Tears of the Salamander (16 page)

So if Uncle Giorgio had left Sicily only on hearing the news of his brother’s death, he couldn’t have been away from Casa di Sala for more than twenty-two days, at the outside. How much gold would have gathered in the bottom of the furnace in that time? Not enough to fill one little pan, nothing like. So he had been away from Casa di Sala much longer than he said.

He must have started out at least a fortnight before the fire.

Why?

Because he needed to be in the city for several days before it, to set up his plan, to find his informant in the cathedral, to hire the first boat to be ready and waiting to take them to the island, to rent an upper room at the inn across the road from the bakery, and so on. And then, on that final dreadful evening, to go to the room and summon his powers as Master of the Mountain, and draw the fires of the bakehouse ovens bursting out of their fire beds to burn and destroy. And all the while the salamander’s gold was settling slowly into the bottom of the furnace, until there was enough there for him on his return to tap off one full pan and half another one.

What if the priests had decided to perform the operation sooner? Or later? (That was why he had needed the informant—one of the vergers or canons—to tell him that kind of thing.) Sooner, and he’d have had to invent some
story about being already traveling in Italy when he got the news, in case Alfredo asked. Later and he’d have needed to claim Alfredo before the decision had been made, but for different reasons that wouldn’t have suited him as well. What he’d wanted was what had actually happened, that he should intervene at the last possible moment to save Alfredo from the operation, thus binding his nephew to him with ties of gratitude and trust, with the tears of the salamander keeping him alive but losing their potency day by day.

Perhaps the priests had waited longer than he’d expected, and he’d hung on till what he’d thought was the last safe moment. But he had miscalculated the time it would take for the
Bonaventura
to sail the final leg home, and so had indeed come very near death for Alfredo’s sake.

Yes. Proof. Proof at last. And the salamanders told the truth.

Long after the singing of the salamanders had died away Alfredo lay where he was, thinking it through. But the cold fire in the rock did not die. Instead it seemed to gather itself together and flow upward, out through the surface, into his innermost body and become part of him. Thus Alfredo di Sala discovered his ancient inheritance of anger. The anger of fire. His birthright. Yes.

Now he was at last unshakeably certain what he must do. The whole of his life had narrowed suddenly to a single purpose: to take vengeance on Uncle Giorgio for the murder of his family. He still had no idea how he was going to achieve it, but nothing else mattered till it was done.

Still he lay where he was, feeding on the strength of the
mountain. He must become like the mountain himself, standing calmly above the Straits, flanked with peaceful olive groves and vineyards, hiding its roiling inner furies until the time came for them in their turn to burst out and burn and destroy. Yes, it was like that that he would destroy Uncle Giorgio. With fire.

Now he must think how.

He began with the freeing of the salamander. Finding a way into the furnace room was the first serious problem. He pushed himself up off the rock and went and poked around among the outbuildings, looking for tools with which to break down the door. He found a crowbar too heavy for him to wield and an even heavier wooden mallet. Toni could have managed them if he could be made to understand what was needed, and if Annetta would have let him, but it wouldn’t be fair for Alfredo to ask her, knowing what Uncle Giorgio might do in his fury when he found his salamander gone. For himself, he was prepared to take the consequences, but just freeing the salamander wasn’t enough. He wanted more than that. Uncle Giorgio must be destroyed, and know as he perished by whom, and why, and that the salamander was free once more.

He was in the stables, thinking about this, when he found the harness for the three mules. There were several sets, used for different purposes. Above them, on a couple of brackets, lay a long contraption, two poles joined at intervals by shorter ones, hinged at the joints so that when not in use the poles could be laid side by side. A heavy iron hoop dangled from them. He could guess what he was looking at. He had seen this sort of thing down at the
harbor. It was slung between two horses standing fore and aft and was used for carrying a load too heavy for a single animal—yes, this was how Uncle Giorgio had carried the salamander down from the mountain. The hoop was the right size to hold the big pot he had seen in the furnace chamber. More proof, he realized. The salamander had told him the truth, about its own capture, at least. How else could it have known about these objects, out here in the stables? Not that it mattered.

What mattered now was that this was how Alfredo was going to carry the salamander back. Not at once, though. When the time was right. First, though, there was the problem of getting through this coming Monday without confronting whatever destiny it was that Uncle Giorgio had chosen for him. He got no farther with this before it was time to return to the house for luncheon.

S
URREPTITIOUSLY
A
LFREDO STUDIED
U
NCLE
Giorgio while they ate. He was reading a book, but not in his usual steady, absorbed fashion. Instead he seemed to be flipping impatiently to and fro, reading a page or two, and then skipping to somewhere else. Alfredo realized that his uncle must be just as much on edge about the next few days as he was himself. Then, abruptly, he closed the book and pushed it aside.

“I hope you spent a pleasant morning,” he said.

Alfredo was taken by surprise. He had in fact been thinking about how he was going to manage both mules on the mountain path. Toni was very good with the mules, and could take the lead one, but it would have to be arranged so that Uncle Giorgio didn’t find out that he’d done so, and again, what could he say to Annetta to persuade her to let him? He stammered for a moment, then said the obvious thing.

