Answer a fool according to his folly.
Proverbs 26:5
Basti was halfway down the stairs from Danti’s studio, where he’d just finished the Herculean task of putting his new master’s tools and materials in order, when he heard the distant clash of steel against steel. Recognizing the sound, he ran the rest of the way down and flew through the south hall to the outside door.
Afternoon sun glittered off Dietrich’s and Araciel’s raised swords as they slowly circled, soft leather boots crushing dry leaves into the cobblestones of the keep’s outer court. Dietrich lunged, his bright blade skittering down the length of Araciel’s sword as the apprentice parried. Araciel tried for the opening, but Dietrich sidestepped and metal slashed air.
Someone snorted, and Basti looked up. Alrune was perched in the windowsill of the evening parlor, back against one side and feet propped against the other. Today his court fool’s clothes were cut of bright green velvet and satin over striped white-and-crimson hose.
“What are they doing? What’s going on?”
“They’re playing a boy’s game,” Alrune scoffed. “And at least one of them is too old for such folly.”
Basti looked back, wincing as the two engaged again, their blades flashing and ringing against each other. As if at a signal, the duelists drew back, gauging each other. Despite the cold and their own state of near-undress, a thin sheen of sweat gleamed on their faces.
“Are they practicing?”
“Oh, yes.” The dwarf snickered.
Fascinated, Basti admired the two men’s graceful moves and glittering swords. He’d never seen a duel so close, not even a practice one.
“Who do you think is better?” he asked, as Dietrich and Araciel crossed swords again. Alrune smirked, swinging one leg back and forth beside the wall.
“Araciel could fight forever, but Dietrich is more clever,” he said, raising his voice slightly as the two furiously exchanged blows. “Our apprentice is too naïve when it comes to deception, and his naïvete will be his downfall.”
“What do you mean? What kind of deceit is there in swordplay?”
“Oh, dueling is filled with bluffs and feints, just like everything else in the world, boy.”
The duel heated up, and Basti could barely tell what was happening, the two moved so quickly. Blades rose and fell, meeting at eye level, dropping to defend vitals, all as the two combatants wove back and forth, gaining a step, losing a step, constantly circling. Their breath steamed in the chill autumn air.
Then Araciel’s blade rose to parry a slash to his face, and Dietrich’s point suddenly turned and dropped. The apprentice recovered a second too late. The noble’s sword ropped across his chest and through his silk shirt, drawing blood. As Araciel tried to bring his blade back to bear, Dietrich’s point whipped up, stopping at the apprentice’s throat.
Araciel froze, a thin line of crimson staining the front of his ruined shirt, a bead of scarlet growing where the steel point pressed through silk. Basti swallowed hard, as though the point were against the hollow of his own neck. Alrune tsked.
“You’d think he’d have learned, by now,” the scholar muttered, disgusted.
“Do you concede?” Dietrich demanded.
“I do, my lord.”
The noble’s son stepped back, lifting his blade in a salute, and the apprentice did the same. Triumphant, Dietrich swept up his doublet and coat as he strode inside. Basti let him pass with a respectful bow, then hurried across the courtyard to Araciel.
“Here, I’ll hold your sword for you,” he volunteered, as the apprentice reached for his own doublet. Araciel gave him a rueful smile and handed the weapon over.
“Mayhaps thou might wield it for me as well,” he said, picking up the embroidered velvet finery. “Surely thou would do as well as I, e’en with thine injured arm.”
“Are you hurt?” Basti asked, tilting the unfamiliar weight of the light French saber in his good hand. The hilt was still warm from Araciel’s grasp.
“A scratch; Master Dietrich be an opponent well in control of his blade.” The apprentice glanced down at his stained shirt and forbore from pulling the doublet back on.
“I didn’t even know he was back,” Basti said. “I was working for Danti all morning. Did he catch the wolf?”
“It appears to have escaped them; that, indirectly, be the cause of our dispute.”
“Dispute?” Alarmed, Basti looked for Alrune, but he had already vanished inside, closing the window again. “I thought you were just practicing!”
