On the far side of the courtyard, next to a door that led out into the back alley, stood a small shed. It contained two rooms: the household kitchen and the place in which Benito and Giuseppe lived.
Once inside, Giuseppe turned to Fabrizio. “All right, what’s happened with Master?”
“Signore, it’s truly a private matter that —”
Benito shoved Fabrizio hard. “Boy, I’ve been here for years. Giuseppe the same. You have been here one month. Master thinks you’re a fool. We agree. In short, you have no rights!”
“Signori,” gasped Fabrizio. “I understand: The ocean may be large, but little fish follow the big fish.”
“Perfect,” said Giuseppe. “Because big fish eat smaller fish.”
“So tell us what’s happened,” said Benito. “We need to know. And be quick about it!”
Fabrizio, feeling he had no choice, related what had passed between Magistrato DeLaBina and Mangus.
As he talked, Giuseppe and Benito kept exchanging looks.
“So you see,” Fabrizio concluded, “because the magistrato claims Master made those papers with magic and that someone devilish told him to make them, it’s Master’s duty to reveal the one who got him to do the deed and committed treason.”
“Did you truly tell DeLaBina that Master does real magic?” asked Giuseppe.
“Signore, Master said I was always to tell the truth.”
“Did it ever occur to you,” said Benito, “that telling the truth is bad for us?”
“The magistrato only said he might punish Master.”
“You don’t know how the world works, do you?” said Giuseppe. “When masters are punished once, servants are punished twice.”
“What has Mangus decided to do about this matter?” asked Benito.
“He has no choice. He must find the one who is trying to depose the king.”
Once again Benito and Giuseppe looked at each other.
“How does he intend to do that?” asked Giuseppe.
“To begin, I was going out to collect all the papers.”
“You?” said Giuseppe.
“Forgive me, Signori, but Mistress Sophia said I was to take care of Master.”
“Did she?” said Benito. “Fine! Do so! As for us, we’ll take care of ourselves.”
“But,” said Giuseppe, shaking a fist in Fabrizio’s face, “make sure you keep no secrets from us!”
“Now get out of here,” yelled Benito, “and do what you promised Master you’d do.”
“Yes, Signori,” said Fabrizio. “Of course. Absolutely. Small fish! Big fish! True! Untrue! With permission!” And trying to dodge a flurry of blows, he dashed away.
CHAPTER 7
FABRIZIO BURST OUT OF THE HOUSE AND ONTO THE narrow cobblestone Street of the Olive Merchants. Sprinting to the first turning, he halted to rub the bruises he had just received. “Nasty Benito,” he muttered. “Ugly Giuseppe.”
He started to walk. The morning’s air, warmed by a golden sun, was dusty and sweet. The smells of new-pressed olive oil, roasting meat, and baking bread soothed him until he gazed up at the mountain looming over Pergamontio. There, perched on its summit, was the Castello, the great fortification where King Claudio, his family, and court resided. Fabrizio could see armed sentries — more than usual — pacing the crenellated walls. Sparks of sunlight glinted off their polished armor.
Fabrizio was grateful he had never been to the Castello. Too many people had been dragged there, never to be seen again, not so much as a bone.
It was all the doing — people claimed — of Count Scarazoni. Perhaps, thought Fabrizio, Magistrato DeLaBina was there right now conferring with the count about Mangus. It was a frightful thought.
Fabrizio lowered his gaze to the street and watched people pass. It took only moments for him to realize something was different. Usually, raucous cries were heard everywhere: “Buy my oil!” “Fine figs!” “Lovely pots to be had!” But this day, though men and women, many laden with baskets and dressed in colorful clothing, filled the street like a carnival parade, people appeared sullen and tense, offering little idle or noisy chatter. Rather, they had gathered in small knots, whispering among themselves while furtively glancing over shoulders to see who might be listening. Even the priests, monks, and nuns in their white-, gray-, and black-hooded robes seemed preoccupied, barely greeting passersby as was their custom. As for the regular swarms of children darting here and there like dashing minnows, they were nowhere to be seen. The loudest street noise was a plodding donkey that brayed.