“You told me to rest, so I went up to my room and read for a bit. Then I went out and just wandered about. I’m not used to having so much time. At the cathedral we mostly
did lessons when we weren’t singing. And you said I mustn’t sing at all while I’m here.”

“Soon you shall sing all you wish. As for lessons, there is no suitable school in the town, but I will make inquiries for a tutor for you. You have something else on your mind, I think.”

He’d noticed! He’d guessed. Thoroughly rattled now, Alfredo again stammered the first thing that came into his mind.

“I, er—I know it’s none of my business, but what’s going to happen to Toni? I mean…”

“You need not trouble yourself about Toni. Such cases do not survive much into manhood. The idiot is not long for this world.”

His own son! Alfredo was appalled and shocked by the casual tone.

“That’s sad,” he managed to say.

“Nonsense! It is much better so! Much better!”

This time the tone was far from casual. The words were spoken with spitting venom. Uncle Giorgio snatched up his book and started to read, leaving Alfredo stiff and chilly with understanding. Nineteen years ago Uncle Giorgio had made his previous will, naming somebody as his single heir—Toni, of course, new born, and before anyone had realized what he was. But they must have known soon after that, and from then on Uncle Giorgio had begun to detest the mere existence of the son who had failed to be what he wanted, and he longed to see him dead.

In that case why hadn’t he done away with him years ago? He was perfectly capable of it. Because…because
Toni had been all there was, until Alfredo came. But now, especially after next Monday…Once again he remembered the risks Uncle Giorgio had taken to get him here, not for family love or duty or anything like that, but because for his own purposes he truly needed to have him. He remembered the strange, intense look with which his uncle had stared at him on the mountain. Even then Alfredo had guessed at the need. On this coming Monday the need would be fulfilled. And after that he would no longer have any possible use for Toni. So Toni was not long for this world.

Alfredo munched his way through the rest of the meal, barely tasting a mouthful. When at last it was over he went up to his room to rest out the first heat of the afternoon. He tried to read, but his mind wouldn’t apply itself to anything but his problems, where it skittered uselessly to and fro between them.
I must talk to Annetta again,
he decided.
I must tell her everything. Then she can make up her own mind what to do
.

Long before the heat was any less he crept downstairs, took the recorder from its case and went out to the rose garden. Toni was already there, sitting on the bench playing softly—not anything Alfredo had taught him but a strange little tune that he seemed to be making up as he went along, because every now and then he would stop, go back to an earlier phrase and alter what he’d done before, fiddling with it several times until he was satisfied.

Alfredo leaned on the balustrade, watching and listening. After a while Toni seemed to be happy with what he’d invented and started again from the beginning. Alfredo
took out his recorder and joined in. Toni looked up, but didn’t stop playing. The tune was trickier than Alfredo had realized, with unexpected time-changes. It was the sort of music that makes you want to dance, but you’d need to be a clever dancer not to make a fool of yourself. Alfredo made a lot of mistakes, but Toni held the tune firm all the way through. The last notes died into the breathless air and they laughed together.

Alfredo went down the steps and sat beside Toni on the bench.

“You made that up yourself,” he said, pointing at Toni as he asked the question.

Toni nodded and tapped his chest. Obviously he’d understood, but from the way Annetta talked to him and about him he’d always understood a few simple things. He was probably still like that. The Angel of Fire hadn’t cured him, hadn’t disentangled whatever was wrong with his mind, but it had done something else, even more important. It had set him free, freed his spirit, his soul, freed them from his terror of the world and his shame of what he was. It had given him a life worth living.

Alfredo thought about this as they continued to play—bits of church music, sailor songs, fairground dances, with Toni continuously decorating the music, as soon as he’d picked it up, in ways Alfredo himself would never have thought of. And he liked some things better than others, not necessarily because they were simpler; in fact rather the opposite. It depended on whether he found them interesting. So obviously there was nothing wrong with the music
part of his mind. There must be some kind of kink, some blockage, somewhere else. If only…

“The tears of the salamander. Sovereign against all ills of body and mind.”

No, he couldn’t ask—in fact it would be a disaster. Uncle Giorgio hated his son. He wanted him dead. But…No, not yet. Wait until after Friday, when Uncle Giorgio was going to carry out some kind of test for the Second Great Work. Perhaps he’d know more then. There’d still be two days before Monday.

For the rest of the day every hour seemed to go slower than the one before. Alfredo took his
History of Rome
and the Latin dictionary down to supper, but could only pretend to read. Uncle Giorgio read in silence. Only as he rose at the end of the meal did he speak.

“Tomorrow, when we have breakfasted, you will sing the chant again to me. After that I will have preparations to make, so the rest of the day will be yours.”

The chant went smoothly. Uncle Giorgio muttered briefly before they began and the Angels of Fire did not appear, though Alfredo could sense the faint prickling of their nearness. The words still meant nothing to him, but he now seemed to feel them all as separate things, each of them full of its own dark import. Neither they nor the music were strangers in his mouth.

“Well done,” said Uncle Giorgio. “Now, as I told you, I have much to do. How will you spend your day?”