Westmark Read online

  "Our fortune has been frayed," he told Theo, "but we shall mend it thread by thread."

  The Demon Coachman, chewing on his pipestem, let Friska make her own pace, ambling eastward. Toward afternoon, they came in sight of a town, which the count identified as Born. He ordered Musket to halt in a vacant lot on the outskirts.

  "There's a good supply of ditch water," said Las Bombas, surveying the weed-choked field. "Plenty for Dr. Absalom's Elixir. As a further attraction, I think we shall do The Goblin in the Bottle."

  "No you don't," put in Musket. "No more of that."

  "The effect is marvelous," the count said to Theo. "A glass bottle with a head inside that answers every question about the future. Musket sits under a table with a hole in it, the bottle has a false bottom."

  "Yes, and last time some wiseacre corked me up. I could have smothered. No more, that's flat." Musket snapped his jaws shut and folded his arms.

  Las Bombas shrugged and went on. "In any case, we'll have The Unfortunate Child of Nature. It goes with Dr. Absalom's Elixir. You," he added to Theo, "will be an untamed savage from the wilds of. High Brazil-whooping, leaping about, whatever occurs to you. One drink of elixir-you needn't swallow it-and you're calm and happy as a lark. You made a splendid Trebizonian. The Unfortunate Child of Nature is the same, except for the blue and yellow stripes."

  "I can't paint my clothes," replied Theo. "They're all I have."

  "Not your clothes, yourself. As for clothes, you'll need very few."

  Las Bambas produced a dented bugle from the chest at the back of the coach and sent Musket with it into Born to announce their presence. He set out some paint pots and instructed Theo, who had reluctantly stripped to his undergarments, in the art of becoming the Unfortunate Child of Nature. While Theo daubed himself, Las Bombas filled a number of glass phials at the ditch, adding powdered herbs from his own supply. For his costume, he donned a shabby robe, a wig, and pair of spectacles. Finally, he attached four rods to the comers of a box lid and on this makeshift table put a life-sized wooden head.

  "A phrenological head," explained the count. "It shows the location of humors, dispositions, and temperaments. My patients, for some reason, find it reassuring."

  Musket had come back, blaring his bugle, trailed by a straggle of idlers and street urchins. Las Bombas began to proclaim the virtues of Dr. Absalom's Elixir, and Theo to offer his best version of a High Brazilian war dance. Neither got far in these occupations.

  "Welcome, fellow blockheads," declared the phrenological head.

  Las Bombas choked in midsentence. Theo's war whoop died on his lips. The voice had come from the wooden head.

  "Come on, don't be shy," it continued. "Have a taste of that mess. Look what it did for me. I rubbed some on my hair. Now I save a fortune in barbering."

  The onlookers burst into laughter, taking these remarks-as part of the show.

  "I'll thank you not to interrupt," said the count, hastily collecting his wits and trying to behave as if he had expected this to happen. "Please hold your tongue, sir. Or madam. Whichever you are."

  The phrenological head answered with a loud, wet, and rasping noise, adding, "At your age, can't you tell the difference?"

  The impudence of the head and the discomfort of Las Bombas sent the crowd into new gales of laughter. Some of the onlookers began tossing coins onto the table. This encouraged the head to inquire if there were moths in the count's wig, to comment on the size of his paunch, and the uselessness of his lazy assistants. The audience guffawed, more coins sailed through the air. When it was clear that the onlookers had emptied their pockets, the phrenological head announced it had nothing more to say. Las Bombas had sold not one bottle of elixir, but the profits were as great as if he had fobbed off his entire stock.

  Once the audience had drifted away, the count seized the phrenological head, turned it upside down, shook it, and rapped it with his knuckles.

  "Speak up! What's the trick?"

  Meantime, one of the urchins crept from under the coach and stood watching them. It took Theo a moment to realize this collection of skin and bones was a girl. She wore a pair of ragged breeches tied with a rope about her bony hips, and a dirty shirt with more holes than cloth. She was drab as a street sparrow, with a beaky nose in a narrow face. Her eyes were blue, but pale as if the color had been starved out of them.

