelia… it was just a fleeting glimpse… but no wonder I felt that odd stir when the Doge showed the miniature… yes! She was dressed as a servant, sitting there at Cornelia’s feet, holding the embroidery.

“And…” He frowned, trying to concentrate. Shadows grew long, grew blue. What was it? The embroidery? Clemens’ next words shattered the image slowly taking form.

“Dressed as a servant. Correct. Well, there you are, O Vergil, doctor mirabilis — are they trying to trick the Doge, or perhaps even the Emperor (may he live forever; though it’s not likely — better King Log who does nothing than King Stork who’d devour us), perhaps even Caesar himself, into accepting a servant girl as a princess? If so, then this whole affair of the mirror of virgin bronze is so much flummery, a device to gain time while the girl perfects her role. And then Cornelia will pretend to have her sighting in the mirror, and — lo and behold! — everyone will trot off and ‘find’ the semi-promised or twice-promised spouse at some prepared hideaway.… Do you think that’s it?”

Vergil shook his head. No. No, he didn’t, couldn’t, think that was it. The young dowager’s intense interest in having the speculum prepared was too genuine, her concern too obvious and sincere, for him to accept Clemens’ notion. But if that wasn’t the real explanation, what was?

The alchemist had another question. “Have you made any philosophical preparations for your work and journey? You surely don’t intend to go stumbly, blind, do you?”

The Magus assured him that he had no such intention. “I have gone through the Door,” he added.

Clemens nodded vigorously. “Good!” he exclaimed. “Good! Good!”