“No.”
“It was originally called Vindobona—the city, you see, is even named after Finn.”
This is all very interesting, Duffy thought, but a trifle beside the point. He spread his hands. “So?”
Aurelianus sagged like a dancer stepping offstage. “So... you’ve had a history lesson,” he said tiredly. “Anyway, all this is doubtless why you were attacked coming here: word must have reached Zapolya—Suleiman’s man in Hungary—that you’d been hired to defend Herzwesten, and he sent assassins out to prevent you. Evidently you were aided by some of the old, secret folk; you’re fortunate that they’re loyal to the west, and recognized you.”
The Irishman nodded, but frowned inwardly. There’s a lot you’re not telling me, little man, he thought. All this was just a glimpse at one or two of the many cards you’re holding. Am I one of the cards? Or a coin in the pot? Your answers have only raised more questions.
“What is all this to you, anyway?” Duffy asked. “Why have you hired Bluto and me, and God knows how many others?”
“I’m not exactly a free agent. None of us is.”
“Ah,” Duffy said, “you’re ‘subject to the will’ of this Western King.”
Aurelianus’ voice was barely audible. “All of us are.”
“He’s living near Vienna, you say? I’d like to meet him sometime.”
The old man blinked out of his reverie. “Hm? Oh, you’ll meet him, never fear. He’s not well, though. He’s injured, can’t travel. But you’ll be introduced to him.”
A few moments of silence passed, then Duffy stood up. “Well, gentlemen, if that’s that, I’ll see you later. There’ll be a big crowd tomorrow, and I’ve got to rearrange the tables and take down the more fragile wall hangings.” He drained his cup of beer, and realized at last why it seemed so familiar to his tongue—it had something, a hint, of the deep, aromatic taste of the wine he’d drunk in the phantom tavern in Trieste.
Chapter Eight
THE LAST THING Duffy hoisted down from the dining room walls was a heavily framed painting of the wedding at Cana, and he peered dubiously at the smoke-darkened canvas as he carried it to the closet where he’d stashed the rest of the paintings, crucifixes and tapestries. Odd, he thought—this is the first time I ever saw the miraculous wine portrayed as a white. I’m not sure they had white wine in Palestine then. But in spite of the dimness of the scene, that’s clearly a yellow stream they’re pouring into Jesus’ cup.
The Oriental had arrived, and was sitting at his usual table, sipping beer and occasionally turning on the Irishman a reptilian eye. Duffy had considered, and discarded, the idea of going down to the cellar to warn Aurelianus of the “Dark Bird’s” presence. After all, he thought now, he didn’t caution me at all about my journey here—why should I do him any favors?
Duffy was noisily dragging the tables around into a more regimented formation—much the way the monks used to have the room arranged, he reflected—when Aurelianus opened the hall door and strode into the room.
“Aurelianus!” spoke up the Oriental, springing to his feet and bowing. “It is a pleasure to see you again.”
The old sorcerer started, then after giving the Irishman a reproachful glance bowed in turn. “It is likewise a pleasure to see you, Antoku Ten-no. It has been a long time since our last meeting.”
Antoku smiled. “What are a few years between old friends?” He waved at the other bench at his table. “Do me the honor of joining me.”
“Very well.” Aurelianus slowly crossed to the table and sat down.
And why, Duffy wondered idly as he slammed another table into place, the term “Dark Birds”? I could understand calling the blackamoor dark, or the feathered man a bird—but how, for example, does old Pitch-’em-out-the-window Antoku qualify?
Finally the last table—aside from the one at which the two men were talking in lowered but intense tones—was in place, and Duffy was turning to leave when a bench rutched sharply as Antoku stood up. “Are you trying to haggle with me?” he demanded of Aurelianus. “If so, simply name your price and dispense with the usurer’s tricks.”
“I’m being honest,” Aurelianus replied sternly. “I can’t help you this time... at any price.”
“I’m not asking for much—”
“I can’t help you at all.”
“Do you know,” there was fear in the Oriental’s voice now, “do you know what you condemn me to? The flickering half-life of a phantom, a will-of-the-wisp oni-bi wandering forever on the shore at Dan-no-ura?”
“I don’t condemn you to that,” Aurelianus shot back strongly. “The Minamoto clan did, eight hundred years ago. I simply gave you a reprieve once... one which I can’t now renew. I’m sorry.”
The two men stared tensely at each other for several seconds. “I do not yet resign,” said Antoku. He started for the door.
“Don’t think of fighting me,” Aurelianus said in a soft but carrying voice. “You may be as powerful as a shark, but I am a sun that can dry up your whole sea.”
Antoku stopped in the vestibule. “A very old, red sun,” he said, “in a darkening sky.” A moment later he had gone.
Duffy’s joking remark died on his lips when he glanced at Aurelianus and saw the lines of weariness that seemed chiselled into the stony face. The old sorcerer was staring down at his hands, and Duffy, after a moment’s hesitation, left the room silently.
In the kitchen the Irishman drew a chair up to the open brick oven and began meditatively picking and nibbling at a half loaf of bread that lay on the bricks to one side.
There seem to be a few teeth left in the old wizard’s head, he reflected. He wasn’t mincing any words with Antoku in denying him whatever it was that he was after—filthy opium, it sounded like. I wonder why he’s always so apologetic and hinting and equivocal with me. I wish he wouldn’t be—knowledge is better than wonder, as my old mother always said.
Shrub leaned in the back door. “Uh... sir?”
“What is it, Shrub?”
“Aren’t you going to come fight the Vikings?”
Duffy sighed. “Don’t bother me with these kid games you’ve somehow failed to outgrow.”
“Kid games? Have you been asleep? A dragon-prowed Viking ship sailed down the Donau Canal early this morning, and stopped under the Taborstrasse bridge.” Shrub’s voice rang with conviction.
Duffy stared at him. “It’s some carnival gimmick,” he said finally. “Or a travelling show. There haven’t been real Vikings for four hundred years. What are they selling?”
“They look real to me,” Shrub said, and scampered out into the yard.
The Irishman shook his head. I’m not, he told himself firmly, going to leave this warm room to go see a troupe of puppeteers or pickpockets or whatever they are. I’m at least old enough not to be tempted by cheap thrills. But good Lord, whispered another part of his mind... a Viking ship.
“Oh, very well,” he snarled after a few minutes, eliciting a surprised stare from a passing cook. The Irishman got impatiently to his feet and strode outside.
The first thing that struck the roof-crowding, street-choking spectators—after the wonder of the painted sail and the high, rearing dragon figurehead had worn off—was the age and disspirited look of these Vikings. They were all big men, their chests sheathed most impressively in scale mail; but the hair and beards under the shiny steel caps were shot with gray, and the northmen eyed the thronged canal-banks with a mixture of apathy and disappointment.