  Theo had-never seen such a pitiful waif. The count, however, was less deeply touched. "Off with you," Las Bombas ordered. "We are conducting a scientific investigation."

  "Give her something. You can see she's hungry." Without waiting for the count's approval, Theo picked a coin from the table. The waif snatched it and held out a filthy palm.

  "Let's have my share. You wouldn't have peddled a drop of that muck without me, not to that crowd."

  "What are you saying?" demanded the count. "That you did all that nonsense?"

  "Cough it up," declared the phrenological head. "Pay out fair and square or I'll never speak another word."

  Las Bombas gaped. "Do that again."

  "You heard me the first time."

  The voice came from inside the coach. Startled, Theo turned to look. Las Bombas had not taken his eyes from the girl's lips. He studied her closely with genuine admiration.

  "In all my travels, I've only met three people better at that trick. Who taught you?"

  "Nobody. I learned it myself, when I was the Queen's Home for Repentant Girls. The charity mistress wouldn't let us talk to each other. So I used to send her into fits. She never knew who to blame. She must have been glad when I escaped."

  "And you've been living on your own, in the streets?" put in Theo, dismayed.

  "Hanno was my friend for a while. He was a burglar-the best. He said I could be as good as he was. He was teaching me the trade," the girl added proudly. "Then he got hanged."

  The dwarf had finished collecting the stray coins. The girl looked him up and down. "Hallo there, Thumbling. Give us a pull on your pipe."

  The dwarf grinned and handed it over. She squatted down, stretched out her legs and, to Theo's further distress, puffed away happily. The urchin luxuriously scratched her washboard of ribs through the holes in her shirt.

  "Now," she said, "where's the rest of my money?"

  Las Bombas did not answer immediately. His eyes seemed fixed on some distant vision. He smiled with a look of pure greed and innocent joy.

  "My dear lady," he said at last, "whatever your name is."

  "Mickle is what they call me."

  "Mickle, then. I take it you have no permanent attachments. I urge you to join me and my colleagues. The possibilities are vast. The sums could be enormous."

  "Sums?" said Mickle. "Does that mean money?"

  "All you could desire. Eventually, that is."

  "Done!" cried Mickle, spitting in her palm and seizing the count's hand. Theo could not keep silent.

  "Wait a minute," he said to Las Bombas. "You can't just pick her up like a stray cat. She ought to be someplace where she can be looked after properly. It's not fair to the girl."

  "He was talking to me, not you," broke in Mickle. "You stay out of it with your It's not fair to the girl, she ought to be looked after properly." The girl had spoken these last words in Theo's own voice. Though lighter in tone, the accents were identical. Theo did not find it flattering.

  Las Bombas clapped his hands. "Marvelous! Still another gift! We'll find good use for it."

  Theo said no more, knowing it would be labor lost. He was, moreover, unwilling to open his mouth and have his words tossed back into it. He smarted at the girl's mimicry. He went to the ditch and set about washing off the paint.

  When Theo returned, Las Bombas announced they would travel no further that day. Musket hurried into Born to buy provisions.. Mickle flung herself on the food, gobbled it as if it could be snatched away at any moment, wiped her hands on her breeches, and contentedly sucked her teeth. At nightfall, Las Bombas opened one of the coach seats, turning it into a co
t, and bedded down on it. Musket curled up on the box while Theo stretched out under the coach. Mickle sprawled on the turf beside Friska.

  The moon was still high when Theo woke to a thin, trembling sound, like a small animal in pain. He listened a moment. It came from the direction of Friska and the girl. He crawled out and walked cautiously toward them. The mare switched her tail and snuffled gently. Mickle lay on her side, one arm beneath her head, the other out flung. She was motionless, but sobbing as if her heart would break. Alarmed, Theo knelt. "What's the matter?"

  The girl did not answer. Tears flooded her cheeks. He waited silently a while, then went back to the coach. The girl had never stirred. Through all her weeping, she had been fast asleep.

  8

  By the time Theo opened his eyes, Las Bombas was already up and stirring, dressed in an embroidered caftan and red fez.