But the streets were full of Count Scarazoni’s green-coated soldiers. Armed with pikes and swords, they dispersed every gathering they came upon.
Fabrizio recalled the words on the treasonous paper:
Citizens!
Pergamontio is ruled by weakness!
The kingdom needs a strong ruler!
Establish true authority!
Do not fear a change!
It all made Fabrizio hungry.
At the nearest stall he ordered a square of flat bread with olive oil, garlic, and mashed basil. After he received his food and paid his coin, he leaned forward. “Signore,” he whispered, “have you seen any of those papers calling for … for change in Pergamontio?”
The man stared. “Be off with you!”
Fabrizio found a sunny spot by a bubbling fountain, sat down, and chewed his bread. All the while he kept an eye out for the papers. Within five minutes, a baker, dusted with flour from hair to foot, came down the street clutching one.
Gulping down the last of his bread, Fabrizio hastened to follow. “Excuse me! Pardon me!” When he finally caught up with the man, he grabbed his thick arm.
The baker swung around.
“With permission, Signore!” said Fabrizio. “That paper in your hand — where did you get it?”
The man gawked at Fabrizio, flung the paper away, turned, and lumbered off in haste.
Fabrizio retrieved the paper from the gutter. He could not really read it, but he recognized the words: the same paper DeLaBina had brought to Mangus. To see an exact replica there on the street was uncanny. It does seem magical.
A quiver of dread passed through him.
Stuffing the paper into his tunic sleeve, he posted himself in a doorway to watch for more of the papers. Within moments he spotted a strolling carpenter reading one.
Fabrizio leaped before him. “Signore! With perfectly friendly intentions, that paper you are reading —”
The man turned red, tossed the paper into Fabrizio’s face, and dashed down an alley without looking back.
Fabrizio looked at it. It, too, was the same.
After slipping this second paper up his sleeve, he walked through the city in search of more. He found them in many hands. Whenever he managed to scrutinize them, they were exactly the same. And when he asked people where they got them, they replied,
“On my doorstep.”
“Stuck to a wall.”
“It just appeared.”
“How?” demanded Fabrizio.
No one could explain.
For the rest of the afternoon, Fabrizio went about the city collecting the papers. Why, he wondered anew, could not Mangus admit that it must have taken magic to make so many exactly alike?
When he had gathered all the papers he could, Fabrizio felt very pleased with himself. He could not wait to show Mangus that he had achieved the first of the magistrato’s tasks. Surely Master would be pleased with him. And Mistress Sophia would be very proud.
Stuffing the papers into his sleeves, Fabrizio set off through the city, taking a shortcut through an alley. He was halfway through when a law-court soldier — in his blue uniform — appeared and blocked the far end. Startled, Fabrizio stopped.
“You are under arrest for treason!” announced the soldier.
“God protect me!” Spinning around, Fabrizio ran toward the other end of the street only to be confronted by yet another blue coat. Realizing he was trapped, he reached
for the papers to get rid of them. Before he could, the soldiers leaped forward and held him fast.
Fabrizio was forced out to the main street. There, waiting on his horse, was Magistrato DeLaBina. With him was a whole troop of blue coats, all with swords in hand.
As soon as he approached DeLaBina, Fabrizio said, “Signor Magistrato, with permission, I have been trying —”
“Silence!” shouted the magistrato. “I know what you’ve been doing. Search him.”
It took just seconds for the soldiers to find the treasonous papers. They handed them up to DeLaBina, who gave them only a cursory glance.
“Exactly as I thought,” DeLaBina exclaimed so all could hear. “Proof that Mangus the Magician is making treasonous papers and, with the help of his servant boy, spreading them about the city. Only one question remains. Who is he acting for?”
“Signore …” tried Fabrizio.
“Silence!” said DeLaBina. “Take him to the Hall of Justice!”
A soldier yanked Fabrizio onto the back of his horse. As he did, DeLaBina, with a shout, called up his men. The whole troop galloped into motion.
