Brown, Mary - Unicorn Ring 03 - Master of Many Treasures

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2024-12-07 0 0 652.42KB 293 页 5.9玖币
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Master of Many Treasures
Master of Many Treasures
Prologue
It was a difficult journey.
Once in the air he had thought the flight would be easy; after all, he would be
flying higher than all but the largest raptors. The thermals, currents of air, clouds,
and winds provided his highways, hills and vales, and the skyscape freed him
from the pedestrian pace of those on the earth beneath. In that other skin he had
once worn ten or fifteen miles a day had been enough, but now he could easily
manage a hundred in one stint, though he usually cut this by half. After all, there
was no hurry.
No problems with the route, either. Like all of his kind the ways of the air were
etched into his brain as a birthright, a primitive race memory he shared with birds,
fishes and some of the foraging mammals.
At first the wind aided him on his way and the sun shone kindly at dawning and
dusk, for he preferred to return to land during the day for food and rest, ready for
the guidance of the stars at night. The sleeping earth rolled away beneath his
claws, and his reptilian hide adapted to the cold better than he had expected, not
slowing him down with his reduced heartbeat as he had feared.
Rivers glinted in serpentine curves beneath the moon, hills reared jagged teeth,
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Master of Many Treasures
tiny pinpoints of light showed where those wealthy enough burned candles and
tapers in castle or church, and he grew complacent, so much so that when the
Change came, he wasn't ready for it.
It was that comfortable time between moondown and sunrise and he was cruising
at about a thousand feet, ready to do a long glide down in search of breakfast,
when he suddenly became aware that something was terribly wrong. Although his
wings were beating at the same rate, he was losing height rapidly and feeling
increasingly cold.
Glancing from side to side, he was horrified to see that his wings were almost
transparent, were shrinking; his heartbeats were quickening, his legs stretching in
an agony of tendons and muscles, his clawed forefeet turning into . . . hands?
Then he remembered.
She had kissed him, not once but three times, and so as part of those accepted
Laws—Laws that until now he had dismissed as mere myth, though he had
jokingly told her of them as truth—he would now have to spend part of his life as
a human, earthbound as any mortal.
All right, all right, so he was going to be a man for a minute, two, five, but why no
sort of warning? He was falling faster and faster, but all he could think about was
there should be some way of delaying the Change, or of controlling it—
He landed plump in the middle of a village rubbish dump, all the breath knocked
out of him but otherwise unhurt. For a moment he lay dazed and winded, then the
stench was enough to make him stumble to his feet and stagger drunkenly down
the main (and only) street, shedding leaves, stalks, bones and worse. Halfway
down he realized he was not alone.
A small boy, perhaps five years old, clad only in a tattered shirt, was watching him
with solemn brown eyes in the growing dawnlight. By his side was a smaller
child, perhaps his two- or three-year-old sister, in a smock far too short for her,
thumb stuck firmly in her mouth.
He thrust his hands out in a useless gesture of friendship. "Sorry, children: didn't
mean to scare you. Just passing through. . . ."
Fiercely he concentrated on his real self—though what was real anymore?—and to
his relief he began the awkward pain of changing back. In the midst of his
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Master of Many Treasures
discomfort he became aware of the children still watching him, their eyes growing
rounder and rounder with amazement, and the humor of the situation struck him
even as he took a running leap into the air, as clumsy as any heavy water fowl.
"Good-bye," he called, but it sounded just like the rumble of thunder, and he could
see now the terrified children beneath him rush for the nearest hut and safety.
Never mind, they would have a tale to tell that would keep the village buzzing for
months.
After that the weather became more hostile, and not only was he battling against
his "changes," which took time to recognize and regularize, but also strong
easterlies, snow, and sleet, so it was well after the turn of the year before he saw in
the distance his objective, four thousand miles from the Place of Stones of his
transformation: a small conical hill set proud on a plain, a hill that shone softly
blue against the encircling mountains. . . .
Part One
Chapter One
Venice stank. For the loveliest city in the world (so I had been told), center of
Western trade, Queen of the Adriatic, she certainly needed a bath. One would have
thought with all that water around the smells would have been washed away, but
the reverse was true: it made it worse. The waters in the canals were moved only
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Master of Many Treasures
by the water traffic, which stirred but did not dissipate, and all the slops and
garbage merely settled a few feet further on.
The city was certainly busy with trade and teeming with merchants and dripping
with gold, but she was only beautiful at a discreet distance. Pinch one's nose and
one could admire the tall towers, fine buildings, richly dressed gentry; one could
feel the sun-warmed stone, listen to the sweet dissonance of bells and the calls of
the gondoliers; watch the bustle at the quays as the laden barques and caravels
were rowed in the last few yards . . . but keep one's nostrils closed.