  "There you are, awake at last," said the count while Theo climbed stiffly to his feet. "Great plans are in store. We'll talk them over at breakfast. I'll pack away Dr. Absalom's Elixir. I suggest you go and rouse our young lady. She'll be in your charge. Your first responsibility, on the earliest occasion, will be to make certain she takes a bath. She's a natural genius, but she smells like a fox."

  Mickle still sprawled on the turf. Twice during the night, Theo had gone anxiously to her side. Except for that one strange spell of weeping, she had slept peacefully as she slept now, a half-smile on her wan face. Reluctant to wake her, for some moments he looked down at the girl, feeling like an eavesdropper on a secret part of her life. At last, he took her by the shoulders and gently shook her.

  "Come along. It's morning."

  "Go away," mumbled the girl. "I get up at noon."

  Theo continued urging, but what finally brought Mickle to her feet was the aroma of eggs which Musket was frying in a saucepan. While she attacked her breakfast, the count polished the lens of a lantern, then set it down beside several large round looking glasses.

  "The tools to fame and fortune," said the count. "Oh, we'll do The Phrenological Head, I have some further thoughts on that. But what I have in mind is far more spectacular: The Undine. That's a mermaid, my dear, half human, half fish. A fabulous creature of the sea, charming, alluring. Picture it. A dimly lit chamber-we'll use the lantern for that. The Undine seeming to float in midair-I've worked out a clever arrangement of those mirrors. The beautiful sea-child speaks. She knows all. She reveals the mysteries of the future. At a good fee, of course. For a costume, she only needs a fishtail. Any seamstress can stitch it up."

  The count beamed. "There's my plan. Simple, elegant, and cheap. What do you say to that?"

  Mickle shrugged. "It's easier than housebreaking."

  "If you ask me," said Theo, "I think it's nonsense."

  "My dear boy!" Las Bombas gave him a wounded glance. "How can you say."

  "Look at her," Theo went on. "Who'll pay to see a scrawny little street bird decked out as a mermaid?" This was his honest, but less than complete, opinion. For some reason, the idea of Mickle being gawked at gave him a peculiar twinge, Las Bombas drew himself, up in injured pride. "No doubt you have a better suggestion."

  "Yes, well-in fact, I do." Theo declared. Having made this claim, he wondered how to justify it. He paused, hastily seeking an idea, then went on. "Didn't you tell me something about summoning spirits?"

  "They proved reluctant," the count admitted. "In other words, I couldn't pull it off."

  "Now you can. Put those arms and legs together with the phrenological head. Press the girl in a black robe and hood, at a table with one candle in front of her. The spirit appears out of thin air-Musket and I can pull it up and down on strings-and seems to talk. You know she's good at that." The count said nothing for a long moment. His face shone, his mustache quivered, and he whispered in a voice filled with awe. "The Oracle Priestess. I can see her now. Marvelous!"

  "We have paints and brushes," added Theo. "I can make a signboard announcing it." Las Bombas turned a smile of admiration on Theo. "My boy, I'm proud of you. You have the mind of a first-rate mountebank." The count, on the spot, produced a square of pasteboard from his store of oddments and ordered Theo to begin work immediately.

  Collecting his drawing materials, Theo sat on the ground a little distance away and began to sketch the letters, sorry Anton had ever taught him the skill. He had only intended to keep Las Bombas from making a spectacle of the girl; instead, he had put the count onto a scheme equally disreputable. The count's compliment had unsettled him further. He wondered if indeed he had the heart of a mountebank. He already knew he could have been a murderer.

  Mickle had been circling him, venturing closer until she was able to peer over his shoulder. "What's it say there?"

  Having put himself into his predicament entirely by his own efforts, Theo was out of sorts with everyone else, especially the girl. "It's plain enough, isn't it?"

  Mickle shook her head. "I don't know letters."

  "You can't write?" Theo put down his brush. "You can't even read?"

  "I wanted to. Nobody would teach me. Hanno said it was a waste of time for a burglar. In the home, they mostly gave us repentance and oatmeal. So I never learned."

  "Didn't your parents teach you?"

  "They couldn't."

  "Couldn't read or write, either?"

  "I don't know. They were dead. I don't even remember them. I used to live with my grandfather until he died, too. Now I'll never learn."