“We do not practice arms here, as a rule.” Araciel picked up the sword’s scabbard, and Basti handed the blade back, letting the apprentice sheath it. “We did contest which of us would ride out to meet Donna Caterina on the trail to escort her safely back, for the wolf may yet hunt on the road, and we would not care to have it harry the mistress and her escort. I did claim the right, as I am my lord’s servant, but Dietrich did protest that his claim was the greater, as he is my lord’s son and Donna Caterina’s brother. As he hath won, he shall set out as the time of her arrival draws nigh.”
“Couldn’t you have ridden out together?”
“I fear me not.”
“Why?” Basti glanced at Araciel, but the apprentice seemed disinclined to elaborate, gathering his clothes and blade in one hand. Sensing that it was a delicate matter, he changed the subject. “So, what’s Donna Caterina like?”
Araciel’s gaze was distant as they walked up the stairs and back inside. “She be a pleasant and intelligent lady, with a quick wit and lively manner, though her interests do turn more to art and music than my lord and lady’s scholarly pursuits.”
“Is she married?”
“She was betrothed as a child to a man of my lord’s acquaintance, to be wed at fifteen,” Araciel said slowly, “but the noble did die of … of a French disease six months before the wedding. He was forty-two, and she would have been his third wife.”
“Was she disappointed?”
“I do not believe so.” The apprentice sounded cautious as he entered the parlor and set his bundle to one side. Alrune was already in the room, settled into his favorite seat in the corner of the room. “The marriage would have been beneficial for my lord’s interests, but Donna Caterina did not care for her fiancé’s reputation, and in truth, neither did I.”
Basti nodded, giving his friend a sidelong glance. It sounded like Araciel took more than just a casual interest in Caterina’s welfare, to him.
“So what will she do now?”
“This summer she did stay with my lord’s relatives, to survey her other marital prospects.” Araciel settled into a chair, expression neutral. “There be several possibilities, from the letters my lord has received, but this winter she returns unpromised.”
“And about what about the other brother, Alfons?”
“He be away on my lord’s business, maintaining our ties with other courts, and my lord’s family. My lord and lady did hope he might return this winter as well, but his last letter suggests he may stay in the city. It would be a pity, for his command of Greek and Latin be masterly, and he hath translated many works from diverse manuscripts for my lord and lady. I was looking forward to seeing what new books he would bring back for us.” Araciel smiled. “Thou would like him, Basti; he be a fine swordsman and hunter, a diplomat and a learned man. My lord be well proud of him.”
“So I am,” Johannes said dryly, standing in the doorway in a deep burgundy Schaube. Araciel leaped to his feet, executing a deep bow. Basti did the same, a split-second later.
“Forgive me, my lord, I have been chattering on; how might I serve you?”
“Actually, I was looking for Alrune. There’s a passage in Trismegistus that needs clarification.”
“I have all the time in the world,” Alrune smirked. Araciel ignored him.
“Allow me to serve you in our scholar’s stead; he be at his own studies, and I but engaging in idle conversation.”
The blond nobleman’s expression darkened as his eyes traveled from the bloody streaks on Araciel’s shirt to the sword in the chair by the door.
“You haven’t been dueling with Dietrich again, have you?”
“He rides out within the week to escort Donna Caterina safely back, my lord, and I shall stay to assist you here.”
“I don’t approve of dueling,” Johannes said sharply. “Somebody could get hurt, and I can’t spare either of you.”
“Very good, my lord.” Araciel lowered his eyes.
“Join us as soon as you’ve made yourself presentable,” Johannes said briefly, turning and walking off.
“Sorry. Good luck,” Basti breathed, as the scholar’s footsteps faded. Araciel grimaced, scooping up his clothes and sword as he left.
Basti sank back into his chair, absently wondering who Trismegistus was and how Araciel could help his masters.
He’s well-educated, he thought wistfully, staring at the chessboard that sat on a table before his chair. Basti, on the other hand, was just a merchant’s youngest son. He could read and write, and do sums, but he’d never attended university.
Maybe spending time in the keep would give him a chance to broaden his education, at least enough to acquit himself well in a patron’s court someday.
