Jonathan Strahan - Swords & Dark Magic - The New Sword and Sorcery

“Yes…just so,” said Sir Hereward. He wondered what Mister Fitz had been talking about with Sisterling Lallit, but pressed on. “It is his birthday on the fourth of Second Month—”

“Tomorrow!” exclaimed Lallit, proving Sir Hereward had been even more careless about the passage of time than he’d thought. She raised her hands and inadvertently looked up, to show Hereward a face of great charm and liveliness, though sadly marred by the lack of the old and faded facial scars he had been brought up to regard as necessary to true beauty. “You should have said! It will be a doing to manage a feast—”

“Mister Fitz does not eat, so a feast is superfluous,” said Sir Hereward, with a dismissive wave of his hand. “However, I wish to give him a present. Given that we are leagues from any shop or merchant, and in any case, I cannot for the moment leave my bed…I wondered if there might be something suitable in the tower that I might purchase for Mister Fitz.”

“Something suitable?” asked Lallit. She tugged her earlobe and frowned, a gesture Sir Hereward found irresistible. “I don’t know…”

“Come and sit by me,” said Sir Hereward. He slid over and patted the mattress by his side. “To begin with, you can tell me what is in the attic above. Most particularly, a musical instrument would meet the need.”

Doctor Professor Laxelender Prouzin had written that musical instruments were the usual gift to an entertainer puppet, and Sir Hereward supposed that one might be of interest to Mister Fitz, who was quite capable of appearing to be an entertainer puppet. He could sing most sweetly and seemingly play any musical instrument, and dance fascinatingly as well. But Mister Fitz was not an entertainer puppet, and usually only deployed these talents as a ruse or deception, shortly before unleashing his other, even more greatly developed skills as a practitioner of arcane arts that were not generally the province of puppets. Or of people, for that matter.

“Oh, I’m not allowed to come into your room, sir,” exclaimed Lallit. “Sister Gobbe is most strict about who may handle patients, and Mister Fitz told me of your vow, and I would not wish to accidentally—”

“My vow?” asked Sir Hereward suspiciously. He thought for a moment, then asked, “Ah, which one? I have…made several.”

“To not share the breath of a woman, by intent or accident—save a consecrated priestess of course—till you have finished your pilgrimage to the Rood of Bazynghame,” said Lallit innocently. “Don’t worry, I shall breathe ever so softly, and stay in the doorway.”

“I am grateful,” said Sir Hereward, though he felt quite the opposite emotion.

“About this present for Mister Fitz…”

“Perhaps it is all too difficult,” said Sir Hereward, whose affection for the puppet had encountered a sudden reverse. He turned his head to the side and sighed heavily. “I shall simply wish him a happy birthday and leave it at that.”

“But there is an instrument in the attic,” said Lallit. “In the same chest your book came from, there is a mandora…or a gallichon…of five strings, such as my uncle plays. Though it is perhaps too large and heavy for Mister Fitz.”

Sir Hereward thought of several occasions when Mister Fitz had shown his true strength. He remembered those spindly wooden puppet arms inside Mister Fitz’s thin coat, the cuffs sliding back as he lifted the Arch-Priest of Larruk-Agre above his bulbous head and threw him into the mouth of the volcano; or the time when Fitz had beheaded a slave gladiator below the arena pits of Yarken. The look of surprise on the fellow’s face had matched Sir Hereward’s own expression, for Mister Fitz had been standing on the gladiator’s head at the time, and had pulled the tip of the man’s own blade back…

“I can fetch it down,” said Lallit, interrupting his reminiscences. “Sister Gobbe would set a fair price, I’m sure.”

“Very well,” said Hereward. “A fine mandora might be the very thing. If it is not too much trouble, I would like to see it. When is Sister Gobbe returning?”

“Oh, I will fetch it for you now,” said Lallit. “Sister Gobbe won’t be back for hours yet.”

“My thanks,” said Sir Hereward. “But how will you hand it to me, if we must not share our breath?”

“Oh, I can hold my breath for ages,” said Lallit innocently. She demonstrated, taking a deep breath that thrust out her chest. Sir Hereward watched in admiration, tempered by his annoyance at Mister Fitz. It was uncharacteristic of the puppet to preemptively meddle in Hereward’s amorous affairs, and it galled no less to know it was almost certainly for a good reason.

Lallit held her breath for quite some time, before suddenly exhaling, turning her head so her breath went up the stairs. She smiled and followed it up to the attic. A minute later, Hereward heard her footsteps as she looked around, the oak-planked floor of the attic being the ceiling of his room.

The novice returned a few minutes later, carrying a stringed instrument that looked to Sir Hereward like an oversize lute. He could play the lute somewhat, and sing passably, as Mister Fitz graded his voice, but the knight had done neither for some years.

Lallit paused for an intake of breath and the resultant inflation of her habit at the door, then nimbly crossed the room, deposited the mandora on the end of Hereward’s bed, and retreated as swiftly back to the stair.

Hereward leaned forward and took up the instrument. The mandora was made of ash with an open rose of ebony inlaid around the sound hole. It was still strung, which surprised him, for it had presumably been there for some lengthy time, and the strings were of a material other than gut, one that he could not immediately recognize.

He was about to pluck a note when he saw that the sound hole was obstructed, and that there was something inside the body of the mandora. Closer investigation revealed it to be a parchment folded into a triangle, which was sealed with wax at each corner. It could not be removed without de-stringing the instrument, which meant that it had been put there on purpose, and the mandora strung thereafter.

“Aha,” said Sir Hereward. “A mystery within the mandora.”

“What is it?” asked Lallit. The novice stood on tiptoe, craned her elegant neck, and took several steps closer.

“A parchment,” said Sir Hereward. He held the mandora up to the nearer window, so the light fell more clearly through the sound hole. “Sealed three ways, and stuck to the body with a red tape and three further seals…I think perhaps this is a matter for…”

He had been going to say “Mister Fitz,” for the sealed parchment smacked of sorcery, but as the true nature of the puppet was best not revealed even to the servants of friendly gods, he fell silent.

“Oh, it is exciting!” said Lallit. She clapped her hands together and took a further step toward him. “What is written on the parchment?”

Sir Hereward carefully rested the mandora across his knees, and thought. There was something not quite right about Lallit’s enthusiasm, the parchment, and the mandora. He noticed that the instrument’s strings were humming slightly, though he had not struck them. They appeared to be aping Lallit’s enthusiasm, and Sir Hereward did not like this at all.

Nor on closer examination was he sure that it was the same Lallit who had returned from the attic. She looked a little taller, and thinner, and now that he studied her, he could see that her eyes were too far apart, and her hat was on backward.

“I shall have to remove the strings,” said Sir Hereward. “To get the parchment out. I believe there is a spanner in my saddlebag…I shall just fetch it.”

Sir Hereward’s saddlebags were propped against the far wall, under the shuttered window on that side, as were his saber and two holstered wheel-lock pistols, though unfortunately these were neither primed nor loaded.