The horses raced around the corner. That was when Fabrizio saw Giuseppe standing by the side of the street. He was smiling.
CHAPTER 8
DELABINA LED THE WAY, GALLOPING THROUGH THE city’s narrow, winding streets, to the Hall of Justice. The great stone building with its high tower stood on Pergamontio’s main city square, directly opposite the city cathedral. Fabrizio had always thought it beautiful. Now all he could think about was that the building bulged with courts, lawyers’ offices, barracks for the law-court soldiers, as well as many jail cells, and even an executioner. Milling around the entryway was an army of Scarazoni’s green-coated soldiers — more than Fabrizio had ever seen there before.
The magistrato barked a sharp command. Fabrizio was yanked from the horse, then made to march swiftly through the entrance. Its columns made him think of gigantic teeth and that he was about to be chewed up and swallowed alive.
At the end of a hall they approached a closed door guarded by more green-coated soldiers. DeLaBina halted.
“Signor Magistrato!” a court soldier demanded. “What is the password?”
“The King’s Justice,” said a voice.
Startled, DeLaBina wheeled around. Fabrizio followed the magistrato’s look. “My lord,” said the magistrato.
Prince Cosimo — the king’s elder son and heir to the throne — stepped forward. He was a tall, lanky fellow in his midtwenties, with a boyish pink-cheeked face, pug nose, and a thin wisp of a blond mustache that made him look very young. His clothing was quite elegant: a bright blue jacket with pearl buttons, a golden cloak draped over one shoulder, a purple velvet cap with a long green feather, yellow leggings, red boots, and white gloves.
Fabrizio looked upon him with relief. Perhaps Cosimo, looking kind in nature, would take pity on him. Immediately, he fastened his hopes on him. But the young man ignored Fabrizio and looked only at DeLaBina, offering a tiny nod of recognition. A flustered DeLaBina bowed and blotted the sweat from his bulging neck with his handkerchief.
The prince led the way into a room that made Fabrizio gasp. It had a lofty, coffered ceiling of intricate wood carving, a display of rich tapestries, large wall paintings, fine furniture, and a whole array of multicolored flags, bloody swords, dented shields, and torn battle banners. Here was a world of vast wealth and power.
DeLaBina grabbed the frightened Fabrizio by the neck and with a kick forced him forward until he stood before a slightly raised platform at the end of the room. There, seated on a bench covered with golden cloth, sat the king of Pergamontio himself — Claudio the Thirteenth.
The king was a short, wide man of middling years. His skin was coarse, his nose thick, his lips — surrounded by a heavy close-cropped gray beard — were frowning. His hands — barnacled with great glittering rings — were large, broad-fingered, and in constant fidget while moist, edgy eyes kept looking now here, now there, as if on alert for an attack that might come at any moment. Indeed, he kept gripping and releasing the ruby-encrusted dagger that hung from his belt. Fabrizio had no doubt: The dagger, despite its jewels, was not merely ornamental.
As Prince Cosimo joined his father and stood on the king’s left, Fabrizio kept trying to catch his eye, but to no effect.
Next to Prince Cosimo stood Prince Lorenzo, the king’s second and younger son. Fabrizio saw nothing elegant or powerful about him, nothing to suggest he might help.
And then Fabrizio realized that standing on the king’s right was Count Scarazoni. Dressed entirely in black, Count Scarazoni had a thin, pinched face with dark eyebrows that swept over his angry eyes like a bar of iron. His mouth was a grim, bloodless line while a sharp, pointed beard shaped his chin. His hands — encased in tight black leather gloves — were balled into fists. A dagger hung from his belt, too. Fabrizio thought him coiled with fury, ready to strike.
There were, Fabrizio knew, a Queen Jovanna and a Princess Teresina, the king and queen’s daughter. Neither was present.
Confronted by such riches and magnificence, and all these powerful people staring at him, Fabrizio felt utterly alone. Why did I ever offer to collect those papers? he asked himself.