I moved restlessly from bed to window and back again: three paces and then
another three. It was hot and stuffy in this little attic room, but when I had opened
the window some time back the stench had made me gag, so it stayed shuttered.
Consequently it was not only stifling but also dark: I had trodden on my dog
twice, but couldn't keep still.
Mind you, I was lucky to have a room to myself. Apart from Master Adolpho, the
trading captain, all the others—horse master, interpreter, accountant, guards,
cooks and servants—had to share. And why was I so privileged? Because I bore
papers that proved I was under the personal protection of the wealthy merchant
who had financed the expedition, Master Matthew Spicer.
And I was the only one who knew the papers were forged. By me.
I had a couple of other secrets, too, and secrets they must remain, else this whole
journey would be jeopardized, and that mustn't happen. I had left too much
behind, risked too much, hurt too many people to fail now. This was the most
important journey of my life, and to justify what I had done, it must succeed.
A bad conscience and a real fear of pursuit had kept me glancing over my shoulder
during our journeying the last couple of months, but at least then we had been
moving, whereas for the last two weeks we had been stuck in this stinking city. No
wonder I couldn't keep still. I—
Feet on the stairs, a thumping on the ill-fitting door.
"Hey, boy! Wake up there. . . . Cargo's in, we're going down to the quay.
Coming?"
Action at last! Telling my dog, Growch, to "stay," I jammed my cap on my head,
grabbed my tally sticks and clattered down three flights of wooden stairs to the
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Master of Many Treasures
street below. Outside it was scarcely less hot than my room, but at least there was
shade and a faint breeze off the sea. Master Alphonso, the interpreter, and half a
dozen others were milling around, but as soon as I appeared we set off for the
quay, through the twists and turns of narrow streets, across the elegant curves of
bridges, through the busy thoroughfares, all the while having to contend with the
purposeful and the loiterers; carts, wagons, riders, pedestrians, children, dogs and
cats impeded our progress. Watch out for the overhead slops—forbidden, but who
was to see?—and be careful not to trip over that heap of rags, a sudden thin hand
snatching at your sleeve for alms. Keep your hand on your purse and your feet
from skidding in the ordure. . . .
Matthew's ship was already being unladen. Because of the press of the sea traffic
she was anchored some way out, rowing boats busy ferrying the cargo ashore. A
couple of our guards stood over the deepening piles of bales on the quayside, and
our accountant started setting out paper, pens and ink on his portable writing desk,
ready to itemize the cargo.
I tugged at Master Alphonso's sleeve. "How soon before it is all unladen? When
can we go aboard? When do we sail?"
He twitched his sleeve away impatiently. "How many times do you have to be
told, boy? When all the cargo is on dry land and checked by description against
the captain's listings, then it is taken to a warehouse, opened and itemized, piece
by piece. Then, and only then, will it be distributed as Master Spicer wishes. In the
meantime the ship will take on a fresh crew and fresh supplies, the new cargo will
be listed and loaded aboard. Then if the weather is fair, the ship sets sail. If not, it
waits. Satisfied? I shan't tell you again."
I nodded, but inside I was in turmoil. Just how long would all this take? A week,
at least . . . I turned away, but he stopped me.
"Just where do you think you're going? You may be Master Spicer's protegeé, but
that doesn't mean you skip out every time there's work to be done. You're here to
learn the business, that's what your papers say, so stop farting around and go help
the accountant."
So I spent a long, hot afternoon working my tally sticks at top speed against the
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Master of Many Treasures
accountant's vastly superior abacus, then helped load the cargo for the warehouse.
All my own fault; when I had forged Matthew's signature on the carefully
prepared papers, I had represented myself as a privileged apprentice, to learn a
merchant's trade from the bottom up. This was obviously the bottom. Up till now I
had been a supernumerary; now it appeared I was about to earn my keep.
Snatching a meat pie and a mug of watered wine from a stall, I followed the cargo
to a warehouse on the outskirts of the city. There the bales were off-loaded,
recounted against the existing lists and at last opened to check the contents.
This was the exciting bit. Although Matthew was principally a spice merchant,
and some eighty percent of the cargo was just this—mainly pepper, cloves,
nutmeg, and mace—he also traded in whatever was out-of-the-way and unusual,
sometimes to special order. Thus the rich, black furs would be auctioned off in
Venice, the jewelry entrusted to another outlet; some rather phallic statues were a
special order, as were certain seeds of exotic plants. This left drawings and
sketches of strange animals, two curiously-shaped musical instruments, and
several maps. These last were earmarked for Matthew himself, together with a
couple of rolls of silk so fine it ran through one's fingers like water.
