side to side in an ecstasy of welcome. Benno thought once of his mistress’s beloved Biondello, but this dog had seen no more food than its own fleas for a week. It went to Sigismondo as a saint might go to Death, with joy and trust.
It received earthly reward in the shape of a lump of sausage from the saddlebags, which disappeared into its stomach in a gulp. Benno, watching this, said, ‘I thought there’d be more. Villages like this send out dogs to eat strangers.’
The dog now lay on its chin before Sigismondo, its rump in the air and its tail threatening to hurl it off balance.
‘Perhaps there haven’t been enough strangers,’ said ‘Sigismondo, ‘or perhaps they’ve eaten the dogs.’
Whether or not he was the only dog left, this one grateful to be alive. Sigismondo’s warning hand prevented Benno from giving him more to eat. ‘D’you want to kill him? His stomach has to learn what food is.’
The sausage brought the child. Tied into dirty rags from head to foot, it came steadily towards them and stood at Sigismondo’s feet by the dog, looking up much the same expression. Sausages that came the sky were worth such risk. Benno could hear a cautious unbarring of doors. A face appeared momentarily at a gap in a wall which a gross misuse of language might term a window. Another gust of wind brought wreathing acrid smoke as though the village been holding its breath and now let it out. A hen over a hurdle fence and began to peck, staring wisely sidelong at grain it imagined.
‘What do you want?’
Impossible to tell from where the voice came. It the village speaking. Benno stopped in the act of handing a bit of sausage to the child, and it snatched and ran, diving into a hut. The dog barked. Sigismondo spoke from under his cowl and, despite the efforts of the wind to carry it away, his voice rang out clearly to their invisible audience.
‘I come from the Duke to Altosta.’
Benno was not surprised at the ensuing silence; even the hen stopped pecking. Dukes were bad news in villages; anyone in power always wanted more of what villages were short of: money, food, men to fight for them. Dukes didn’t send free pigs to villages.
‘Is it known here that the Duchess is dead? Murdered by an unknown hand?’
The silence continued. Duchesses, alive or dead, were no better news than Dukes. Murder was not news at all. They had some of their own, from time to time, and felt entirely no need for more. If Sigismondo had not been sent by the Duke, who therefore knew where he had got to and might presumably send soldiers along if he didn’t come back; and if he had not sounded like a man who knew what to do with an axe, the village would have swallowed him up, servant, saddlebags, horses and all.
‘The Duke has commanded me to seek out the dwarf Poggio. The first who tells me where he lives will get a reward.’
The silence changed quality; perhaps a speculative mutter almost below the limit of sound showed that various factors were being weighed. Matters beyond the visitors’ ken tipped the balance: the airs Poggio’s mother had given herself since her son had been taken on at the Palace, the pig she’d bought herself with the money he sent. Yet many would get a share when she killed the pig, whether a cheek or half a trotter. Then there was the fact, awkward at the least, that she was a witch.
The tall man in the black cloak was tossing a coin up, and again. It shone brighter than the harvest most of them never saw. There came the crab-like scampering, across the ruts and the blowing snow, of a larger bundle of rags. The hen squawked and flew, the dog cowered. The bundle extruded a hand like a root and pointed at the farthest hut in the village, retrieved the thrown coin and scuttled from sight. Sigismondo, followed by Benno leading the horses, and by the dog, picked his way to the Poggio residence.
It was tilted at a debauched angle in a nook of the hillside. Poggio’s mother let Sigismondo in by
It received earthly reward in the shape of a lump of sausage from the saddlebags, which disappeared into its stomach in a gulp. Benno, watching this, said, ‘I thought there’d be more. Villages like this send out dogs to eat strangers.’
The dog now lay on its chin before Sigismondo, its rump in the air and its tail threatening to hurl it off balance.
‘Perhaps there haven’t been enough strangers,’ said ‘Sigismondo, ‘or perhaps they’ve eaten the dogs.’
Whether or not he was the only dog left, this one grateful to be alive. Sigismondo’s warning hand prevented Benno from giving him more to eat. ‘D’you want to kill him? His stomach has to learn what food is.’
The sausage brought the child. Tied into dirty rags from head to foot, it came steadily towards them and stood at Sigismondo’s feet by the dog, looking up much the same expression. Sausages that came the sky were worth such risk. Benno could hear a cautious unbarring of doors. A face appeared momentarily at a gap in a wall which a gross misuse of language might term a window. Another gust of wind brought wreathing acrid smoke as though the village been holding its breath and now let it out. A hen over a hurdle fence and began to peck, staring wisely sidelong at grain it imagined.
‘What do you want?’
Impossible to tell from where the voice came. It the village speaking. Benno stopped in the act of handing a bit of sausage to the child, and it snatched and ran, diving into a hut. The dog barked. Sigismondo spoke from under his cowl and, despite the efforts of the wind to carry it away, his voice rang out clearly to their invisible audience.
‘I come from the Duke to Altosta.’
Benno was not surprised at the ensuing silence; even the hen stopped pecking. Dukes were bad news in villages; anyone in power always wanted more of what villages were short of: money, food, men to fight for them. Dukes didn’t send free pigs to villages.
‘Is it known here that the Duchess is dead? Murdered by an unknown hand?’
The silence continued. Duchesses, alive or dead, were no better news than Dukes. Murder was not news at all. They had some of their own, from time to time, and felt entirely no need for more. If Sigismondo had not been sent by the Duke, who therefore knew where he had got to and might presumably send soldiers along if he didn’t come back; and if he had not sounded like a man who knew what to do with an axe, the village would have swallowed him up, servant, saddlebags, horses and all.
‘The Duke has commanded me to seek out the dwarf Poggio. The first who tells me where he lives will get a reward.’
The silence changed quality; perhaps a speculative mutter almost below the limit of sound showed that various factors were being weighed. Matters beyond the visitors’ ken tipped the balance: the airs Poggio’s mother had given herself since her son had been taken on at the Palace, the pig she’d bought herself with the money he sent. Yet many would get a share when she killed the pig, whether a cheek or half a trotter. Then there was the fact, awkward at the least, that she was a witch.
The tall man in the black cloak was tossing a coin up, and again. It shone brighter than the harvest most of them never saw. There came the crab-like scampering, across the ruts and the blowing snow, of a larger bundle of rags. The hen squawked and flew, the dog cowered. The bundle extruded a hand like a root and pointed at the farthest hut in the village, retrieved the thrown coin and scuttled from sight. Sigismondo, followed by Benno leading the horses, and by the dog, picked his way to the Poggio residence.
It was tilted at a debauched angle in a nook of the hillside. Poggio’s mother let Sigismondo in by
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