“Hello, Naich; you missed the day’s entertainment. Dietrich blooded himself on Araciel once again …. a feat I hope he isn’t too proud of, as easy as it is.”
Basti looked up in time to see the flautist incline his head to Alrune and pause by the chair Araciel had abandoned.
“Please, sit down,” Basti said politely, guessing the musician’s thoughts. Naich accommodated himself, his pale grey eyes glancing at the board. “Araciel and I were playing chess last night.”
The flautist lifted an eyebrow, turning one hand palm-up. Basti hesitated, not certain what he meant.
“I’m sorry,” he apologized, feeling embarrassed. “I don’t understand.”
Naich reached across the board to touch his bandaged arm, making the inquiring gesture again.
“Oh. It’s okay.” Basti shifted his arm, winced, and suddenly wondered why he felt like he had to lie to everyone. “Actually,” he sighed, “it really hurts.”
“Maybe you should amputate,” Alrune murmured. Basti scowled, but the scholar’s dark eyes rose from the pages of his book to give him a sardonic glance. “Tell Albrecht to pour that cheap brandy he bought last spring over the bites, and then wash them with clean water and forget the poultices.”
Naich nodded and rose, gesturing to Basti to do the same. Basti looked from the dwarf to the flautist, wondering if they were making fun of him. Was this another one of Alrune’s jokes?
Naich gestured again. With a trace of misgiving, Basti followed him out of the parlor and through the hall to the kitchen. There the flautist intercepted Albrecht, pointing to Basti and tapping his own forearm.
“Arm hurting you?” the cook asked, frowning and drying his hands on his tunic. Basti meekly nodded.
“A little.”
“Well, let’s take a look at it.” The thin German pushed up Basti’s sleeve and began unwrapping the bandages. Basti winced and Albrecht scowled. “Have these poultices been changed since you left Gestern?”
“Uh, no.”
The cook muttered in German, then shot a command in the same language to one of his assistants.
“This is going to hurt, then,” he said unsympathetically, pulling off the stained linen rags. Basti grit his teeth, tears stinging his eyes as the bandages tore away from his skin. “Too bad we don’t have any leeches to draw the foul humors out.” He handed the stained rags to an assistant, who dropped them in a pot of water.
Basti glanced at his arm, then looked away, nauseated. The gashes and punctures had stopped bleeding, but they were red and swollen, pale liquid oozing from freshly torn scabs. His whole arm throbbed.
“Hmm.” Albrecht prodded at the wounds, making Basti gasp, then murmured something to Naich in German. The mute flautist regarded the bites with interest, as unaffected as Albrecht by their appearance. The cook switched back to Tuscan. “You’re going to have some nice scars. This doesn’t look very good. If you aren’t careful, you’ll catch the rot.”
“Please, no,” Basti whispered, chilled by the very suggestion. Naich leaned forward and tapped him on the chest. For a moment Basti stared at him, his mind blank. Then he remembered Alrune’s words. “Oh … Alrune said you should pour some brandy over the bites. Something you bought last spring? He might have been joking,” he finished, uncertainly. “And he said to wash with clean water and, uh, not use a poultice.”
“He did, did he?” Albrecht pursed his lips and looked dubious. “Well, he’s the scholar. I hope he knows what he’s doing, though. A wound without a poultice….” He shook his head. “What’s going to draw off the illness?”
“I don’t know. That’s what he said.”
Albrecht grunted and got to work.
Basti was finally released with clean bandages and more dire warnings about rot. His arm feeling newly tender, he trudged upstairs to get changed for dinner.
Neither Master Dietrich nor Araciel were inclined to talk; Signore Johannes was keeping a stern eye on them both. Apparently their afternoon duel still wasn’t forgiven. Silence reigned over the table, and Basti was relieved when the meal was over. He, Danti and Araciel retired to the parlor for a game of cards – at Danti’s insistence – and it wasn’t until late in the evening that Basti bade the other two good night as they separated in the Gryphon Hall.
The bedroom was still dark when he awoke, shouting. He scrambled upright in bed, the cold air chilling his bare chest. The wind howled and rattled the window. He hadn’t bothered to close the shutters before going to sleep.