And who was in charge of these sortings and decisions? A tall thin man with a
hawk nose, conservatively dressed, who Master Alphonso whispered to me was
Matthew's agent in Venice, responsible not only for distribution and collection of
cargo, but also for hiring and firing.
It happened that he and I were the only ones left later: he because he was
arranging for warehouse guards, I because I was going back over one of my
calculations which did not tally. By now I was almost cross-eyed with fatigue, so
was only too grateful when the soft-spoken Signor Falcone came over and in a
couple of minutes traced my mistake and amended it.
"Only one error: tenths are important, youngster. Still, well done." His fingers
were long and well manicured. "You are Master Summer, I believe?"
I nodded. Relief at having finished without too much blame made my tongue
careless and impudent. "Matthew must have great trust in you. I wouldn't—" and I
stopped, blushing to the roots of my hair.
"Trust someone so greatly without supervision? Of course you should not, unless
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Master of Many Treasures
you know him well." He regarded me gravely. "But then, you see, I owe him and
his friend not only my livelihood, but my education. And also my life."
"Your life?"
He hesitated.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I shouldn't be so inquisitive."
"No matter. At your age I was the same." He hesitated again. "It is not a tale I
recount easily. Still . . ." His eyes were bright and dark as sloe berries. He took a
bundle of keys from his belt and, beckoning me to follow, locked up the
warehouse, nodded to a couple of armed men lounging nearby, and started back
towards the center of the city. "Come, we shall walk together. . . ."
It was a strange enough tale, and I forgot my weariness as I listened.
"When I was eight years old I was sold into slavery by a parent burdened by too
many children. It was in a country far from here, and I was pretty enough to be
auctioned as a bum-boy—you understand what I mean?—but I was lucky. A
stranger stopped to watch the bidding and among those who fancied me was an
old enemy of the stranger. So, to teach this man a lesson, the stranger bid for me
too, and in the course of time he won himself a boy he had no use for. The
stranger's name was Suleiman, on his way to visit his old friend Matthew
Spicer—I see that first name means something to you?"
I wasn't conscious of having betrayed myself, but I nodded. "I met him while I
was at Master Spicer's." I didn't add that it was the gifted Suleiman whose
doctoring had saved the life of my blind knight, the man I had once fancied myself
in love with.
"Then you will know that he is both wise and kind. He left me with his friend, to
care for and educate, to learn to read, write and calculate. There I also learned
French, Italian and Latin, for my own language was Arabic. At about the same age
as yourself I was sent abroad to learn the ways of trade, and after some years
Matthew appointed me his agent here. I have never regretted it, nor, I believe, has
he. His is a generous and trusting nature, and such a man's trust is not easily
abused. Nor should it be: remember that."
How could I not? For in my own way I had betrayed his trust in worse ways than
Signor Falcone could imagine.
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Master of Many Treasures
We had reached the end of the street where I lodged.
"Your journey starts in a day or two. I do not think you have the slightest idea how
far it will take you, nor are you mentally prepared as you should be. About that I
can do little, but at least I can see you are physically ready. Do not forget you will
be representing Master Spicer, and you need a new outfit for that." He fished in
his purse and brought out a handful of coin. He saw my eyes widen with surprise
at the gold, and allowed himself a wry grimace. "Call this the Special Fund. For
emergencies—and youngsters who need smartening up. Choose good materials,
and something neat but not gaudy." He put a couple of coins in my hand. "You
will also need travelling gear: leather breeches and jacket; a thick cloak; good,
strong boots; riding gloves." Another couple of coins in my hand. "It can be cold
at nights where you are going, so a woollen cap, underwear and hose." A last coin.
"And a good, sharp dagger. Go to Signor Ermani in the Via Orsini and say I sent
you." And he swung away across the square. "And get your hair cut! At the
moment you look like a girl!"
It was so late by now that the pie shop around the corner was closing as I went
past, but I managed to grab some leftovers and broken pieces for my dog, who was
almost crossing his back legs in an effort not to relieve himself by the time I
reached my room. So pressured was he that he forwent his supper until he had
christened every post and arch within a considerable distance. I trailed after him
without fear of marauders, for he had a piercing bark, an aggressive manner, and
extremely sharp teeth.
And, after all, when one has bitten a dragon and got away with it, what else has a
dog to fear?