  "Yes, you will." Theo forgot he was supposed to be vexed. "It's easy. I can show you, for a start. Right now. Do you want to?"

  Mickle nodded. Theo put aside the poster and picked up a sheet of paper. Mickle crouched beside him, eyes wide.

  "We'll begin with block letters." Theo plied his brush. "Look here. This is the first: A."

  "I've heard of that. So that's what it looks like?"

  "Remember now: A stands for apple."

  "What?" cried Mickle. "I know apples. That isn't one."

  "It's only for the sound," said Theo. "All right. Make it A for-for arrowhead."

  "That's better. Yes, I can see that."

  "Then comes B. It's a boat, with wind in the sails. Now, for C-"

  "How long do they go on?" protested Mickle. "Just tell me the best ones."

  "You'll have to know them all, twenty-six of them."

  The girl whistled. "That many? I don't have to use them all at once, do I?"

  "Of course not. But when you go to write a word, you have to do it letter by letter."

  "That's a slow business. I know something faster." Mickle made small, quick gestures with her fingers. "That's how my grandfather and I used to talk. He was deaf and dumb, you see. I worked it out better after I ran off. When they caught me and put me in the home, I showed the other girls how to do it. The charity mistress didn't know we were talking. She thought we were only fidgeting. Then, with Hanno, we made up all kinds of signals. Just lifting your knuckle-like this-it meant 'Look out, someone's coming.' In the burglar trade, it helps if you can talk without making noise."

  "Will you teach me?"

  "Why? Are you going in for burgling?"

  "I like to learn things, that's all. Come on, I'll make a bargain with you. Teach me your language and I'll teach you numbers as well as letters."

  "All right," said Mickle. "But no skimping. Show me all twenty-six. And all the numbers, too."

  The paint had begun to cake. Promising to go on with the lesson as soon as he finished, Theo turned back to his work. Mickle stayed beside him, watching closely.

  After a time, he turned to her and asked quietly, "Are you all right now?"

  The girl frowned. "What do you mean?"

  "You were crying last night."

  "Was not! I never cried in all my life. Not when my granddad died, not when the mistress strapped me, not even when Hanno-"

  "I heard you," said Theo. "I saw you. You must have been having a bad dream."

  The girl drew back and jumped to her feet. She did
not answer, only darted to the coach. Theo called after her. She paid no attention. Las Bombas was urging him to finish quickly so they could be on their way. Theo's hand trembled and he blotted a letter.

  9

  Cabbarus was happy. Going about his duties, he paced the corridors of the Juliana with his head bowed, the corners of his mouth turned down. Following His Majesty's collapse, the chief minister had suffered some uneasy moments. If the prospect of Cabbarus for a son had been enough to bring on a seizure, Augustine, recuperating, might have dismissed him outright. On the contrary, the king needed him more than ever, and refused to see any other councilor. And so Cabbarus was happy. As a principle, he tried only to show feelings admirably grave. Pankratz alone understood that his master's morose frown and air of aggressive gloom indicated that Cabbarus was in the best of spirits.

  The desired state of affairs had come about very simply. Dr. Torrens had refused to bleed the king, to purge him, blister him with poultices, or dose him with potions. To the dismay of the chief minister, Augustine regained some of his health.

  As Torrens admitted, it was health only of the body. The king spent his new energy pursuing his old obsession. Cabbarus had no intention of turning him from it. Instead of warning him against disappointment, Cabbarus provided Augustine with still more occultists and spiritualists, each with a different method of summoning the departed. They shared one thing in common: failure. Each disappointment took its toll of Augustine's health, undoing the best efforts of the court physician.

  Dr. Torrens was furious. He entreated the king to give up a ruinous, futile quest. Cabbarus, naturally, sided with the king. By serving his monarch's desires, which was no less than his sacred duty, Cabbarus set His Majesty and the court physician at loggerheads: a situation that grew more bitter each day.

  The storm broke sooner than Cabbarus hoped. It followed an audience granted to the latest necromancer, a hairless little man in tinted spectacles: a fraud who actually believed in his nonexistent gift and was sincerely dismayed when he could raise no spirits at all. He left the king on the brink of new collapse.