Fumbling for a blanket and wrapping it around him, he squirmed out of bed. Covers spilled to the floor as he walked to the window.
The nightmare had shaken him, but it was fading already, leaving only a faint memory of being chased through the darkness. He sat on the wooden chest beneath the windowsill, unable to tell what time it was, but certain he couldn’t have been asleep for very long.
A waxing moon struggled to glow through rapidly building clouds. Trees below the keep rocked back and forth, and dry leaves scurried across the cobblestones. Basti started. For one heart-pounding moment, he’d thought they were some sort of small creatures running for cover.
He rested his forehead against the glass and watched his breath create designs. I wonder what the weather is like in Napoli tonight. As dominating as his father and brothers had been, and as boring as his future had seemed in the family business, he still found himself missing his home.
A glimmer of light made him jerk his face away from the window; he’d dozed off. Something glowed through the pale cloud his breath had made on the chill glass.
He used a fingertip to clear a spot. A man was standing outside with a lamp. Basti held his breath and strained against the glass, trying to discern the person’s identity.
Then the figure looked up, and the wan moonlight highlighted pale streaks in his hair. Herr Naich.
The flautist was dressed in a long cloak that billowed in the wind, then wrapped tightly around him, only to be torn away again as the wind shifted. For a second Basti thought of the vision he’d had on his first night, and the long cloak that stranger had worn; but there was a profound difference between that fierce-looking man and the slender musician.
Naich finally lowered his head and walked away from the keep. Basti watched until the flautist turned a corner and the light vanished. At last, with nothing left to see, he turned away from the window and gently rubbed his bandaged arm, wincing at its tenderness.
He should close the shutters and go back to bed, but somehow Basti knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep anymore. The scaldini beside his bed – earthenware jars filled with glowing charcoal – didn’t seem to warm the room at all. The cold made him shiver, waking him even further.
Resigned to a sleepless night, he slid into hose and a shirt, then pulled on heavy wool stockings. Maybe he’d read in the downstairs library for a while. Surely there’d be something there he could understand.
When he reached the library door, he paused. Signore Johannes was sitting at the wide table across from Alrune. Light glittered from the tiny stones set into the dwarf’s motley as he looked up.
“Doesn’t anybody sleep at night anymore?” Alrune grinned at him. “Or have you decided to keep your master’s habits? The hour is right, but you’ll find the wine through the kitchen.”
“I couldn’t sleep, so I was just going to read,” Basti said, uncertainly. Signore Johannes glanced up.
“Go ahead. You won’t bother us,” he said , turning back to Alrune. Basti nodded and picked up a slim volume in German, curling up in a chair. The first word he couldn’t understand was inconsequential, the second was mildly irritating, and by the time he’d been forced to skip over about half of the page, he was ready to give up. He’d hoped such a slender volume might be easier to read, but apparently there was no correlation between the book’s width and its difficulty. Discouraged, his attention drifted to the lord’s conversation with Alrune.
“…attack is a bad omen. Don’t they say your ghost is a master of wolves?”
“Coincidence,” Johannes snorted. “We’ve had rogue wolves in the mountains before: old animals or mad animals. It’s not surprising that local legend would link the two.”
“Not surprising at all. And I have no doubt this particular wolf is both old and mad,” Alrune laughed sharply. “But how old, and how mad?”
“Sebastiano!”
“Huh?” Basti’s head snapped up and he flushed, caught eavesdropping. Signore Johannes waved him to the table. Basti set the book down and walked over, feeling nervous.
“How’s your wound?”
“Albrecht cleaned it today. He said it would scar, and we had to be careful about rot.” Basti looked at Alrune. “Master Alrune gave me some advice about tending to it.”
“So you see that it’s a purely material wound,” Johannes said, turning back to the scholar. “No ceaseless bleeding, no signs of the limb falling off.”
Basti flinched.
“I didn’t say the wound wasn’t material,” Alrune replied, unruffled. “I said it was a bad omen. It suggests that this might be a … difficult winter. Have you consulted the stars recently?”