That evening, what was left of it, I brought my journal up to date. This was Part
Two of my life. Part One was already finished the day I left Matthew's for the
second time. It was a bulky volume, bound with a wooden cover, and as I weighed
it in my hands I realized how much of an extra burden it would be to carry it any
further. It would be better to leave it with someone I could trust.
Part Two was far less bulky. I had already devised a form of shortened words and
wrote smaller, so could justify taking it with me. Pen and inks would have to go
with me as part of my job, and a couple of extra rolls or so of vellum were neither
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here nor there.
Next morning I went out in search of new clothes. Neat but not gaudy, Signor
Falcone had said, but although hose, breeches and boots were easy enough in
shades of brown, the jacket was an entirely different matter. Finding a good, plain
one was practically impossible. They all seemed to be embroidered with vine
leaves, pomegranates, artichokes, red and white flowers and even stars and moons,
but then Venice catered mainly to the rich and fickle. The materials, too—silks
and satins—were too fine for prolonged wear, but at least after a search I tracked
down a fawn-colored jerkin with the minimum of decoration, and a green surcoat
of fine wool, without the usual scallops, fringes and frills.
The afternoon I spent in mending my existing hose and underwear, a chore I
detested, but just as I had decided it was candle time, there was a rush of feet on
the stair and a hammering at the door.
"Master Summer? You there?"
"Yes . . ." I was practically naked, so the door stayed shut.
"Master Alphonso says you're to be ready at dawn."
"So soon?"
"Outbreak of plague reported in the south. Report to the quayside at first light."
The feet stumbled back down the stairs.
Plague? Perhaps the greatest fear man had, far more threatening than battle or
siege. Against a human enemy there were weapons, but the plague recognized no
armies but—deadlier than sword, spear or arrowhead, unseen, unheard,
unfelt—could decimate the largest army in the world within days. Either great
pustules broke out on the skin and the victim died screaming, else it was the
drowning sickness, when the chest filled with phlegm and a choking death came in
less than a day—
I shivered in spite of the heat, fear closing my throat and opening my pores. No
time to waste. I must call down for water to wash in, then collect my cloak from
the laundry down the road. Once my father's, then my mother's, it was practically
indestructible, being of a particularly fine and thick weave, though light and soft,
with a deep hood. Much mended and much worn, it was nevertheless better than
many new ones I had seen, but I had thought to have the mire and mud of the
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journey to Venice dispersed by a good soak.
So, that to collect, a good scrub for myself—and the dog, if possible—then
everything to be packed as tight as could be. Something to eat, and lastly a safe
place to leave Part One of my journal.
I hurried as well as I could, but the last streaks of gold and crimson were staining
the skies to the west when I knocked at Signor Falcone's door, praying that he had
not gone out to dine.
I was shown by a liveried servant to an upstairs room and gasped in wonder at the
fine furniture, glowing tapestries, delicate glass and silken drapes. My host smiled
at my expression.
"Without Suleiman and Matthew a mere slave could never have afforded all this. .
. . What do you want of me, youngster?"
I started to explain about the plague and our early departure, but he cut me short.
"I know all this. We have worked throughout the day to get everything loaded and
ready. What is that package under your arm?"
Straight to the point, Signor Falcone! I had rehearsed my story on the way.
"It contains a journal I have been keeping. Before I—before Master Spicer
sponsored me I had some amusing adventures, which I have written down plain.
If—if anything should happen to me on my travels I should wish Master Spicer to
have it. A sort of thanks . . . It might also explain some of my actions more
clearly." I was floundering, and I knew it. "Besides, it is too heavy to carry.
Please?"
"So, if anything should happen to you on the way—Allah forbid!—this is to be
forwarded to Matthew? Otherwise I hold it until your return; is that it? Very well.
The package if you please." Going over to his ornate desk he extracted sealing
wax and, rolling the stick in a candle flame, dropped the pungent-smelling stuff
onto the knots in my package. He motioned to quill and ink. "Write Master
Spicer's name there clearly. So. Now come with me."
Taking up a candle I followed him down a short passage into a small locked back
room, windowless, full of shelves and nose-tickly with dust. Boxes, scrolls, books,
small paintings and other packages lined the shelves, all neatly labelled. He placed
my parcel high up on the nearest shelf.
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摘要：

MasterofManyTreasuresMasterofManyTreasuresPrologueItwasadifficultjourney.Onceintheairhehadthoughttheflightwouldbeeasy;afterall,hewouldbeflyinghigherthanallbutthelargestraptors.Thethermals,currentsofair,clouds,andwindsprovidedhishighways,hillsandvales,andtheskyscapefreedhimfromthepedestrianpaceoft...

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