I clarified that puzzle by calling to mind a fragment of conversation in "through the Looking-Glass." It read like this, I remembered: "It's a poor sort of memory that only works backwards." The White Queen had said that and, later: "Sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast." I had never before realized the deep scientific philosophy of that delightful story. Meanwhile, it might help clear the fog that hung so persistently to some chambers of my mind.
My new acquaintance tapped softly on the door, which opened at once. Upon the threshhold stood a tiny male creature in a dark gownlike garment. He was no larger than a child of nine, and the bright face upturned to us might have seemed sweet if it had not reminded me of Guaracco's.
"Is this your son?" I asked my host.
He laughed quietly.
"Yes, Ambassador of the Powers Below. In some degree this is my son."
The little figure stood courteously aside, and let us step into a dark, narrow corridor. Guaracco's hand touched my arm through the folds of the borrowed cloak, and I allowed myself to by guided down the passageway and into a room beyond.
Here were dark, decent hangings, a thick carpet, chairs, a settee, and a table on which lay some bulky and ancient-looking books. A single fat candle in a bronze scone illuminated the room, for there was no window; only a barred air-hole at the top. Guaracco invited me to sit down, with a sweep of his hand toward the settee.
"I will offer you refreshment," he announced, and clapped his hands.
From behind the hangings, evidently from a shadowed compartment beyond, darted a figure as small as the one that had admitted us to the house. But this one was hunched and misshapen, with a pinched, aged-looking face set in the loose, high collar of its gown. In its long, knob-knuckled hands was held a tray, with a silver flagon and two goblets of blue glass. This tray was set upon the table, then this small figure made a quick exit without looking back. I had been unable to judge sex or age in the brief moment of the small one's presence.
Guaracco carefully poured red wine from the flagon.
"You do not ask," he commented smoothly, "if that was another of my sons."
I made no comment, for I could think of none. Instead of growing clear, my memory was becoming more scrambled, and it worried me. There was also a definite taste of menace in the atmosphere. Guaracco lifted one of the goblets and held it toward me.
"He was as much my son as the other," he said. "Take this wine, Ambassador. I daresay you will never drink another draught like it."
I took the goblet, and he lifted the other.
"I give you a toast," he said, in a voice that suddenly rang with fierce mockery. "Sir, your immediate transportation to the floor of hell—the very place from which you lyingly claim to be sent!"
It was too much. I rose quickly, and set down the goblet on the table. My left hand, with which I am quickest and handiest, doubled into a fist.
"Ser Guaracco," I said harshly, "I have had enough of your discourtesy. You doubt my being of another world, even though you saw me appear from the very substance of the ox upon the alter, so—"
"Enough of that falsehood," he interrupted.
Quickly but delicately he set his goblet down beside mine. Again he struck his palms together, twice.
From the entrance to the passage darted the pretty little keeper of the doorway. From the opening behind the hangings sprang the withered-looking bringer of wine. Each held a long, thin blade, curved like a scimitar and plainly as keen as a razor. They closed quickly in upon me, their eyes glittering cruelly.
Guaracco laughed calmly, the laugh of one who makes the final move in a winning game.
"Before my familiars cut you into ounces," he said, "you had best make confession of your motives."
"Confession?" I echoed, amazed.
"Exactly. Oh, miracles have happened upon that altar before this—but it was I, Guaracco, who taxed my brain and my machine-shop to prepare them. But you come without my knowledge or leave. I do not allow rivals for my power, not even where it concerns those few foolish witch-worshippers. Out with your story, impostor, and at once!"
CHAPTER III The Service of Guaracco
I cannot but be ashamed of the way I broke down. I might have faced out the surprise; I might have defied the danger. Together, they overwhelmed me. Then and there, with Guaracco leering at me through his red beard and the two dwarfs, who no longer seemed like little children, standing with swords ready to slash me to death, I told the truth, as briefly and simply as possible.
Guaracco heard me out, interrupting only to ask questions—most intelligent questions. When I had made an end, he nodded slowly and sagely.
"I know that you will refuse to believe—" I started to sum up, but he interrupted.
"But I do believe," he assured me, in a tone surprisingly gentle. "I believe, lad, and in part I understand. My understanding will be made perfect as we discuss things more fully."
He snapped his big fingers at the dwarfs. They lowered their swords, and with a jerk of his head he dismissed them through their respective doors. Immediately there was less menace in the atmosphere. I felt relieved, and thirsty. But when I put out my hand for the goblet, Guaracco moved more quickly than I, and spilled the wine out upon the carpet.
"That draught was poisoned," he informed me. "I meant to destroy you, as a spy or rival. But fill again, and we shall drink to our better understanding.'
I poured wine, and we touched goblets and drank. His eyes above the brim were as knowing as Satan's own, and for the first time I was sure of their color— deep violet-blue, almost as dark as ripe grapes.
"This is better," I said, and smiled, but Guaracco did not smile back.
"Do not think," he returned, in a level tone of warning, "that I cannot kill you later, if such a course recommends itself to me. Those little entitites you saw, frail though they appear, are half-parcels of fate. They can handle their blades like bravos, they can scale the tallest towers or wriggle between the closest bars to deal death at my will. The skulls of their victims, destroyed in my service, would have all the streets of Florence, yonder. Nor"—and his voice grew still colder—"are they my only weapons."
He stepped suddenly close, so that his proud, lean nose was within an inch of mine.
"In fact, your life could have been taken in two dozen ways between the yard and here, to say nothing of the poison and the steel I have seen fit to show you. Sit down, lad, and hear my plans for you."
I sat down, with an unheroic show of acquiescence. He felt himself my master, for his teeth flashed in a relishful grin.
"Hark you, I seek power," he told me. "Much power I have already. I wield it through the coven of deluded witches you have seen and others like them, through my spies and creatures in the guilds and companies and councils, and through my influence on many individual persons, base and noble, here and elsewhere. But I want more power still. One day I shall not fear"—his narrow chest expanded a bit—"to give my orders to Lorenzo himself."
"Lorenzo il Magnifico— the Magnificent!" I murmured. "He rules in Florence, of course."
"Yes, he rules, prince in all but the name—for the nonce. His time, I dare predict, will be short." He strode across the room, hands behind his velvet back, then turned and stood over me. "Hark you, man from the future. Your world, what you tell me of it, is not so strange nor so great as I would have expected; yet you have many sciences and devices to show me. Machines, organization, foreknowledges of myriad lands. For them I spare your life. You will be yet another of the chief agents in my service."
He told me that with flat assurance, and I did not have the resolution to question his decision. All I could manage was something about my surprise that a sorcerer would be so interested in honest science.