“Why?” Johannes frowned. “I don’t remember seeing anything significant about the stars’ alignment this winter in the astronomical codices.”
“Oh….” Alrune ran a finger over the tabletop, his dark eyes peering at the nobleman from under unruly black curls, “I should rely on my own observations if I were you, signore. Consult the stars, summon a few demons. The motives of ghosts aren’t revealed in books.”
“I don’t deal with demons,” Signore Johannes snapped. Alrune laughed, leaning back in his chair. Basti shivered as the lord of the keep gave the dwarf a nettled look, then glanced away.
“You overstep your bounds, Mandragora,” Johannes said.
“A jester has no bounds.” The dwarf flipped the parti-colored buffone’s tunic he wore and smirked. “And neither do scientists and philosophers. Do you think your ghost has bounds?”
Basti fidgeted, unwilling to attract attention to himself, but growing more nervous every minute about overhearing this conversation. Neither Johannes nor Alrune paid him any attention.
“Exorcism failed. For the moment, I assume it isn’t diabolic. I’m not even certain it poses a threat to us. Thus far it’s only been an annoyance.”
“And you don’t have enough annoyances in the keep already?”
Johannes refused the opening, his eyes wandering around the room to rest once more on Basti.
“Do you know what we’re talking about?”
Basti swallowed.
“Araciel said there were stories the keep is haunted. But he said maybe it was … some other kind of spirit? Because the exorcism didn’t work?”
The nobleman grunted, losing interest.
“Please, my lord….” Basti bit his lip, then burst out, “is the ghost German? Does he wear riding clothes?”
Both scholars fixed their attention on him.
“Yes. You’ve seen it?”
“When I first got here, the first night.” Basti stared back at Signore Johannes, waiting for the scholar to laugh at him or dismiss his words. It scared him that the scholar was taking him seriously. “He asked me who I was and how long I’d be staying.”
“And you told him?”
“Yes, my lord. I — I thought he was another guest.”
Alrune laughed.
“You should have told me before this,” Johannes muttered. “I prefer to keep track of him.”
“I’m sorry. I — later I thought maybe I’d just dreamed him. He’s really haunting the keep?”
“Yes.” Johannes turned back toward Alrune. “Do you think we’re being threatened?”
“You?” Alrune gave his host a crooked smile. “From what I’ve read, the Erl King deals in deception and temptation. I don’t think you or your lady have anything to fear from either.”
“Insults one moment, flattery the next.” Johannes gave the dwarf an acid glare. “I invited a scholar, not a fool, Mandragora.”
“You would have been a fool yourself to do so,” Alrune agreed.
“So what does that make you, a scholar who’s pretending to be a fool?”
“Honest.”
Johannes gave Alrune a hard look. A moment passed, and his lips twitched.
“One of these days, Mandragora, you’ll go too far and I’ll send you away.”
“Perhaps you will,” the dwarf nodded. “Many others have banished me from their houses. But they also break their looking-glasses when they mislike what they’ve seen.”
“Getting rid of you might be a turn of good luck,” the scholar muttered, standing. Alrune’s eyes danced.
“Careful, signore, or I shall invite you to be my partner. I shall provide the tongue of silver and you shall provide the tongue of glass, and together we’ll make a fine mirror, indeed.”
“Good night, Mandragora,” Johannes said, sounding exasperated. “Good night, Sebastiano.”
“Good night, signore,” Basti replied, bowing. Alrune slid him a sidelong look and grinned as Johannes left the room.
“Tell me, Basti, are you afraid of ghosts?”
“I don’t know,” he said, ill at ease with the dwarf. “I guess so. They’re damned, aren’t they?”
“And are ghosts afraid of you?”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” Basti muttered, turning to leave. He still wasn’t sleepy, but he’d rather toss and turn in bed than play Alrune’s word games.
Alrune laughed.
“It would be interesting, would it not, to discover who in this keep has the most cause to fear our spirit … and whom our spirit fears himself? Every philosopher knows there’s symmetry in nature. All they need do to prove it is look in a mirror.”
Basti shrugged again, leaving the dwarf behind to chuckle to himself.