Then he realized that in the king’s hand was one of the treasonous papers.
“My lords,” bellowed DeLaBina, “I have requested your presence here so I might speak on dangerous matters of state!” He bowed to the king.
Fabrizio, feeling he must do something, bowed as well.
King Claudio had been whispering to Prince Cosimo, showing him the paper. The prince, with nervous care, took the paper in his hands cautiously. Hearing DeLaBina, he looked up. To Fabrizio’s surprise, however, it was the count, his face knotted with rage, who called, “Yes, DeLaBina! Why did you ask us to come down here?”
“Your Majesty, noble princes, great count,” replied DeLaBina, “vile writings have been circulating throughout the city.”
The king shifted uneasily on his bench. “You mean this attack on me?” He pointed to the paper in the prince’s hand.
“The same, my lord.”
“Which has appeared in such great numbers?” said the count.
“Yes, my lord.”
“And circulated freely throughout the city?” the count added.
“Quite true, my lord,” said DeLaBina.
“There are those,” cried the count, “who apparently would like to depose the king and end his rightful rule! Let me state here and now, that all such conspiracies will be crushed without mercy. I don’t care whose evil hand concocted this plot.” The count glared at DeLaBina. “Anyone — anyone — high or low — who so much as touches our anointed king — shall pay a dreadful penalty!” His hand went to his dagger.
Fabrizio trembled at his rage.
King Claudio, white-faced, retreated into a corner of the bench as if wishing to hide. “That’s true enough, Count,” he said. “We intend to remain on our rightful throne so long as a loving God gives us strength to breathe.” In a feeble display of anger, he pulled out his dagger and rested it on his lap.
“And let the world know,” Prince Cosimo added, “that I, too, have the strength and will to protect my father.” He put one hand on the king’s shoulder as if to reassure him, even as he took away the king’s dagger, the way a parent might remove a dangerous toy from a child.
“Quite correct, my lords,” said DeLaBina, bowing toward the king with almost every syllable he spoke. “I can assure you that His Majesty’s Ministry of Justice and Licenses — which I have the honor to command — is here to expose all traitors!”
“And if you don’t, I shall,” said the prince, looking over the king’s head toward the count while putting his father’s dagger in his own belt.
It made Fabrizio recall something Mangus had said, that the count and prince were rivals for the king’s attention.
“My lord,” said DeLaBina, this time speaking directly
to the king. “Fear not. I have made much progress in this matter. I’ve determined that the identical replications of these papers prove they have come from the most evil of malefactors, the heart of sinfulness.”
“Ghosts?” cried the king. “Is that who made the papers? Ghosts can do anything they wish, you know. They go everywhere, too. Did they make the papers?”
“Worse,” said DeLaBina.
“Worse?” cried the king. “What … what could be worse than ghosts?” He gripped the edge of the bench as if to spring up and run.
“My king,” said DeLaBina, “considering your importance in this world, it’s no wonder that you have attracted an enemy more fearful than ghosts. It is —” He paused dramatically.
“Who?” the king asked, his voice trembling.
“My lord,” said DeLaBina, “I fear it is … someone in league with the devil.”
“God protect me!” shrieked the king.
“Which is to say,” DeLaBina hurried on, “someone ordered these treasonous papers to be made — magically.”
No sooner did DeLaBina say this than the prince — who had been holding the paper — cried out, “Magic? God preserve us!” and flung it away as if it were on fire.
“It’s just what I’ve always feared,” cried the king. “Malignant spirits — ghosts — devils — hover about Pergamontio and wish to do us harm!” He looked with dismay first at Prince Cosimo and then at Count Scarazoni. “Count Scarazoni. Why have you done nothing about this?”
The count ignored the question and spoke instead to the magistrato. “Signor DeLaBina, do you truly believe these papers were made magically?”
“How else can you explain that so many were made exactly the same? So yes, made magically, but ordered by someone.”
“Where is this someone?” demanded Count Scarazoni. “If you can bring him forward, I shall cut out his heart!”
Oh, my poor master! thought Fabrizio.