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Mothertongue got to his feet, outraged and dripping. 'I was wrong,' he hissed. 'There's no place in Camelot for you. I don't know who you may once have been, but your soul is now polluted and corrupt, a swamp wherein crawl mind-adders.
Duffy wanted to be angry, but was laughing too hard. 'By God,' he gasped finally, 'it was looking like a gloomy day till you showed up, Lothario! Mind-adders, hey? Ho ho.' Mothertongue turned and stalked out of the room.
Shrubs came dashing in as Duffy was polishing off the last of his black bread. 'Mr Duffy,' he said. 'Was there really a swordfight in here last night?'
'No. Not while I was sober enough to notice, anyway.'
'There was a Turkish bomb out back, though, wasn't there?'
'I guess you could say so. How does the yard look this morning?'
'Like a battlefield. That burned-up wagon is sitting right in the middle like a black whale-skeleton, and there's dried blood on the cobblestones, and Mr Wendell's leather shop and warehouse are kicked to bits. He's real mad. Says Aurelianus is going to pay through the nose.' The image obviously impressed Shrub.
'Ah. No other damages, I trust?'
'No. Well, some kids were up on the roof, I think. Messing around.'
'Kids? Did you see them?'
'No, but there's little faces carved all over the roof, and stars and crosses and Latin words written in chalk on the walls.'
'Well, get a couple of the other boys, fill some buckets and climb up there and wash as much of it off as you can, will you? I suppose -'No, don't, Shrub,' interrupted Aurelianus, who had padded up behind Duffy's chair. 'Leave those markings alone, and don't let anyone try to clean them off.'
'Yes, sir,' Shrub nodded, and darted through the kitchen door, eager to leave with the easier order.
Duffy looked up as Aurelianus pulled out the bench Mothertongue had vacated; the old man was paler than usual, but his eyes glittered with extraordinary vitality, and his black clothes seemed to fit his narrow frame better today. 'May I sit down?' he asked.
'Of course. Why leave those drawings on the walls?'
'Why leave your armor on in a fight?' He let out a bark of laughter. 'After all the trouble you and I went to, down below, to summon guards, do you want to erase their warding marks? Be satisfied with human adversaries - you wouldn't want to take on the... creatures that are repelled by those runes and cantrips and faces.'
'Oh.' The Irishman scowled. 'Well, for matter of that, I don't feel like taking anybody on, these days.'
Aurelianus laughed again, as if Duffy had made a joke. 'Eat up, there,' he said. 'I figure you and I can ride out this morning and bring the King inside.'
'An interesting idea,' said the Irishman, 'but no, I'm afraid not this morning. I don't feel well, and I'm supposed to visit Epiphany's crazy old father.' Actually he had no plans for the morning, and would have preferred nearly any activity to calling on the old painter - especially after having suffered those lake-hallucinations at his boarding house three days ago - but he wanted to test Aurelianus, see how much latitude and freedom his new position was to allow him.
'Well, I guess it doesn't matter too much,' said the old sorcerer with a shrug.
Duffy was pleased. I'm my own man at last, he thought.
'That's Gustav Vogel, isn't it?' Aurelianus asked suddenly. 'I remember him. He did me quite a service at one time - it's one reason I'm helping his poor daughter. Is he doing any paintings these days?'
Duffy thought about it. He couldn't remember the old artist working on anything but that pen-and-ink wall drawing. 'No...' he began.
'I didn't think so,' interrupted Aurelianus, who seemed to have no patience with slow speech this morning. 'But this is beside the point. I told you I've got a sword to replace the one you broke two days ago; come up to my room now and take a look at it.'
'You can't bring it down here?'
Aurelianus was already on his feet. 'No,' he said cheerfully.
Duffy stood and began unsteadily to follow the old man up the stairs. The action reminded him of having seen Aurelianus with Giacomo Gritti the night before, and he halted. 'Didn't you tell me in Venice that you can't speak Italian?' he asked suspiciously.
'Why are you stopping? I don't know; I may have. Why?'
'What's your connection with Giacomo Gritti? Or Jock, as you call him now? I saw you chatting with him last night. You had better tell me the truth this time, too.'
'Oh, you saw us? He's been in my employ for years. His name's not really Gritti, by the way. It's Tobbia. I have to have a lot of agents in that area - Venice, the Vatican. And I do speak Italian. If I told you I didn't, though, I'm sure I had some good reason.' He took another step up.
