The Drawing of the Dark

made him open his eyes and look around. They were in the dark, unused chapel again, faintly lit by the as-yet tenuous dawn.

'Why...' the Irishman croaked, 'why should they have.. .recognized me or my voice? Any of them?'

'You need a drink,' the sorcerer said, kindly.

'Yes,' he agreed, after some thought, 'but if I have one I'll be sick.'

Aurelianus reached under his robe. 'Here,' he said,

handing Duffy a straight, dried snake. 'Smoke this.'

The Irishman held it up and peered at its silhouette against the window, rolling it between his fingers. 'Is it' like that tobacco plant from the Evening Isles?'

'Not much. Can you get to your room all right?'

'Yes.'

'Take this too,' Aurelianus said, handing him a little leather bag sealed with a twist of wire. 'It's an ointment to prevent flesh from becoming infected. Wash your face before you go to bed and then rub this into those cuts.

With any luck they won't even leave scars.'

'God. What do I care about scars.' He plodded toward the door, opened it, and turned. 'Why did they all speak contemporary Austrian, if no one's been down there for so long?'

He couldn't clearly see the old wizard's expression, but Duffy thought he was smiling a little sadly. 'There was no Austrian spoken down there tonight, except for a couple of your whispers to me. All the conversations between us and those tunnel-rats was in an archaic Boiic dialect seasoned with corrupt Latin; and the thing in the well spoke a secret, nameless language that reputedly antedates mankind.'

Duffy shook his head absently. 'Then how did I understand...' He shrugged. 'Why not? Very well. I'll be talking to badgers in finger-language next, I don't doubt. Yes.

And what could I possibly have to say to them? Good night.'

'Good night.'

Duffy lurched away along the creaking boards of the corridor. Aurelianus stepped to the doorway and watched his unsteady progress; he saw the Irishman lean toward one of the still-burning wall cressets, puff the snake alight, and plod on, trailing clouds of white smoke.

* * *

Chapter Eleven

It was Easter morning, and the bells of St Stephen's rang solemnly joyful carillons out across the sunlit roofs of the city; another winter had been survived, and the several churches were filled with citizens celebrating the Vernal Equinox, the resurrection of the young God. At midnight all candles had been put out - even the tabernacle lights - and a new flame had been struck from the flint and steel in the cathedral vestibule and carried by altar boys to the other churches, in order to begin the new liturgical year with a renewed light.

On the secular levels, too , it was a big day. Sausage vendors had set up little grill-carts at every corner, and sent spicy, luring smoke whirling away through every Street; children, dressed up for mass in their finest doublets and dresses, scampered about St Stephen's square afterward, begging their parents for pennies to buy Easter cakes with; and the sellers of relics and sacred gifts had people waiting in line to buy holy cards, rosaries and bones of various saints - it was later estimated that six entire beatified skeletons changed hands that day. These branches of commerce enjoyed an ecclesiastical dispensation from the rule against working on Sunday, but other small businessmen had taken advantage of the obscuring crowds to peddle their own, unsanctified goods furtively. One of these, a self-styled troop outfitter, had parked his cart at a corner of the Tuchlauben and folded down its wooden sides, revealing racked assortments of swords, hauberks, halberds, helmets and boots, some of them in fact old enough to be plausibly offered as relics.

He had done a fair amount of business this morning, and brightened still more when he saw a battered-looking old warrior come weaving through the crowd, his gray head standing a full foot above the tide of passersby.

'Ah, you there, sir,' piped the merchant, hopping nimbly down from the cart's seat to land on the pavement in front of Brian Duffy. 'Do you call those boots?' He pointed at the Irishman's feet, and several people paused to look. 'I won't say what I'd call'em, since I suspect you'd swipe my head off, heh heh. But do you think you' can defend Vienna in those, charging - God forbid! - over the jagged rubble of our city's walls, as like as not? Say no more, sir, I can see you hadn't given it any thought, and now that you have, you agree with me. I happen to have a pair here that were made for Archbishop Tomori, but never worn because he was killed by the Turks before delivery. I see you and that courageous soldier of God have the same size feet, so why don't you just -'

'Save Tomori's boots for somebody with as little sense as he had,' Duffy advised gruffy. 'I might, though,' he added, remembering the sword he'd broken in his canal-fall the day before, 'be able to use a new sword.'

'It's the right man you've come to! This two-handed thing, now -'Might conceivably make some Jannisaries laugh themselves to death. Be quiet. I want a rapier, with a left-handed grip, a full bell-guard and quillons, heavy but with the balance point about two inches forward of the guard. Made of Spanish steel. A narrow blade with -,

He stopped, for someone had grabbed his arm and pulled him back. Turning irritably, he saw Aurelianus' crumpled-parchment face framed by a black hood. 'Damn it, wizard,' Duffy snapped, 'what's the matter now?'

'You don't need to buy a sword,' Aurelianus said.

'I've got a good one you can have.'

There were a few hoots from the crowd, and Duffy stalkingiy dragged the sorcerer several paces down the Street. When it no longer seemed that everyone was paying attention to them, he stopped and turned to the old man. 'Now, what are you saying?'

- 'Why do you walk so fast? I've been following you for blocks. I said I have a sword you can use. You don't have to buy one.'